Travelogue — Part 3
By Dixie Fried

Hot Up North

I was on a train, in an empty compartment, traveling alongside the Adriatic sea. I clutched my three prosciutto sandwiches my aunt packed for me, trying not to eat them for a little while; it was a long train ride. I was on my way to visit my cousin Paolo and his wife Lisa in Como, a small city outside of Milano. Every time the train stopped — San Benedetto, Rimini, Ancona–I expected a striking Italian man to sit opposite me, and hence, my own personal Harlequin romance would begin. I was in Italy after all. Instead, the door of the compartment slid open, and a widowed, matronly woman came in with her teenage son and sat opposite me, staring.

The train went on and on, and after changing trains in Milano, I finally arrived in Como, which was close to the Swiss border. My cousin Michele was waiting for me on the platform. I recognized his smile, but he was older, balder and chubbier. At age 16, Michele might have been the most handsome boy in the world. He used to have a mess of jet black hair, classic Italian looks, and he was a smooth talker with the ladies. He usually had 10 girlfriends at any given time, and they were always in absolute adolescent agony over him.. Now, he was happily married to an amazing woman, and they had a baby girl. When he saw me, he picked me up and spun me around, and yelled, "Mia cugina! (My cousin!)"

I was so excited to be in a city after being in a small town for a month. The center of Como was surrounded by beautiful Lake Como on one side, and was walled on the other sides; walls that were built to prevent barbarians from attacking the city hundreds of years ago. After eating a huge meal with Paolo and Lisa, we took a walk in the center of the city. Como was in the middle of a heat wave, and everyone was complaining that it was 35 degrees centigrade. I wanted to complain, but not knowing how hot is was didn’t make my complaints seem valid. "What is farenheit?," everyone asked me

It became clear during my first walk around the city that Como was a money-town. Designer stores and gourmet shops lined the small, curved streets. The duomo was impressive for a city that size. My cousin explained that it was a vacation town; rich soccer players and Italian celebrities owned weekend houses here. The lake was spectacular, and one day during my visit, we rode the barge up the lake. The barge stopped at every lakeside town north of Como, each more beautiful than the last, until we reached Bellagio two hours later.

This whole area of Italy stunk of money; the villas were amazing. I felt like a country bumpkin in Como, not the cosmopolitan New Yorker that I am. By this time, I completely associated myself with being Italian; New York and the people there were a million miles away. Northern Italians stick there noses up at southern Italy; I came from the South, and I felt that I just walked into a sophisticated metropolis.

In the last month, I gained about 15 pounds. I began eating gelato every night. It is one of the most amazing things about Italy, I’ve never tasted ice cream like it. I usually don’t even eat ice cream. But I found myself in front of a gelateria every night order double scoops of nocciola or stracciatella. Also, my aunts would cook amazing homemade meals, and for the last month I’d been eating 3 course meals for lunch and dinner, stuffing my face with pasta, homemade prosciutto and cheeses, and fresh country bread and meats. I would eat until I had to unbutton my pants, and a month later I found it hard to button my pants at all. To make it worse, it was so hot (35 centigrade!) that it was impossible to wear much clothing! Every woman in Como was unbelievably glamourous. Women, with long flowing hair would talk into their cellphones. Sometimes, I’d overhear bits of conversation, "Marcello, dov’e sei?!" they’d ask their fiancés. They were completely polished, head to toe, with full makeup, skintight clothes, and high, high heels. No one in Italy seemed overweight. They were all skinny, but voluptuous. And the men were even more stunning. The all wore their hair a bit long, and wore designer clothes: linen suits and button down shirts. I was hot in my jeans, and worst of all, a tire formed around the top of them where my stomach used to be.

In the mornings, I would sit, drinking an espresso and reading the paper, and stare at these beautiful people, running to and fro, high heels clicking on the cobblestones, men walking on an imaginary runway. Each day, the temperature got hotter and hotter. I gave up trying to figure out the Centigrade system. It was virtually impossible to go out during the afternoon hours; I became a big supporter of the siesta. Stores and shops closed every day from 1 to 4, so there was no reason to do anything but sleep. A few times I went out during these hours to check email and almost passed out. I broke down and bought open-toed shoes, something I’d been adamant about avoiding my entire life. I never thought the day would come, but the sun was too much for me. I gave up on trying to be stylish in Como. Who was I kidding? In New York, I could get away with a tank top, a pair of jeans, and combat boots. When I found the occasion to wear a vintage dress, all my friends would tell me I looked fabulous. And now, I was in a whole other league. Sure, New York has people who dress like this, but I’m never around them! We don’t frequent the same places, and we sure don’t live in the same places. I guess I’m part of the underbelly of New York. And I like it down there.

After about a week in Como, I bought a plane ticket for Amsterdam. I wanted to take a scenic train ride–I had all the time in the world–but it cost more and took 12 hours. The flight was only an hour and fifteen minutes. My friend Billy was staying in a squat in Amsterdam and I was going to visit for a week. I guess that’s as different from Como as it gets.