Bellagio is the Italians' Italy, the Italy of everybody’s imagination. A place where red geraniums cascade over wrought iron balustrades and ochre plaster peels delicately off rough stonewalls. Narrow stone steps, promising hidden delights, lead steeply down to the lake where the main shopping road is the place to strut your stuff. Dressed in elegant white linen the Italians make their way from their soft-top sports cars to their favorite cafes, where with kisses on cheeks they settle down to coffee, pointedly ignoring the tourists that swarm around them.
The tourists are easy to recognize. Glaringly dressed for comfort, they look as if they have come to do the gardening. I have by now discovered that by putting some effort into my dress, I get a far better reception from the locals. Unfortunately, the camera, which is slowly being grafted to my hand, and of course the little language issue, brand me as a tourist as well.
Taking lunch at a small table on the waters edge, I settle into relaxed contemplation of the water, sky, mountains and the enormous villas; that with their pillars, arches and elegant conifers, preside graciously over their surroundings. Over a crisp garden salad and crusty bread, I decide that one day, when I am filthy rich, I will buy a villa here.
Leaving Bellagio I wind my way along the lake to Como, passing a small village that has grown up right next to a high horsetail waterfall. Here a group of young men sips cocktails on a balcony that teeters on the edge of the cliff, while an old woman sits reading in her small garden, oblivious to the water crashing down in front of her house. The water plunges under the road and plummets into the lake 50 meters below, where another magnificent villa, with two yachts in the harbor, gives lessons in grandiose lifestyle.
The road narrows and is soon hemmed in by houses that cling to the cliff both left and right. The houses with their rough stonewalls crowd out the curbs and pavements, until the road becomes so narrow that traffic lights make an alternate one-way of it. This system is not really observed by the locals so where the road makes a blind corner around a house, a great blowing of the car horn is required to warn the oncoming traffic that you are coming, but not stopping. That would be totally unItalian. So everybody is blowing their horns and dodging wildly to avoid numerous head on collisions before quickly correcting their direction to avoid either driving into a house, or over the cliff , and all this is happening at a speed more appropriate for the Autostrada.
With frazzled nerves I reach Como in time to join the locals for a late afternoon stroll along the promenade as the sun vanishes behind the crest of a hill and the city of Como fades into a blue and white mist. Steps lead down and into the water where candy stripe wooden poles act as anchor points for nonexistent boats. The stone arches that support the promenade are softened by cascades of delicate flowers that anchor themselves in the nooks and cracks of the rock. Aiming my camera to capture the contrast between hard grey stone and soft white flowers, a man, watching me intently comes into focus in the viewfinder.
With a small rush of adrenaline, I realize that the man watching me from above has been following me since I started my stroll along the lake, and now the promenade is empty of people. Typical, just when one could use a little moral support there is suddenly no one to be found. The gaze of the man from above is becoming a touch unnerving but I have always believed that attack is the best line of defense, so give him a cool appraising stare, to let him know he has been seen, assessed and found wanting. Then I turn away deliberately in what I hope is a highly disdainful fashion. He continues to stare. This calls for more physical action. Climbing the stairs I walk past and beat him about the head with my camera – actually no, I merely zap him with a look of pure venom, then nose in the air, stride away. He does not follow, either my look worked or I was mistaken and just put another brick of misunderstanding onto the wall between men and women.
