Just north of the village of Brunate, Italy and a mere short hike from Lake Como, with its cool blue waters and mountainous back drop; lies Albergo Paradiso Sul Lago a quaint hotel frequented by people looking for some solitude from their everyday lives.
The hotel grounds are populated by couples enjoying the lake and all her treasures. There are also, what the Italians call, 'il Sinngles'. Those solitary people who visit to forget or are looking for inspiration of some kind.
I am an admitted 'il Sinngle'. Traveling alone looking for ideas or inspiration in the surrounding country side. I am not the only one tagged with this title. Here in Brunate , for some reason, 'il Sinngles' never seem to meet.
Morning in the Alps is inspiration for any writer; so each morning I set out on one of the local hiking trails that lead to a quieter and in some ways safer world. Hiking in these new surroundings is invigorating and I feel my creative juices flowing by the time I reach the hotel for lunch and some work.
You will not find yourself alone in this landscape. People pass by each day and greetings of 'ciao' or 'buongiorno' pass between you and the others out on their morning jaunts.
As I climb higher on the rocky path there are less hikers and more solitude. Finally, after a 2 hour walk, I reach a precipice that overlooks Lake Como. I wander to the edge, looking out over the lake to see the sun shimmering off its blue waters. Boats and people looking like toys in a bath tub thousands of feet below me.
I turn to leave when I catch the site of a woman looking out over the mountains. A very distant look in her eyes. She is beautiful with the sun shining on her face and the wind whipping her jet black hair back so the tears running down her cheeks can be seen even at my distance.
I leave her to her solitude; with just a simple buongiorno that goes unanswered. I fell her sadness. There should not be sadness in such a beautiful place but sadness has no landscape limits.
Later at dinner I see her again; sitting for a lonely meal. She has taken the time to fuss over her looks and gives off an air of pride in those looks. Her black hair tied back in a flowing pony tail that easily reaches the mid back. A dress of cotton and covered on small flowers in delicate pastel colors cover a svelte body and betrays her athletic background. It is just short enough to give a glimpse of shapely tanned legs but long enough to let the observer know that she is a woman of discerning tastes.
She leaves with barely a sound. Barely a glance in any direction. A woman of mystery indeed
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The next morning, after a breakfast if breads, cheeses, fruits and strong coffee I prepare for another day of hiking. This day I have the hotel pack a small lunch as I plan to go higher up into the mountains to a small meadow I remembered from my past visit here. I plan on using this place to outline my next book. It had been my inspiration for my last project and I needed that again.
I quickly look over the hotel for her but she is not about. The urge to ask about her is compelling but I hold back because she has the look of someone that does not want to draw attention. I must admit that
I am in some way drawn to this woman. That attraction invaded my sleep and I needed to force it out of me. A more vigorous hike should accomplish that goal.
The morning is cooler than yesterday but a brisk pace soon warms me. The exertion also pushes her form my mind. At the precipice I rest for a short period; looking again out over the lake. Sitting here alone my concentration is fully on the scene before me. This is a place where people find love and lovers renew their love anew.
Pushing on for another hour I reach my meadow. A hilly surface looking down at a scene of small villages and farms stretching as far as the eye can see. An amazing display of color. Green grasses, the browns of the plowed fields, the reds of the roof tops and light playing off the gold domes of churches all greet me like a feast for my eyes.
Laying out a small blanket I sit and stare in wonder at this postcard picture of a seen. My pen seems to pull itself from my backpack and begins writing ideas as if I was not even holding it. I get the feeling I always get at the beginning of a new project. Excitement , an actual tingling in my body, like a little kid with that long awaited toy at Christmas.
The sound of a voice, that seems to be lightly carried on the wind, reaches me and I instantly perk up to see who has invaded my solitude. Standing, I see her sitting some fifty yards away; the tall grasses nearly obscuring her form view.
She is staring in the same direction as I and I am sure that she has not heard my arrival. She seems to have nothing with her. No water or protection form the cool evening that will surely arrive before she returns to the hotel.
I pick up some water and a light jacket I am carrying in my backpack and walk over to her. "Mi scusi, ho pensato che potrebbe essere necessario un pò d'acqua o di questa giacca." I was thinking she was Italian. She looked up at me; red still invading her eyes but no tears today.
With those sad eyes she replied, "Im dispiace. Io non parlo italiano molto bene."
I was surprised by her reply of being poor at the language and was quickly looking for some other means of communicating.
"I am sorry". she said with a clear Boston accent that had me reeling.
"Your American? I ask you if you needed some water or this jacket to help keep you warm?"
She took the water and I draped the jacket over her shoulders and turned to walk back to my blanket.
"Please don't go. It is all so lonely." Her voice was shaky and weak. I turned back and sat down on the grass. Sitting in silence for some ten minutes; I was waiting for her to speak. It seemed that there was a need in her to talk and have someone, anyone listen. My plans, put on hold, I sat and waited.
Finally she turned to me and reached out her hand and said her name was Rose. I told her mine was
Tony and went back to waiting on her to begin.
Over the next two hours I listened to her story through her tears and a few smiles. It was a story worthy of being written.
She was a woman worth knowing.
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A story told through tears and coming from a broken heart is on the takes time to tell and is one that needs to be met with understanding.
Rose had a story she needed to tell and I offered a sympathetic ear. But more than that; I was a stranger that she would never see again so this seemed a safe way for her to say what had to be said and then carry on with her life.
Rose, "I met Mark in high school. We were together almost ten years." Her voice was shaky but was getting a bit stringer.
She told me that after high school they planned out their lives together. It seemed like every detail was planned from holding together a long distance relationship when attending college, on opposite side of the country, to establishing their careers.
Finally with their lives in order they set a wedding date. That was three years ago. Last year the came here to Lake Como and feel in love with it. They decided that this was the place for their honeymoon.
Rose, "I was living a fairytale. Everything was so perfect.". I could see that her memories were both holding her together and haunting her at the same time.
Rose, "When we returned from Lake Como last year we bought a house and had it set to go. All the wedding arrangements we complete and perfect."
She went on to describe a car accident that took Mark last Christmas. Eight months ago. His life had ended that day in a snow storm just outside of Boston. Hers went on but I could tell that all her desire for life had gone into the ground with Mark.
I sat in silence listening until she stopped and her tears began to flow again. There was one more thing I had to know.
Hesitantly I asked, "Why have you come here?" It was something that was bothering me since she told me that her and Mark had been here last year together.
Rose, "Our wedding day was supposed to be two days ago. In all the confusion after Marks accident no one every canceled our honeymoon trip."
"Something drew me to this place. I had this feeling that Mark would be here. Silly I know. I just had to come."
Personally I saw nothing but pain for her in coming here. But in some strange way it made sense for her to be here. She needed closure.
She had buried Mark physically but mentally he was very much alive.
"We better start back down so we get back to the hotel before dark."
We walked in silence until we were a few hundred yards form the hotel. "Why don't you get cleaned up and I will meet you for dinner in the hotel. Unless you do not want company?"
Rose, " I would like someone to talk with at dinner. I will see you there shortly."
I watched her walk back toward her room thinking that through all the crying and sadness she is quite a strong woman. I had always admired a woman of strength.
A lesser woman would have withered away along with Mark's memories.
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