Venice!

[Warning: this is a long post. And, like a French coming-of-age movie, there's no action -- nothing really happens. It's just the way it has to be.]

I crack open the door to the room. She had asked what I wanted to eat and I told her – just simple stuff. Bread, maybe a cappuccino?
With jam?
Yes, okay. And maybe fruit. But I want her to keep it straightforward. Time is of essence and she knows it.

I look outside. Good. The weather’s holding nicely.





It’s all thought out, prearranged ahead by me. Even back in Madison, I knew I’d find a way to get to Venice. Bus schedules, train timetables – they’re all online these days. I needed a good weather day and timely connections, that’s all.

The hotel proprietor here, in Gargnano is very sympathetic. If I want to catch the 8 am bus for Desenzano (from where I am hoping to catch the 9:07 train to Venice), he’ll make sure someone brings a tray with at least coffee and breads for me before I leave.

The tray comes, I gulp down what I can, I’m off.




My, but it’s a lovely morning! Shimmering in the early light!





I’ve been up since 4 and my adrenaline is pumping big time. I’d been writing, wanting so much to post before leaving. You could say that I’m insanely devoted to Ocean, but it’s not that. I just did not want Venice to overshadow my Sunday notes. Each day is important, each day deserves my full attention. So I’m up early. That’s OK. Plenty of time to sleep after you’re dead.

Does that sound morbid? You should have been with me when I was younger. I wrote tearful journals and carried a copy of Death in Venice in my bag. Can one be happy and melancholy all in one breath? I perfected the art of it!


On this morning, the bus driver is moving along nicely. Yet he’s a tad late pulling in to Desenzano. I have my train ticket in hand (purchased already in Milan) and as he pulls into the train station I fly. Just in time to hear the announcement: the train to Venice, coming in on track no. 1.





An hour and a half later, we’re crossing the lagoon. The thrill is there, as always. Venice, crazily beautiful Venice is in sight.


I didn’t always think it was beautiful. When I first came here, freshly 13, I hated it. We’d been slowly making our way back to Poland (after my father’s diplomatic stint at the UN) and my parents thought it would be good to see as much as possible of western Europe. Future travel would be limited. These were tough years in Poland.

We didn’t stay in Venice proper then. No hotel was affordable. We stayed in industrial Mestre in rooms with shared bathrooms and beds that were infested with bedbugs. Step aside New York, Mestre bugs came first!

Venice itself made me shudder. I thought the canals looked dirty. And that summer, back in 1966, they smelled. You call this place beautiful? How can any place with a foul odor be beautiful? (A funny comment coming from a 13 year old who truly was sorry to leave Manhattan – that pristine oasis of good air.)

But I changed my mind about Venice and once I did, I could not put her down. Hooked on potent stuff.

It passed. Violent crush receded, a calmer, more reflective love developed (Paris knocks out Venice. Now I could add Sorede to my love list. I’m getting staid).

But today, I step out of the station and behold! There is Venice!





A crowded Venice. I suppose April is no longer winter and in any case, I do not think Venice has a quiet time anymore.

And yet, it’s better now. I buy a ticket for the vaporetto – the public transportation for this place (at 6.50 Euros, I had to blink...ah well, we need to support this sinking art treasure!). What’s this! The best seat in the front (there are only a handful) is empty! How could I be so lucky?

I have a front row seat to the best show in town. So ride with me down the Grand Canal. And forgive these rather standard shots. We all take them. We can’t help it! With free space on our digital cameras, we go nuts here now! A woman keeps popping up with her camera to get a better angle and the boat captain raps at the window – you can’t stand, it blocks my view! Me, I’m lucky -- I'm not standing. And here’s my view!
























I just can’t stop grinning and, too, I get kind of teary. Venice is so dramatic!  See Venice and die!  I was never one to avoid thinking with exclamation marks.

















They’re not careful shots. This is point and shoot, from the hip material. The event is being in Venice, the camera is a sidekick.







Half an hour later, the Grand Canal show is over. I'm at San Marco.







San Marco. It is what it is. At least I don’t need to stand in lines for the museum or the Campanile. Forget that. Just give me a few minutes here and I’m done. A nonstop, frenzied party.





Indeed, at one of the café tables, I see a propped bottle of champagne. The musicians break into a round of Happy Birthday. Someone’s child turned two today. Will you remember this moment decades ahead? Will it be a story for you to tell? The year you turned two at San Marco?

And the band plays on.


