26 December 2008
Como, Piedmont, Italy
The day after Christmas was cold and quiet in Torino. We awoke mid-morning, had a modest breakfast of coffee and toast with my friend Aubrey at her apartment, then walked through empty streets to the train station for our short ride to Milan and, then, Como. We whiled away the 90 minutes between trains taking a handful of pictures in the grand Milano Centrale station - of John and his hundred-pound backpack, of the ridiculous crystal Christmas tree - and asking strangers on the Metro how we could get where we wanted to go. I asked, rather, since I'm the Italian speaker. (More musings on my Italian skills, later.) On the train to Como the couple behind us made out sloppily, noisily, and steadily. Talk about awkward. We tried to ignore it by looking out the window at the passing countryside, talking about small things, but I had to suppress laughter at the grossness of our listening situation. I'm so immature. Then I eavesdropped upon them and was surprised to hear them asking and answering the kinds of questions one doesn't typically ask after making out like that. Like, "So what are you doing in Italy? How long have you been here?" ...I know. Weird. I wondered about them.
Once in Como we missed our CouchSurfing connection, booooooo, and after some painful pack-laden wandering we decided to set our monetary concerns aside to not only pay for, but wholeheartedly enjoy, a cozy double room in the nearest hotel. The receptionist was a handsome silverhaired gentleman who could tell that we hadn't intended to stay in a hotel, but assured us we wouldn't be able to find cheaper lodging elsewhere. Heck, why not have dinner in their restaurant, too? We opened the room with a key attached to a heavy blue tassel, set down our bags, stretched weary limbs, and took turns taking long hot showers before heading downstairs for an unhurried Italian dinner. Halfway through dinner and a bottle of red wine, John had a hankering for OJ, and persuaded me to ask the waiter for some. I hesitated for a split second, knowing how particular Italians are about the order of things (like never, EVER order coffee before dessert), but thought, "Why not?" Our waiter, a short balding man named Paolo who took every opportunity to proudly show off his limited knowledge of San Francisco and the English language, didn't bat an eyelash and returned with two tumblers of red orange juice. We drank them right in the middle of dinner, with meat! With wine! It was delightful to be with someone who doesn't know the rules, and/or doesn't really care much for them. The orange juice was just the beginning.
Woke up, enjoyed continental breakfast (juice, coffee, croissants, yogurt). Bundled up against the frosty December morning, walked towards the dock, bought 8 euros' worth of chocolate from a market stand - a mixed bag of hazelnut truffles, chocolate-covered candied orange bits, red pepper chocolate - and took the ferry to Belaggio for more wandering, and lunch. It was cold. Too cold. Rather than wait three hours for a return ferry we took a bus ride back, during which we took turns dozing on each other. Had a stressful time trying to locate an available hostel bed for the night, but ended up reconnecting with the CS guy! Before meeting up with him, we finished off the day with a funicolare ride up Brunate to watch the sun set from someone's top floor apartment terrace (snuck in an open gate), and drink overpriced shots of Bailey's alongside our hot chocolate. Composed a joint letter to a mutual friend on some hotel stationary I had pilfered from room 15.
Headed back to Hotel Larius to pick up our stuff from the closet where we had left it that morning, then trucked two blocks over to this dude's dorm room to spend a long entertaining evening sharing instant Asian noodles and beer with a colorful crew of international politecnico students. The Turkish word for "cheers" sounds like "sharafey." If every American college student had even one opportunity to talk world politics amidst youTube music videos and spliff smoke, with a Turk, a Brazilian, Chinese, and Vietnamese, the world would be a much different place than it is now. Shortly after midnight we went to bed (or floor, or cot) with no intention of waking up until absolutely necessary. I awoke first, when the breathing in the room was still heavy with sleep, and read The Picture of Dorian Gray until everyone was up. More orange juice for breakfast, with apples and a fresh baguette. We met the elusive Iranian roommate, then packed up again and headed to the train station via taxi. Next stop: Florence...
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