By the time our train pulled in to the small, neat station in Stresa, late on a hot, muggy July afternoon, we had endured eight consecutive days of temperatures well into the 90s, and most of what accounted for the dead weight in our bags was damp, dirty laundry. We dragged our bags down the portable steps from the train, hitting the platform with a dull, tired thump, and headed out of the station in search of a taxi just as it started to rain.The hour ride from Milano was comfortable and cool but we were the kind of tired you can only experience as your body nears heat exhaustion, sort of a drowsy, dim, foggy state of being, too tired to be frustrated anymore, and certainly too hopeless to continue complaining about the heat. When I closed my eyes on the train, I could see, clear as day, Da Vinci's fresco, "La Ultima Cena," with it's dreamlike colors and long Italian landscape extending deep into the distance behind Christ and the Apostles. We had just seen the work for the first time a few hours ago in the refectory at Santa Maria della Grazie, and now, traveling away from Milan, north, toward the lakes, I imagined we were in the painting, with our regional train traversing Leonardo's landscape, no doubt shocking the tourists in the gallery.
We had awakened that Friday in Monterosso al Mare at 5:00 AM, in Cinque Terre, to check-out of Locanda al Maestrale and walk with our bags to the station on Via Fegina, in the new town along the beach. We had spent two nights in a stunningly gorgeous room in which the air conditioning unit, circa 1975, seemed to generate only an annoying buzz and hot, stale air. Exhausted, we walked down the darkened main Road in Monterosso, Via Roma, and then along the beach to the station, to catch the 6:30 AM train to Milano.
Upon arrival at Milano's Centrale Stazione (built rather oppressively by Musolini in that fascist style intended to make people like us feel insignificant) at about 10:00 AM, we embarked on a whirlwind tour, checking our bags, taking the metro to Piazza Duomo, shopping at Galleria Vittorio Emanuele, visiting the neo-Gothic Duomo di Milano, taking a cable car to Santa Maria della Grazie to see "The Last Supper," and grabbing a quick bite to eat standing up at an Italian bar across the street--sort of our own "La Ultima Cena"--before returning to Centrale to collect our bags and hop aboard our train to Stresa.We had been on the move over the past week, starting out in Sorrento and visiting Capri, the Amalfi Coast and Paestum, before touring Pompeii, Firenze, and Cortona, all in prelude to our arrival in Cinque Terre. The train journeys from Sorrento to Pompeii, from Firenze to Cortona, and from Firenze to Cinque Terre were especially trying. Italian regional trains, unlike the sleek, cool Eurostars, were hot, sweaty, dilapidated and very, very slow. Despite the lack of air conditioning, many of the windows were even screwed shut, presumably to prevent tourists with visions of the cool Italian air blowing through their hair from being decapitated with their heads stuck out of the small, dirty windows, all in the effort to gain enough air to continue breathing until they reach their destination.
But at Stresa, we were glad to be in the lakes district, in the foothills of the Italian Alps, where a breeze carrying a refreshing drizzle welcomed us to town, and where snow-capped mountains could be seen in the deep distance, across blue Lago di Maggiore. On this particular Italian excursion we had seen so much already, from the Blue Grotto of Capri to Sophia Loren's house along the Amalfi Coast; from the stirring ruins of Pompeii, with Vesuvius still looming ominously above the town, to the tombs of Galileo, Machiavelli and Michelangelo at Santa Croce in Firenze; and from the disturbing concrete Nazi gun bunker keeping a silent watch over Monterosso's picturesque harbor, to the view of urban Milano from the rooftop of the neo-Gothic duomo, surrounded by tall, thin spires of a beautiful white stone, reaching high toward a rich blue sky...Stresa's glory days are well behind it. Once the town along Lake Maggiore attracted aristocrats on the Grand Tour, offering luxurious accommodations for the worldly, refined traveler. Today, with the towns along Lake Como receiving all of
the attention--drawing the rich and famous, from Hollywood stars, legendary musicians, and political elites--Stresa is a slow, sleepy little town, worn but elegant, faded but dignified still, like sweet old grandparents whose salad days have long since passed but who continue to put on their finest clothing for church and an old-fashioned home-cooked meal every Sunday afternoon. Churchill honeymooned in Stresa, and Ernest Hemingway recovered from his wounds here in a hotel fronting the lake during World War I.
the attention--drawing the rich and famous, from Hollywood stars, legendary musicians, and political elites--Stresa is a slow, sleepy little town, worn but elegant, faded but dignified still, like sweet old grandparents whose salad days have long since passed but who continue to put on their finest clothing for church and an old-fashioned home-cooked meal every Sunday afternoon. Churchill honeymooned in Stresa, and Ernest Hemingway recovered from his wounds here in a hotel fronting the lake during World War I.As it turned out, Stresa was precisely what the doctor ordered for us, too.