Time to leave this chaos. Despite the artistic merits of the square, for me, Venice is better than San Marco. My Venice is the Dorsoduro – the “left bank” as it were. I move away from the square, weaving my way past the small canals, congested here with gondolas.


 


(Though there is an ever ready gondolier to whisk you away,  nearly at every turn...)





... And over the Accademia bridge (it gives the classically perfect view onto the Canal)...






...And now I am in the land of sweet memories. Here’s the Nico ice cream shop. I dragged my family to it a long time ago. On a huge splurge we sat down at the tables and ordered off menu! Let it not be said that an Venetian ice cream in a dish is a fleeting thing. It’s vivid for me still, twenty years later.






This is the waterfront that the crowds neglect and old timers come to.












And here, deeply buried in the neighborhood is this simple glass store. There are thousands of them in Venice, but for some reason, we liked this one and put all our souvenir money into a glass plate made by the guy who still does glass blowing here.





You look as young as you did then! I tell him.
Thank you. Time passes quickly though. A trace of sadness. I’ve stopped making those plates, he continues. Too expensive.

My seven year old ate a peach here and it dribbled all over her... The veggie boat, still here...












It's a place where you can find tranquility. Still waters, reflecting the vivid colors of a sunny day. An empty alley.

















Oh, and this is the place Ed and I ate dinner on our first night in Venice. No, sorry – I ate the dinner. It was only our second trip together. We’d been hanging out barely six months. I did not yet understand that Ed sometimes skips protocol. My book told me we should have a memorable meal on our first night here. His book said – not hungry for it. It was threatening to be one of those wickedly unresolved nights, but we saved it. I don’t remember how, but we did. Venice magic.

Okay, enough. I need new memories from this six hour fling here. Food – I need food.

But where? The sweet pizza place by the bell tower? No, that’s a rerun. Here’s something: Do Farai. With faded old reviews in the window and a lively crowd inside. And here’s a new observation: Italians like to make babies in early July. Must be that first blush of summer. I’ve witnessed more birthday celebrations since I’ve come here than in the whole past decade! Three today alone (one still ahead of me)!

The crowd of some fifteen is a young one – all twenties and thirties except for the mom and dad. The birthday person appears deliriously happy! A few small gifts, lots of easy banter.

The restaurant owner moves between the tables with grace. He talks for a while with these guys --  the gondoliers (they really eat a lot! -- he later tells me)...






... talks to the French couple off in a corner (you’re from Paris? Hmm. But I’m really from the coast! I’m a boat captain of a yacht... they exchange cards), and shows a photo of his old family to the birthday girl.






Meanwhile I order just an appetizer – an assortment of all the seafood offerings – octopus shrimp over polenta, scallop, ohhhh I can’t even list it all! Here, look!






And I get talked into a salad. The owner tells me there’ll be baby artichokes in it from today’s market.

At the end, he brings me some house specialty concoction. Raisins soaking in potent stuff. I need a coffee after all this.






Time’s flying from me now. I have a 16:50 train to catch. Six hours of pleasure, nearly done.












Leaving Venice is never really a wrenching and sad affair, because if you walk to the station you’ll gradually let go of her as you leave behind the beauty and reenter the schlock of fast retail closer to the trains. Some have said of course that Venice is one big shopping mall. But it’s a glorious one! The window gazing in this city can get quite sumptuous.
















Or at least it’s varied. There’ll be the immigrant sellers with their knockoffs, packing up and running when the police walk by. And there’ll be the “I love Italia” shirts, the gondolier hats – all that. And there’ll be glass. Murano glass, jeweled and beautiful. And the foods. Macaroons and cakes (including special breads for Easter), take out foods, parma hams, Veneto wines.

Toward the station it’s cheaper, more prosaic, functional too.

I have five minutes before my rapid train departs (these Intercity beauties haven’t the punctuality issues of local trains).





I find a newsstand and ask for some writing paper – a notebook maybe? A tablet? Fine, a tablet. This post is mostly a product of my writing in it. The freshest spill of words on the Milan bound train. Except I remember to get off at Brescia.

I have just three minutes now to catch the Gargnano bus, but once you’ve been to a city, a town, you learn the shortcuts. I run, literally run to the bus station, gasping just as the bus pulls in.

And now I'm home.


 


Truth is, I’m not really hungry for a big meal. Grand days have to end simply, quietly. With a pizza maybe. Here, with Marilyn Monroe posters. A pie with eggplant and garlic and olives...





