Bellagio: a photo essay on Lake Como
When winter comes to northern Italy's lake district, the mountains wear new snow like old men wear white hair.
The boat from Varenna cut through the dark water, making its way toward Bellagio. The mountains stood white against the clean blue sky, like old men with white hair. Winter was coming and the season’s first snows basked in the honey-hued light. In the cold air, the water looked black except where the late sun caught it.
A woman on deck pulled her mink coat closer. It looked expensive, and still not enough. The wind that came down from the mountains went through everything. The wind did not care what you paid for protection.
The village rose up from the water like it had grown there, all shades of cream with rust-coloured roofs, and shutters weathered to a soft green patina. Hotel Florence stood above the water, solid and permanent as the mountains behind it. Nothing about it had changed in fifty years. Nothing needed to.
Near the dock, a Ferrari was parked under pollarded trees. Red paint against grey stone pavers. A rich man's taxi in a place that had seen many rich men come and go like seasons. The driver smoked and watched his phone, waiting. Hours later the scene had not changed. Were fares rarer with winter beckoning?
I found a café nearby. The chair was wicker, old but strong. The macchiato came hot and ‘stained’ in a cup too small for the cold.
“Potrei avere un altro machiatto, per favore?”
Two people at the table in front of me wore fur coats. Like the one worn by the woman on the ferry, they probably cost more than I made in a year. They watched the mountains change colour as the sun moved. Neither spoke. Nothing uncomfortable about their silence. Sometimes silence spoke more than words. Sometimes it was all there was.
Up in village, the cobblestones were slick from the day's moisture, and the moss-covered walls pressed in close on both sides. An old man and his dog moved ahead on the steps. The dog was black. The man wore black. Against the stone they looked like holes cut in the world. They belonged here in a way the Ferrari did not.
There was a wine bar on one of the streets. APERITIVI, said the sign, with a kindly translation for tourists. Across from the entrance a doona draped over a balcony as if trying to get its share of late winter sun. Inside the bar would be warmth and voices and the kind of wine that makes you forget the cold for a while. A faded photo of George Clooney (a nearby resident) clung to the wall. The wine felt smooth and good.
Back down near the dock the sun was dropping behind the mountains. The snow turned slate grey, then blue, then something darker. Tomorrow it would look white again. Tomorrow more boats would cross the water. More fur coats would shield more bodies. But that was tomorrow. Right now, as winter encroached, there was just this: cold air, dark water, and mountains that had seen it all before, and would see it all again.