We adopted the town's pace as our own, enjoying gelato at Piazza Cardona, pasta at Osteria degli Amici, and a cable car ride 5,000 feet up Mount Mattarone, where we felt a much-appreciated July chill as we drank our coffee and ate homemade strudel on a ledge overlooking the town and lake while cows grazed in a nearby Alpine pasture. After a brief hike up a dirt trail, we encountered one of the most familiar sites in all of Italy, a small, humble shrine to Mary...even here at 5,000 feet, not so far from the Swiss border, Madonna presides over all that is Italian. Then on the cable car down Mattarone's slope, a friendly, middle-aged woman from Cologne, Germany was shocked when she heard Dana and I speak in obviously-American English, having pegged us for sure-thing Italian natives. This made us both smile with a certain amount of pride in the comfort level we were beginning to attain on-the-move in Italia. Later, when we took a ferry ride on Lago di 
Maggiore to Isola Bella, my halting, stuttering attempts at Italiano left such an impression (a humorous one, no doubt) on a fragile, aging shopkeeper on the island that she told me in her own stuttering attempt at English, "I will remember you!" I gave her a large pack of Wrigley's Doublemint gum from our backpack and shook her hand warmly before exiting the store with a happy "Ciao!" uttered in the distinct accent of a native of Chicago's South Side.
Maggiore to Isola Bella, my halting, stuttering attempts at Italiano left such an impression (a humorous one, no doubt) on a fragile, aging shopkeeper on the island that she told me in her own stuttering attempt at English, "I will remember you!" I gave her a large pack of Wrigley's Doublemint gum from our backpack and shook her hand warmly before exiting the store with a happy "Ciao!" uttered in the distinct accent of a native of Chicago's South Side.But the highlight in Stresa for us was Saturday night. We knew we had an early Sunday morning departure for Venezia, our last stop on this trip, for three glorious nights, before returning to Chicago via Venice's Marco Polo Airport. As a result, we anticipated an early return to our hotel, the Moderno, located just a block from Piazza 
Cardona, Stresa's main square, to pack for our morning departure. Dana wanted to do some laundry before leaving Stresa, since we knew how costly even a few loads of laundry could be in Venice. So we checked our guidebook and found a self-service laundry mat located in a residential section of the town. Around the corner from the laundry was a small family-owned cafe, featuring birra alla spina and various sandwiches, including the Italian classic, "Toast," which is, simply put, grilled cheese. So we ordered Toast, a draft beer, and a bottle of water, and headed out to the old wooden tables placed across the road from the cafe, in a small piazza featuring nothing but concrete and a few empty planters. The owner, a tired-looking but pleasant woman who appeared to be in her fifties--come to think of it, she sort of looked like Stresa, itself--sat at the bench across from us with her adult son, who nursed a beer and read the paper. Otherwise, this quiet little corner of everyday Italy was deserted.
Cardona, Stresa's main square, to pack for our morning departure. Dana wanted to do some laundry before leaving Stresa, since we knew how costly even a few loads of laundry could be in Venice. So we checked our guidebook and found a self-service laundry mat located in a residential section of the town. Around the corner from the laundry was a small family-owned cafe, featuring birra alla spina and various sandwiches, including the Italian classic, "Toast," which is, simply put, grilled cheese. So we ordered Toast, a draft beer, and a bottle of water, and headed out to the old wooden tables placed across the road from the cafe, in a small piazza featuring nothing but concrete and a few empty planters. The owner, a tired-looking but pleasant woman who appeared to be in her fifties--come to think of it, she sort of looked like Stresa, itself--sat at the bench across from us with her adult son, who nursed a beer and read the paper. Otherwise, this quiet little corner of everyday Italy was deserted.As I ate my Toast and drank my birra (Nastro Azzuro, no doubt), Dana ran over to the laundry to get a few loads underway as we 
ate. When she didn't come back, I figured there must have been a wait for open machines. So I just sat there, in perfect contentment, with my grilled cheese and cold beer, enjoying the music in the Italian language conversation taking place between the cafe owner and her son, and watching the sun fade into twilight. When Dana finally returned twilight was already slipping into dusk, but she was so full of energy, full of life.
ate. When she didn't come back, I figured there must have been a wait for open machines. So I just sat there, in perfect contentment, with my grilled cheese and cold beer, enjoying the music in the Italian language conversation taking place between the cafe owner and her son, and watching the sun fade into twilight. When Dana finally returned twilight was already slipping into dusk, but she was so full of energy, full of life. "I want you to meet the people at the laundry mat," she said. "I've been talking with them...in Italian!" By this time she was positively beaming.
"They live across the street from the laundry, and they have a son who's old, but can't take care of himself. It's very hard for them. But they're so nice! They helped me with the machines, and we got to talking. We should go now so you can say hi. They will be going home soon. They're buying pizza."
It's not an easy thing to explain, but somehow, even after nearly two weeks of traveling this awe-inspiring yet troubled country, experiencing Italy's spectacular art, architecture, archaeological ruins, natural beauty, stunning piazzas, heavenly vistas, and fine restaurants, tonight, a Saturday night on the town featuring grilled cheese sandwiches, draft beer, and a coin laundry...tonight we felt, perhaps for the first time, like we belonged. 
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