At the table next to mine, a family of four is finishing their meal. The waitress brings out a cake with lit candles. It’s the youngest daughter’s birthday. You put one too many candle, she laughs. I’m only nine!





Everyone should be this happy, this light at heart, this forgiving of mistakes...

Everyone should, too, have a chance to walk home, sometime soon, by the light of a half moon and consider how beautiful the stuff is under its muted light.

mist, spritz and tiramisu

If the last two days had a mist in the afternoon, this day has one in the morning. Well, true, also in the afternoon. And a wind that really whipped things around by the water. And clouds over the summits. And my ambition level is set at the low end of the continuum.

From my breakfast table, I look out at the lake... There is a boat out there, but you can hardly see it. The mountains on the other side? Forget it.





I want to slow down today. Sunday calls for easier stuff, no? It calls for eating a big meal in the middle of the day. And for people watching. This is the day when you rub shoulder with civilization.

A boat trip! There’s an idea. Cross the lake, see another town.

There is a ferry that runs from one end of the lake to the other. At this time of the year it pulls into Gargnano only once a day. Further north, there are added boats that crisscross the lake on a fairly regular basis.

You could say that making this trip on a hazy day, when the clouds roll in luxuriously and mostly cover the mountaintops is not ideal. But truthfully, it would be boring if it were always the same. I’m seeing Lago di Garda in all its shades of mist.

I walk over to the ferry landing. It's always such a lovely walk through the quiet streets of this town by the lake.


 


I note that the peak from yesterday's climb is behind a faint cloud cover. I'm glad I'm not there today.





The ferry is huge and nearly empty now. A dozen of us get on. Most people huddle inside. It really is windy out there. I have a scarf and a fleecy so I stay out on the deck. Initially, it looks like the sun will take hold.





Not for long though. Light clouds roll right back and stay clustered around the cliffs and peaks. And still, it’s a fascinating landscape out there and the haze adds stealth and mystery to it.











It’s about a 45 minute trip to Malcesine – a town further north, on the eastern shore of the lake. As we approach it, I think – nice. Colorful. And we're having a moment of sunshine!





As we dock, I change my mind. It’s crowded. And not in a good way. If there are local people out and about they’re lost in the swarm of visitors. Italian, yes, there are those, but the dominant language is German. In fact, the locals just assume that if you’re a visitor, you must be German. When I ask for directions, always in my non native sounding Italian, I get an answer in German. I don’t speak German and so my standard phrase, used more than any other on this day is – could you please say it in English or Italian?

The tipping point for me is when a huge swarm of middle or early high school kids descends, out of nowhere, onto the village square. Boisterous (to give them credit -- appearing to be having quite a fun time of it) American kids wearing "I love Italia" sweatshirts in various colors. I'm smiling at the scene, but I'm also in a hurry to find another corner to explore.

I wonder what’s so special about this town. It has dozens of stores, souvenir places, clothing and food places, all that, but surely that’s the result, not the cause of people coming here!

I think the roads on this side of the lake are better and so if you are to see Lago di Garda, you come here. And there are frequent ferry services as well.

I began to truly appreciate the beauty of Gargnano on this day. One book called it a sleepy little town. Yes it is. I miss it already.

So forget the Sunday meal here. I’m taking to the hills, misty haze or not. There is a very nice and very open tourist office (in Gargnano we have a one room operation and it’s been closed the whole time I’ve been there) and I get good directions for a several hour hike up the hills.

The peaks here actually are higher than that of Comer. Some have traces of snow. Later, toward the middle of the afternoon, a few poke through the cloud cover. But initially, they remain hidden. And as I head up the streets, then cobbled paths (nothing ambitious today – I top out at 500 meters), I see that the mountains across the water are also muted by some combination of mist and cloud.






I don’t have a particular goal. There was to be a chapel, or a rock named after a chapel, or the other way around (“Rocchetta Madonna” – who can tell...) that the tourist office suggested as a destination point, but I quickly lose the trail to it and so I’m left with basically going up. Even after an hour or two of climbing, I never leave the perimeter of the town. True, the houses are sparse and there is a thicket of olive groves, but I’m in a funny sort of distant way indeed amidst civilization after all.





It’s always the case that when you come to a congested spot, you need only walk 1000 steps and you’ll be alone. People like to stay clustered to the hub. And so my walk is gently quiet, with only the occasional passerby. A hiking tourist like me, a local taking a dog for a walk. Good kind of encounters. Far better up here in the hills than down there with the “I love Italia” crowds.






