Finding GeorgeItalians must be trusting people. Several times we have hung out at cafés and when the time came to pay the proprietor has asked what we had and then prepared the bill. No restaurateur or café bar owner in New Zealand would ever take such an approach, they would be broke within weeks, so in order not to discourage such a practice we have been accurate in our recollection of what we have consumed.
We took refuge at one of those cafes, on the shore of Lake Como during a torrential rainstorm complete with lightning and thunder and resulting in flooding across the roads. We, of course, were dressed for hot summer weather and were towing suitcases and other luggage when the heavens opened, having travelled from Milan to Colico in Northern Italy by train and then on to Domaso by local bus. We waited for a good hour drinking tea and coffee and eating croissants for the rain to subside sufficiently to continue the last 500 metres or so to the apartment we were sharing for a week’s holiday with the Moodies.
Domaso is one of those towns which ribbon out along the lakeshore with houses hundreds of years old rising from the water’s edge and up the steep hills, thinning out to be replaced by terraces of grapevines. It is a holiday region, but predominantly one for Italians as the cities close down in August and the population heads out, in this case, to the more temperate climes of the lake district. In what may seem an unusual concept for New Zealanders, our hotel in Milan closed at midday last Friday for three weeks so the staff could clean up and shut the place down for their own summer holidays. While our hotels are open during the summer break to take advantage of holiday makers, such is not the case here.
It may seem boring that we lavish superlatives on the places we visit, but this is a classic old Italian town. Away from the main road which runs along the lake shore, the streets are cobbled, barely wide enough for a vehicle to pass. Lanes narrow enough only to be walked in single file intersect these streets and rise up the hill, eventually providing commanding views up and down the lake. On each side of the streets and lanes are the old houses usually two or three floors high, including Villa Vinicia at 135 Via Regina where we are staying. This is the 400 year old family home of Sonia the proprietor, a young Italian woman, who has fitted the place out in recent years with modern plumbing, electric skylights and high speed but only sporadically reliable internet while retaining its old world charm with its heavy wooden doors and shuttered windows. She is very proud of the house, rightly so, and in the room which leads to the garden, the ceiling and parts of the wall are adorned with painted frescos which are due soon to be professionally restored. At some stage someone has wallpapered over them which has undoubtedly led to their still being in relatively good condition.
That this is a Catholic country is reinforced every half hour, even throughout the night, when the church bells rings out; loud tolls marking the hour and a supplementary ring of a different tone to note the half hour, and then at 7.00am there is a cacophony of ringing, no doubt to tell the locals it is time to get up and on with the day’s work.
When we told Marty’s mother we were heading to Italy she immediately asked whether we were coming to Lake Como. In something of an interesting twist she revealed that her father was stationed in this part of the world awaiting his return to New Zealand after the end of World War II. Much to the displeasure of his wife, he apparently wanted to bring home a couple of Italian war orphans as souvenirs, a sort of pre-Madonna Malawian exercise. He may have been ahead of his time but, as history reveals, his desire was not fulfilled so, alas, there is no Italian branch to the family.
If it was that Kaelene was determined to track down Roger Federer in Switzerland, there is fresh quarry here further down the lake. Actor George Clooney has a villa at Laglio and lives here at least three months of the year, which could be the reason that we have long walks scheduled every day, or is that several times a day?
We took refuge at one of those cafes, on the shore of Lake Como during a torrential rainstorm complete with lightning and thunder and resulting in flooding across the roads. We, of course, were dressed for hot summer weather and were towing suitcases and other luggage when the heavens opened, having travelled from Milan to Colico in Northern Italy by train and then on to Domaso by local bus. We waited for a good hour drinking tea and coffee and eating croissants for the rain to subside sufficiently to continue the last 500 metres or so to the apartment we were sharing for a week’s holiday with the Moodies.
Domaso is one of those towns which ribbon out along the lakeshore with houses hundreds of years old rising from the water’s edge and up the steep hills, thinning out to be replaced by terraces of grapevines. It is a holiday region, but predominantly one for Italians as the cities close down in August and the population heads out, in this case, to the more temperate climes of the lake district. In what may seem an unusual concept for New Zealanders, our hotel in Milan closed at midday last Friday for three weeks so the staff could clean up and shut the place down for their own summer holidays. While our hotels are open during the summer break to take advantage of holiday makers, such is not the case here.
It may seem boring that we lavish superlatives on the places we visit, but this is a classic old Italian town. Away from the main road which runs along the lake shore, the streets are cobbled, barely wide enough for a vehicle to pass. Lanes narrow enough only to be walked in single file intersect these streets and rise up the hill, eventually providing commanding views up and down the lake. On each side of the streets and lanes are the old houses usually two or three floors high, including Villa Vinicia at 135 Via Regina where we are staying. This is the 400 year old family home of Sonia the proprietor, a young Italian woman, who has fitted the place out in recent years with modern plumbing, electric skylights and high speed but only sporadically reliable internet while retaining its old world charm with its heavy wooden doors and shuttered windows. She is very proud of the house, rightly so, and in the room which leads to the garden, the ceiling and parts of the wall are adorned with painted frescos which are due soon to be professionally restored. At some stage someone has wallpapered over them which has undoubtedly led to their still being in relatively good condition.
That this is a Catholic country is reinforced every half hour, even throughout the night, when the church bells rings out; loud tolls marking the hour and a supplementary ring of a different tone to note the half hour, and then at 7.00am there is a cacophony of ringing, no doubt to tell the locals it is time to get up and on with the day’s work.
When we told Marty’s mother we were heading to Italy she immediately asked whether we were coming to Lake Como. In something of an interesting twist she revealed that her father was stationed in this part of the world awaiting his return to New Zealand after the end of World War II. Much to the displeasure of his wife, he apparently wanted to bring home a couple of Italian war orphans as souvenirs, a sort of pre-Madonna Malawian exercise. He may have been ahead of his time but, as history reveals, his desire was not fulfilled so, alas, there is no Italian branch to the family.
If it was that Kaelene was determined to track down Roger Federer in Switzerland, there is fresh quarry here further down the lake. Actor George Clooney has a villa at Laglio and lives here at least three months of the year, which could be the reason that we have long walks scheduled every day, or is that several times a day?
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