The Shoelace

A DEATH IN VARENNA

We arrived by train. The destination Varenna, Italy. A quaint little hamlet set on the shores of the majestic Lake Como.

Lake Como.

A place where the mountains rise sharply from the shoreline, creating a volcanic crater of deep fresh water below. Ancient homes, sepia toned, built into the rocks, survey the landscaped terrazzos and clear blue water of the lake.

It is a stunning picture.

But not today. Today we can’t see more than fifty meters in front of us. A storm front is moving through the area. A very serious storm evidenced by the look of the clouds and the sound of the rain crashing down from above.

The slow screeching stop of the TrenItalia commuter train was matched with the sounds of thunder and the drum of pouring rain on the carriage roof as we pulled into town.

Being a small village, the Varenna-Esino train station is not much more than a platform next to a small yellow building where inside you can purchase train tickets, worthless trinkets, and alcohol. Sounds kitsch, but seriously, what more can someone ask for?

Stepping off the train, I was half-disappointed that some uptight British gentleman in a cravat hadn’t rushed up to me with a giant black umbrella and said something like “Dr. Salvatore. Please sir, my name is Haddelston. Henry Haddelston. I’m a research assistant working under Dr. Nigel Donaldsby. Your former colleague from Cambridge. You must come with me at once. You are desperately needed at the Castello di Vezio. There’s been a murder!”

(Queue the lightning strike as the camera zooms in on my face and I raise an eyebrow with a look of shocked concern.)

I tend to fancy myself living in an Agatha Christie novel at times. It’s a pompous affectation, I admit.

Slogging through the downpour and up a decent grade to our flat, we dodged traffic and tried to stay somewhat dry. I couldn’t help but think, “sunny Italy my ass,” with a lighthearted smirk. Of course I was also whistling “Singing In The Rain.”

Another silly affectation of mine is always pretending I am Gene Kelly when walking through the rain with an umbrella.

The downpour continued as we entered our flat, flung our luggage to the side, and immediately dove into bed for a nap. Our journey had begun fifteen hours earlier when our taxi cab arrived in SoHo Manhattan to take us to JFK International for our overnight flight to Milan. By the time we arrived in Varenna, we were spent.

The sound of the Northern Italian storm was a perfect suitor to help shepherd us down the road to dreamland. We required an afternoon’s rest to prepare us for our Italian adventure ahead. We will spend three nights in Lake Como. Five nights on the Italian Riviera. And finally, two nights in Milan before flying home. All of this after a initial night of boozing in SoHo, Manhattan, New York. What a ride it will be. But first a nap, followed by our first dinner in Italy since our honeymoon some twenty-one years ago.

DINNER WITH JOHNNY CASH

We awoke after a few hours, rested and hungry. Our flat sits just above the town, with lovely views of the lake from our veranda. It is just a five minute walk to the main square where the lake ferry docks every thirty minutes to take passengers to the various towns around the lake. Towns like Bellaggio, Menaggio, and all the other aggios.

I sought out a dinner location near our flat. We needed something with a view. We needed a quiet place with wine and excellent pasta.

We needed La Veranda Dei Pescatori.

La Veranda Dei Pescatori is a lovely ristorante on the hill just steps away from our rental. The ristorante indeed has a veranda that overlooks the lake below. It is a hidden place well up into the hills. They even offer a motorcycle taxi-carriage to prospective diners, shuffling them up the hill in little motorized rickshaw that, when it is started up, makes a whirring sound like when George Jetson would take off in his flying vehicle.

Given the weather, we were placed on the covered deck rather than the veranda. We were immediately given a complimentary glass of Prosecco and offered blankets to stave off the night chill.

I can tell you without a hint of embarrassment that I LOVE complimentary Prosecco and blanket offerings.

Why start a meal with “what do you want” from the waiter when you can start with bubbles and blankets?

(Oh and haven’t I just discovered a great name for a cool climate wine bar with terrazzo. “Welcome to Bubbles and Blankets. Would you like a Prosecco to start you off?”)

Prosecco was sipped and menus were perused. We noticed that in between the sound of rolling thunder, in time with its rhythm, we could hear the unmistakable voice of Johnny Cash floating out from the speakers inside of the restaurant. The old familiar sting. That voice, as low as the thunder itself, painting a haunting watercolor with each note. Telling us a tale of ultimate longing. A tale of a man listening to the sound of a train, the sound of freedom itself, emanating from outside the singer’s lonesome cell in Folsom Prison.

“I’m stuck in Folsom Prison, and time keeps dragging on.”

And the thunder rolls. And the lightening strikes above the lake.

This scene might sound solemn to you, dear reader, but by no means was it so.

Some things fit together in perfect time.

Like thunderstorms and Johnny Cash.

Even in Italy. Even in a swank ristorante looking out over Lake Como.

A perfect time.