I am aiming to catch the boat at 4 and so eventually I have to turn around and head down. I didn’t take any photos of the little harbor. Nor of the town itself. Just one, as I am coming in after the hike. Off on a side street, a mom is taking her little girl to a party. I like watching the little one's excitement as she prances forward.







And now the wind has really picked up so I am glad to have put down the additional three Euros for a fast hydrofoil crossing. Here’s the little boat, coming at us from across the shore.






My second and final destination is the village of Limone. Sounds like lemon, translates to mean lemon. This was the northernmost outpost of lemon cultivation some 100 years ago. It’s blustery cool today, but it is Sunday and there are people out and about – fewer than in Malcesine and so I mind it far less.

It’s a cute little town, though a bit cramped at the foot of rocky cliffs. There are shops here as well but somehow they don’t overwhelm you in the same way that they did across the water.






Yes, there is a lemon theme to the place. You can even buy large lemons grown here, but it’s all rather contrived, given the fact that serious lemon cultivation has left the area many decades ago.

Which does not prevent me from purchasing a lovely Italian cotton tablecloth with prints of lemons on it for the farmhouse. At 8 Euros, it is less than the price of the Sunday afternoon meal that somehow I never sat down to eat

There is a bus that makes its way through many many tunnels piercing the cliffs here, all the way back to Gargnano. Twenty kilometers later, I am home (for this week).

And because it happens to be six and because I haven’t had a bite to eat or even water to drink since breakfast, what better way to celebrate a return then to have an Aperol spritz at the café by the shore.





I have it in the intensely orange interior. Only three tables here – all empty. The mass of Gargnano humanity is huddled outside under the awning, but I’m cold from the winds of the day and moreover, if you are a nonsmoker, the worst place you can be is under a (partially enclosed) café awning, because that qualifies as outdoors and there are plenty of people who like to mix their Aperol spritz with tobacco here.

Besides, I love watching the proprietor and his wife in this place. The spritz at the neighboring café has a better orange slice, but this one has the friendlier staff. It makes for an overall warm and cozy respite.


My dinner (and I am so ready for it!) is at the hotel. There are now three couples in the dining room and we have all preordered out set meals (you have a choice, always of two pastas and two main courses and a handful of home made desserts), so that all remains is to decide which wine to add to your foods. I am no longer surprised that all the guests around me are speaking German.

The food is, as before, quite wonderful. I have the mushroom risotto and a grilled shrimp main course. Yes, I’ve departed from eating local foods with that one. I realize that there are no shrimp in Lake Garda. It’s to be expected that fish would not be on the menu today. They only serve fish sold by the Lake Garda cooperative and Sunday is a day off for the fishermen.

What’s truly local and utterly delicious is the tiramisu. When you’ve had in your life many indifferent servings of tiramisu, it always catches you by surprise when a good one is put before you. Tonight’s was just such a surprise. You can’t have expectations. Mist only in the afternoon? Forget it. Sometimes it’s there the entire day. And sometimes the tiramisu shines.

(The last photo, with the funny looking lens of my camera is here, because I often write at the table by the mirror. )

Cima Comer

It’s early evening. I’m at an outdoor café in Gargnano – a different one, just to compare. The waiter brings a Aperol spritz. I know better than to order a snack with it – it’s included. Little breads with tomato, salami, olives, chips.





Quack. I look down. A duck has waddled in from the shore and is asking for a handout.





A well dressed trio is strolling by. The woman, in lovely jewels and a warm smile looks over, sees the duck and exclaims in shock – a duck? At the café? She walks over to the duck and gives a stern reprimand. What kind of a duck are you! You should be in the water! The duck ignores her. Quack! She walks off with a shake of the head. Ducks!

I’m sure that late in the season the people of Gargnano have their fill of tourists. Strangers come, they fill their restaurants and bars, they make it difficult to move around. But the season hasn’t started yet and right now, Gargnano folk are as welcoming and engaging as can be, as if that winter without the hub and hassle has had its toll. You miss your enemies too, after all. What else is there to talk about if not that aggravating tourist who sits at a café and wants desperately to feed the duck, even though she knows she shouldn’t. And the duck can sense her ambivalence and so it stays and quacks.

Truthfully, I am just so happy to have civilization around me again. Ducks included. It was a remarkable day, one where I’m proud to say I did what I set out to do and that leaves me, at this evening moment, feeling genuinely satisfied.

