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New Year’s on the Original Lake Como

I take the bus from Bergamo to Cernobbio and arrive on Lake Como alone. Angelo and Signora Strazza asked me to stay on in Milan, but three days is long enough as a houseguest. I loved spending time learning about the city from two women who know it well. Signora Strazza and I toured the city with her infamous sister, Bette, after which Angelo joined us for dinner. There was lots of laughter around the table, but Angelo’s feelings for me were like low clouds overhead, lots of fog and no clarity. One time, he reached under the table to squeeze my hand, but it was more friendly than romantic. I can’t complain when I’m the one who placed the guardrails, but my feelings are confusing. I just knew I had to get out of Milan. So I went online to reserve a hotel room. Lucky for me there were last-minute cancellations, so I booked the smallest room in the best hotel, the Villa d’Este, with a view of the original Lake Como. I am happy to be alone, though everywhere I turn, I see happy couples and families, and I had hoped to start the new year without reminders ofall I’ve left behind. What’s a New Year’s Eve without regret?Arrangiarmi.

I have wanted to visit Cernobbio since I studied Renaissance architecture in college. The Villa d’Este is an ornate palazzo. Glorious pediments and trims outline panels of sunflower-gold walls; inside, stately arches define marble corridors and staircases. There are layers of gardens carved into the hillsides and regal statuary overlooking the Lago di Como, known for its midnight-blue water.

The lakes in Tuscany and Lombardy are of the deepest blue india ink. The Italian skies are any color they want to be; sometimes the clouds are cotton-candy pink, and other times, swirls of Arabescato or folds of pale blue silk. Today, the sky is ribbed with clouds that appear to be skeins of white wool from the lake to the mountains. I’m here to find solitude, like Caroline of Brunswick before me, on the shores of Lake Como on a cold holiday weekend where I will find warmth inside the pages of a good book. I haven’t finished my current reread ofA Room with a View, and I can’t think of a better companion on a cold winter holiday in Italy.

Classic Italian art and Renaissance architecture typically began with a commission by the Holy Roman Church. The Villa d’Este is no different; it was built as a residence for the Cardinal of Como five centuries ago, and since has been inhabited by a royal family, sold to various private families, and now is a hotel for people like me, who hope to immerse themselves in the history that lives throughout the rooms, connected by ornate marble staircases and wide, shimmering floors. Outside on the grounds, I will walk through the fallow gardens, designed to emulate the Tivoli Gardens and Hadrian’s Villa in Rome. I know before I set one foot in them that they will be my refuge. I am falling in love with the idea of this solo holiday, an adventure all my own, with only myself to blame ifI don’t find my bliss. How could I not? Snowflakes flutter through the air on my way inside the hotel, dusting the shore of the lake with glitter.

I join agroup in the grand lobby to tour Orrido di Bellano. After studying Stendhal’s tour of Italy, I’ve wanted to see the glorious waterfalls that feed into the lake.

Evidently, I’m not the only one. There’s a lot of enthusiasm in the van for the tour. I’m attempting to understand French (which I should be able to speak after three years of study in high school) when I receive a text.

FARAH: I want to send you a photo.

JESS: Please do. How is London?

FARAH: I’m not in London.

JESS: Dove? Where?

FARAH: Took your advice.

A photograph of Farah and an older woman, both smiling, arms around each other’s waists, pops up.

FARAH: Mamma and me.

JESS: She looks happy!

FARAH: Not easy for her.

JESS: But you’re working it out?

FARAH: Mamma said, I loved my son and now, I love my daughter.

JESS: Bellissima!

If Farah’s traditional mother can accept her daughter, there may be hope for Philomena Baratta and me. I’m tempted to text my mom but instead focus on the tour guide, who explains what we are about to do.

The van takes a turn onto the road that encircles Lake Como. The islands in the middle of the tranquil lake are set in the blue like emeralds. I unload from the van with three Germans, two French ladies, and a Sicilian couple on their honeymoon. It’s so cold, we pull on hats and gloves as we follow the guide. I’m relieved there are so many languages spoken in my group that I don’t have to talk. Today, I want tosee.

We follow the guide single file into the wintry woods. I breathe the spice of the pine and the green, crisp cedar. Eventually, we find ourselves between two towering stone arches, made smooth by water and time. As we pass under the arches, we hear the deafening roar of the waterfall as it tumbles over the rock wall. Silver ribbons of water flow from its peak, so high above us, its origin is hidden in the clouds.

As we make our way up to the suspension bridge, stretched between two stone formations, I want to turn back. I don’t think I can cross the old bridge that sways over the precipice. I’ve always been afraid of heights but never bothered to test my fear. It was just something I believed to be true about myself. The thought of this is overwhelming, so I make the decision to go back, but the Germans are stacked up tight like a roll of nickels behind me. I’m trapped. Too ashamed to make a scene and too meek to ask them to let me go back, I gather my courage. Before I take the first step, I make the mistake of looking down. The pool beneath the falls is gray and foamy, and evidently so deep, scientists still study its mineral content because they discover new elements all the time.

I keep my eyes forward and take one step, followed by another.I grip the ropes so tightly, I practically shear the leather off my gloves, yet I hold on. The weight of the other tourists ahead on the line throws me, but instead of resisting the sway, I move with the bridge. One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three. I mentally dust off my ice-skating lessons from childhood, shifting my body weight from one foot to the other to maintain my balance. It helps to picture myself in control. Soon enough, I make it to the platform on the other side. I am filled with a sense of accomplishment as I join the group. I raise my hands in the air once I am on solid ground. I spin around, ecstatic that I made it across. A French lady pats me on the back. I mop the sweat from my brow with my sleeve. I want an Olympic medal for this, but self-satisfaction will have to do. This must be how astronauts feel when they walk on the moon and make it back to Earth to talk about the experience.

I take in the majesty of the waterfall at eye level. The falls are so loud they drown out any conversation. We find ourselves smiling and nodding, knowing that we will only have this moment and one another in it to remember what we see. The falls are both powerful andserena; these two truths exist in the same natural state, and together, they are bigger than my terror and were worth the risk of crossing the old bridge.

The other tourists have their phones out, snapping away at the beauty. I text Aunt Lil a photograph of the falls with this message:

Oh, Aunt Lil. I found peace on earth.

She texts,

You deserve it. Happy New Year, honey. Hope to see you sometime. Love you.

I experience a wave of guilt, so I send the same photograph to my sister and brother and their families. My heart is heavy. Once I’m back in the van, I post a photograph of the falls on Instagram and caption it:The View from Lake Como. I share it with the hope that my family, who celebrates an ocean away on the other Lake Como, will see my view of this one. This is my imaginary cannon shot of confetti, a New Year’s revelry sent across the Atlantic Ocean. This is a sincere first step toward healing that may not lead to a second, but I hold nothing except hope in my heart on the cusp of the new year.