On the way back to the hotel we entered the cathedral. To find so imposing an edifice amid so much poverty was a surprise. Equally astonishing was the way the steep hills behind the town were terraced and cultivated, as though the very rocks themselves had been made to blossom and bear fruit. An Italian woman across the street was filling her jug at a fountain. The nozzle, crumpled into a trefoil, was of the same style as that used by the Roman matrons twenty-five centuries ago. Little things like this show how slowly time has marched in these lake towns of northern Italy.
The cool fragrance of early morning filled the air when we waved addio to our padrone and followed the curves of the shore toward Como at the end of the lake. There is much in favor of an early start before the heat begins to quiver above the road and the air to resemble a continuous cloud of dust. Every foot of the way was interesting. There were bright-colored villas half smothered in vines; crumbling bell towers flung their shadows across our path; dizzy cliffs hung above us; the lake was constantly within view.
At one of the turns a bicycle rider shot by. We missed him by an inch. He was followed by many others, scattered over the distance of a mile. They were all riding recklessly, rounding the corners at top speed and with heads bent low over the handle bars. Different numbers were pinned on their backs. This was evidently a long-distance bicycle race. It was nerve racking to meet so many curves and not to know whether the riders would pass us on the right or on the left. There is no fixed rule of the road in Italy. In towns having a tram, one turns to the left. Southern Italy is still more confusing, since each town has its own rule. In Como we motored down two or three streets before finally discovering, after many inquiries, the road running northward to Aosta in the Italian Alps.
Italian villas on Lake Como
Copyright by Underwood & Underwood
We regretted our last glimpse of the lake. Instead of hazy mountains, blue sparkling waters, red sails, and pretty villas, the scenery changed to flat, uninteresting country. Novara was reached by noon, its streets baking in the fierce August sun. At the Hotel Italia the flies covered table and dishes. The ménu card presented difficulties; it was written in a very illegible Italian. We guessed at most of the courses, but macaroni was the only dish of which we were sure. But our plight was not quite so discouraging as that of another motorist who found that for three of his courses he had ordered eggs cooked in three different ways. The early afternoon was so hot that we had thought of taking a siesta, but soon gave up the idea. There were too many flies. The inmates of the garage were all fast asleep, and the two blinking men whom we aroused could not conceal their surprise at our unseasonable departure.
Once out in the country, the dust invaded and pervaded everything. It was real Italian dust, that sifted into us and all but blinded us. The heat was terrific. For fear of bursting a tire, we halted in a drowsy village to let the car cool off under a shady chestnut tree. As if by magic, a score of dirty, ragged Italian children surrounded us, and begged for centesimi. We threw them a few coppers, but this vision of riches only served to redouble the clamor. Flight seemed the only price of tranquillity.
A little way outside the village, a cloud rolled swiftly toward us. The motor car did not appear to be much more than a cloud when it passed us, so thick was the dust. If there is anything hotter or dustier than an Italian highway on the third of August, we do not wish to see it. The drivers of most of the small carts were curled up, content to let the patient mule take its own pace, provided their siesta was undisturbed. The shrill call of our horn often caused them to move a little; there would be a slight twitching of the reins, and then they would relax again into slumber. The mule never changed its course.