But I have a few reprimands and they are directed toward me, even as I’ll write them here so that I’ll remember that I am prone to doing things that are sometimes, well, foolish if not exactly fraught with danger.

But before I get to that, while I’m on the topic of ducks, let me say that they’ve got my name here. This morning, I took my breakfast outside. The German couple staying here felt that it was too cool. Nonsense. It was in the upper fifties, but the sun was out and it felt heavenly there, suspended over the water.






The ducks saw me, swam over and together we finished some toast. (I kept the croissant and fruit to myself.) It was interesting to watch them establish their territory and fight off all intruders. Ducks and people have something in common after all.






And since this was to be indeed a mostly sunny day, I thanked my stars and asked the hotel proprietor about a nice long hike.
Long is good, I said. Just not one with sheer drops.
I understand, he tells me. I have fear of heights as well.
I felt instantly bonded. Indeed, I wanted to call Ed and tell him that even among the rugged and sporty people of mountainous Gargnano, there are those who, like me, can’t stand at the edge of a cliff.

The proprietor suggests a lovely hike up to the little chapel at San Valentino. He maps the trail for me and it looks to be a four hour deal. I notice that the trail actually continues, up to the tallest peak around here – the Cima Comer.
Is that a difficult climb? I ask. I’m interested in getting some good views.
He hesitates. You’ll get good views just from the shorter one. But if you want, you can continue. Of course, it will be longer. It's 1279 meters (that's 4196 feet) above the lake.

Okay, I’ll see how it goes.

I set out at 10:30. Everything about the day (and the place) feels bright. Cheerful.


 


Even Cima Comer, towering over the village, looks friendly, in a distant sort of way.






(Well, maybe less so once I start the hike.)






It is, at the village end of it, a lovely and historically meaningful cobbled trail.


 


These villages along the western coast of Lake Garda were once the northernmost lemon growing places in Europe. Before the unification of northern Italy with the south, the country depended on the lemons from Garda. It’s mild enough to grow citrus fruits here, though during the winter they need some modest protection. And so you see these stone pillars dotting the landscape here. They supported winter cover for the groves of lemons. I suppose it’s like our hoop spinach – grown year-round in Wisconsin. I have a lot of respect for places that try to beat the odds and extend the growing season.






They've since been replaced by olive groves. These days you can ship lemons from elsewhere. Olives command a better price.






As I  climb up, the forest obscures the view toward the water. But there is a clearing at one point, offering a lovely glance at the village below as it winds in a ribbon along the shore of the lake. Even from this escalation you can see the southernmost tip of Lake Garda.






But the views to the north are obscured by the Comer cliffs.  I have that itch to find out what's on the other side.






About a third way up the mountain, there is a tiny hamlet of Sasso. Just a few buildings and a café bar. Buildings are made of stone here. No surprise.






I’m tempted to pause, but decide to push forward. I’m already two hours into the walk and I’m feeling ambitious.

How ambitious? Well, here come the reprimands. There are many points, so bear with me.

First, I have to say, wise people would save the hardest hike for last. You have to build up to it. I may be fit, but I don’t climb mountains for a living.

Then, too, I should learn to take breaks, even if Ed isn’t with me. He insists on it. For the view. For the serenity of it. For a snack, a nap, or for no reason at all. He likes journeys. I like to get to the end of the book. His way makes more sense.

And also, if there is a sign that says – this portion is for advanced climbers, I should back off right then and there. I may be a solid hiker, even with camping gear, even for many days on end, but I am a wimpy climber. Anything that requires scaling and has the potential to send me plummeting down into a ravine will freeze me solid. I should remember that.

Here’s another tip: perhaps I shouldn’t hike long distances alone. Take someone else. Or take a phone. Take something! Because if I go into rocky terrain, it really is not that difficult to stumble and fall and unless I want to write one of those books about how I made it down a mountainside with a broken bone jutting out of my arm or leg, I should have some way of seeking rescue.

I did encounter one (and only one) fellow – on his way down, pausing here for the view.






Useless type. Like Ed, he seemed to enjoy sitting at the edge of cliffs. I worried that he’d fall and I’d have to carry his pack down with me – to help with the identification of the body at the base.

Other things to remember: ask about snakes in the region. Find out if you should carry a knife or some venom-stopper in case they are of the biting sort.

Finally, take a flashlight. Even if I’m going for a four hour hike and I leave at 10:30. Because you never know if that hike will extend itself into the evening hours and it really is inconceivable to navigate these mountain trails in the dark.

