Lago d’Iseo, Italy, a Travel Memory of a Lifetime
Wednesday, April 7th, 2010Years ago, on one of my first trips to Italy, I learned one of my first travel lessons and one of my most magical memories rolled into one.
I flew from London to Milan using miles on British Midlands Airlines. I decided to focus on the Lombardy Region. People may beg to differ, but there wasn’t enough to see in the industrial city of Milan itself to warrant spending a week there, especially at my pace. So, I planned to rent a car and drive north through the Franciacorte Wine Region to the lakes region at the foot of the Italian Alps.
I did the tourist circuit in Milan (short shrift here); Santa Maria delle Grazie and Leonardo d’Vinci’s “The Last Supper”, Milan Duomo, Galeria Vittorio Emanuele II, La Scala Theatre, Fashion Houses, Sforzesco Castle, San Satiro, San Lorenzo Maggiore, and a Gelateria serving the best damned Semi-Fredo ever. I skipped the Pirelli Building (you can see it from most anywhere) and Civico Museo d’Arte Contemporanca (Contemporary Art Museum)
I picked up my rental car and headed north to Lago d’Iseo. I chose this lake as opposed to the much more popular and larger Lake Como and Lake Garda because I was told it was “locals only”. I also soon learned what “off season” truly meant in Italy resort areas.
By the time I ascended through the vineyards of Franciacorta with the Alps in the distance, the sun started to set. Fortunately, I had pre-booked (via FAX) accommodation on Lago d’Iseo (via FAX in those days) and thus had a room waiting. I arrived in the tiny lakeside village of Sulzano and drove around looking for my hotel, Residence Vittoria. No sign of the hotel anywhere. So, I decided to park and go to an espresso bar and ask. In my broken Italian and the bar keep’s non-English Italian, I asked where the hotel was and he pointed across the water. I explained that I would never have booked a hotel on an island – without knowing. Wouldn’t I have been told such a thing? Oh, that’s right – I didn’t ask. Then, arms flailing and with a panic look on his face, he explained that the only way to get there was by a ferryboat. Ferry! And the last one was leaving in a few minutes! But what about my car?!?! It was a passenger ferry only! He motioned me to park in a lot across the road from the village and leave money in a box. I ran to my car and grabbed my luggage, dropped money in the box, and RAN to the ferry dock. Thank god for wheeled luggage! I hopped on the ferry (a small boat) and we motored off into the dark toward the distant lights across the lake. Mind you, I was still very confused where I was going.
I asked the ferry driver (it was a very small passenger boat) where the hotel was and he explained that it was in the village on Sensole and that dock was now closed. So, he was dropping me off at the Porto (dock) at Peschiera Maraglio (the largest village on the Island). It was now very cold as we skimmed across the black water. There were a few elderly people hanging out in chairs by the dock and there were lines of fish drying in the few illuminated rickety buildings.
I asked one of the oldies in my broken Italian where my hotel was. I made out the name “Sensole” and the rest was an arm gesture pointing to a path leading into the dark. With no choice, I walked into the darkness following the unlit path. The stone lined path soon turned into a gravel mud path. Great for luggage wheels! Just as I adjusted, the path changed to mud! Pulling became squishy yanking. After about 20 minutes, the path turned back to gravel and then road.
I came upon the hotel, which was actually sizable, but it was unlit – and dark. I saw the light around the side, found a door, and knocked on it – loudly. A French and Italian speaking gent answered the door. He was the chef in the kitchen and said he was the only one there. I told him we had a reservation and he said he would call the owner who was at home. Gratefully, he led me into the dining room, turned on the lights, and offered me a beer. He left me to make the call and came back to tell me that the owner was coming to check us in. It would be a while because he was coming by boat.
Two Peroni beers later, the owner arrived, spoke no English, and was gracious despite the inconvenience. He led to our room in what appeared to be a completely empty hotel. I turned on the lights and the heater, and found a spacious room. I looked out the window to see shore lights in the distance. I unpacked a bit and collapsed in bed. I didn’t even notice the cold.
The next morning, I woke up and looked out the window to get my bearings to see where the heck I was. I pulled back the threadbare drapes to find one of the most spectacular sights of my life . . . . Monte Isola.
More later . . . .
Happy Tripping,
Carter
