Light poured in the four-panel window near the head of the metal-frame bunkbed where I had slept soundly for the past six hours. I tried to nudge back into sleep, but suddenly remembered the almost-finish novel lying at the foot of my bed and eagerly reached for it. Still snuggled under my covers, I savored the suspenseful ending before rising to greet the day.
After a light breakfast provided by the ostello -- a small bottle of orange juice and a twinkie-like breakfast cake, I perused the town market for a few days' worth of groceries. While pulling a bottle from a shelf, my eye caught the sight of something falling, and then a loud crash erupted at my feet, as some yellowish liquid exploded all over the floor, and shards of glass flew in every direction.The frowning cashier mumbled as she trudged to the aisle where my telltale disaster lay, and began sopping up the mess with a wad of paper towels. I offered to help, but she shooed me way, and I was simply left standing with my mostly-empty shopping cart, my sandaled feet wet and sticky from the unexpected shower. I wanted to apologize, but the Italian words for 'I'm sorry' were lost iin my jumbled thoughts.
I was relieved when the woman finally gave me clearance to proceed to the checkout lane. I didn't notice it at first, but by the time I hit the small street leading back to the ostello, I was certain I had lodged a sliver of glass in the fleshy cushion of my right foot. Thank God for tweezers and first-aid kits -- in no time, the operation was complete and I was on my way to the dock, to begin my exploration of Lago di Como's charming villages.My one-day pass granted me as many ferry voyages as my heart desired, and my only limits were the confusingly irregular departure schedules that linked towns on opposite shores of the lake and its two leg-like protrusions extending southward. I sat on the prow in a hard plastic chair as the cool morning air filled my lungs and covered my arms and legs with goosebumps.
My first stop was Bellagio, where I hopped onto another ferry heading further south. It was at Isola Comacina, a small island covered with unruly foliage, where I deboarded the ferry and began my solo wanderings around its borders. Following dirt and stone paths through thigh-high weeds and wildflowers, I stumbled across an ancient-looking chiesa (church), where a nearby swarm of bees attended worship services on a cluster of fragrant lavender blossoms.I continue inland, passing through virgin fields, watching my step as tiny newts scurried across the pathway. In the grasses, I kept hearing a broken, fast-paced switching noise. It startled me, and my overactive imagination placed the sound as the warning call of a rattlesnake just before it strikes. I had fleeting images of a poisonous snakebit consigning me to an awful fate on this lonely island, where no one but the wind and the furry black bees knew I had been treading. My disappearance would go unnoticed for how long? Hours? Days? I shifted myself back to reality by reminding myself that the likelihood of poisonous snakes on this small little nub of land in northern Italy was incredibly slim, and that probably I was eavesdropping on the humming song of some unusual six-legged forest critter.
My half-hidden footpath dead-ended on the other side of the lake. I could hear the gurgle of happy voices not far away, but there was no clearing through the thick weeds to take me to their source. So, I decided it was time to make an about-face and head for the harbor. Returning to the dock, I rested on a little cluster of stone steps leading down into the lake water and savored a few squares of the chocolate bar I had purchased at the market this morning.
I rode the ferry back to Bellagio, a beautiful little town nicknamed the 'pearl' of Lake Como. It was easily charming, with a promenade decked with flowering gardens and attractive cafes lines with sun-shading umbrellas. Beyond, a row of boutiques filled with souvenir eye-candy called out to tourists deboarding the ferry. Despite its charm, Bellagio does carry an air of superiority, as this is the favored lakeside haunt for the wealthier lot of tourists. Dressed in high fasion, toting well-groomed poodles, and stepping into chartered yachts for private lakeside cruises, Bellagio's clientele was clearly upper-crust.I didn't stay long near the port and boutiques, opting instead to trudge ten minutes north to the Punta Spiagetta, where Bellagio faced the joinig of Lecco and Como, two river legs that emptied into the body of Lago di Como, and the alpine mountains beyond. In a lighthearted explaning of Lago di Como's topography, the forking rievers are the legs of a man's body, and Bellagio, the joining of the two, is more than just your average pearl -- Bellagio is the testicles!
Returning to the port, I passed a high-profile cafe flanking the lakefront and chatted with Wally, an amiable twenty-something Italian who worked as a waiter. After convincing me to miss the next ferry in favor of a rest at one of his shady tables, he treated me to a frothy capuccino. We made small-talk until the cup was empty and it was time again to head form the port, but not without first firming up plans for dinner this evening. Wally would meet me in Menaggio with his car (yes, ferries shuttle more than people from one bank to the next!), and from there we would drive to Como, 40 km south, the anatomical 'left foot' of Mr. Lago di Como.
~Melanie
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