On the upside, I did take water and as I was already thirsty one third way up, in Sasso I purchased some more. And – here’s another wise tidbit: I remembered to take the old but still functional peanut butter sandwich from Madison.

So now I continue to San Valentino. There are some difficult stretches – slippery stones, requiring that you get on your butt and proceed slowly, but nothing beyond the beyond.

At San Valentino, there is a chapel and a shelter – it appears that hermits once lived here. How or why is beyond me, but people are people and each one has her own sets of preferences.





It’s just short of 2 p.m. By my (incorrect) calculations, the summit should be a mere hour or so away, if I take the short cut.

I don’t pause. I take the short cut, scoffing at the “it’s dangerous” signs.

A few minutes later, I retreat, tail between my legs. It’s the long road for me. I can't, even with the aid of steel ropes, make my way up rocks. Who am I kidding.

The long trail is... long. And steep. And, my hotel proprietor to the contrary not withstanding, it has some nice bends along cliffs that go straight down to the level of the lake. I slow down on those. My imagination is very good at conjuring up images of how a fall might look.

When at 3 the peak still seems mighty distant, I think about giving up. But when you’ve climbed a mountain and you still don’t know what it’s like around the bend, you don’t easily turn back.





So I continue. It has been such a long and pause-less climb that I feel I have certainly given my heart a good workout. I keep my eyes focused on the trail, always looking for the easiest steps, the less slippery option. The benefit of looking down is that you notice the alpine flora. There are, indeed, quite a number of flowers (and fraises des bois!) growing here.













And then, suddenly, I have passed the tree line, and I see that I have only a short distance to go, and I have to admit it, I have never been so happy to see a cross in my whole life.





I look around. The mountains, rather than the lake below, now grab your attention. To the southwest...






To the southeast...






And finally, long hidden from view, to the north...






I realize that what I thought was the haze of travel yesterday was really the haze of the lake. It gets that way here often. A mist forms, things get a little blurry. Canvas-like. Always beautiful.

I am left with the challenge of a summit photo. Ed, where the heck are you?? Sigh... It’s back to figuring out how the self timer works.






There isn’t much time to pause now. I do sit down for five minutes and chomp away at my half a peanut butter sandwich. It’s a little mushed and the jam has seen better days, but I figure I need the protein for the hike down.

And it is a grueling hike down. I leave the summit at 4 and I try to put some speed into the descent. (I’ve been known to fly down mountains. Ed is much more methodical – up or down, his pace never varies.) I borrow a stick from the woods to help me and still, my feet feel every stone by the end of it all. Every pebble in fact.

Finally, there's Sasso. Two thirds down, one third to go.





As I approach Gargnano, I look over my shoulder. There’s Cima Comer, laughing at me. Or, is it that I’m laughing at her? I managed to touch her tip after all. There’s nothing like a safe return to make you feel deeply satisfied with life.





That, and an Aperol spritz with Prosecco and an orange slice. Eight hours after the start of the hike, I'm at the café.



This is the evening when I look for other eating venues in town and my kind proprietor suggests the lovely Three Geese, a.k.a. Trattoria San Martino. I’m not sure why it has two names and the hotel proprietor has a lively debate about it with his parents who have (charmingly) taken to sitting in the love seat by the front desk in the evenings.

I walk to the restaurant at 8 in the evening. Even though the sun sets behind the mountain by around 6:30, it doesn’t quite get dark until after 8. Here, I can still see the peak of Comer, jutting out over the village below.






At the Three Geese (or San Martino...)


 


...I am the first there, but within minutes, the place fills, helped by the appearance of a family of ten adults and five children, there to celebrate the birthday of one of the moms. Initially, I had been given the table facing the window, looking out onto the water, but I find the view inside much more entertaining and so I switch sides.

It’s been a while since I’ve done a run of food photos, so let me do it now, if only to remind myself of the wonderful spaghetti with lake Garda sardines...





...and the utterly delicious Lavarello – a fish I had never heard of before, but one that apparently is abundant and caught fresh daily, here at Lago di Garda (it also makes an appearance in Lake Como).





...oh, and a delightful strawberry mousse for dessert.






It is true that I’ve had my fill of walking for the day, but the stroll home is lovely and takes no more than ten, maybe fifteen minutes. Still, I am happy when I reach these arches. It’s the last bend in the road. After that, I know I’ll find the sweet doors of the hotel.