Valchiavenna: Time Travel, Tots, Puddles and Paint

In this village, they say that when the Leone mountain across us wears a grey cap—when the clouds sit low on its peak gathered like a hat—it means we will have rain tomorrow.

Apparently, it’s true.

Photo of Lake Como by Wikimedia

Last weekend, on Saturday afternoon, even though the skies were bright blue, the mountain, our ever-present and glorious background, wore a cap.

The husband and I watched silvery flat clouds shifting around its head, gathering into a perfect hat shape—not hovering like a halo, but softly settling on its crown. The son peered out with his binoculars from the hillside Bellavista restaurant terrace in Vercana where we’d gone for pizza and house wine.

“Yep, bad weather tomorrow,” we both concluded, in-between the daughter’s incessant babbles.

We clinked our glasses and drank away the afternoon, because that is what you do here on a weekend after 2pm—whether sun or rain.

So the following day, despite the rains, we headed to Chiavenna, just 16 kilometers away.

The old town cultural center, still preserved, winded the way typical Italian towns do, with their renovated cobblestone streets, semi-uncluttered gutters and olive-green shutters decked with rose-red flower pots.

Swiss and German tourists huddled under umbrellas, checking out the Saldi signs, but all was closed during siesta hours.

“It just can’t be SUN-day,” said my son aloud, “there’s only RAIN today!”

And he said this with an air of excitement. It was still a lot of fun to wear bright rubber boots and splash around.

But it was Sunday, and also siesta, for that matter, which meant I and my wallet would not be parting—at least not for three hours.

An aquarelle painting exhibition near the piazza by British artist Kim Sommerschield, was the perfect place to wait out the drizzle.

Beautiful sharp strokes of the familiar mountains in deep blue and sienna, the misty lake and its wildlife splashed in striking hues, and my favorite of the water-colored portraits, a Charlie Chaplain.

Next, we headed for the Palazzo Vertemate Franchi, where the daughter was far too noisy, so I excused her from the tour group and headed out to the hallways to walk amongst scary portraits of middle-aged plump women in way too much jewelry and ruffles.

When it was time for panini and aperitvi, we headed back to the historical center for snack under the now sparkling sun.

The weather here is like that, shifting from one second to the next.

Prosecco for me, succo de mela for Karsten, a birra media for the husband and latte fresco for Alex. (I found I never have to worry about bringing milk on outings, as one can always order it fresh from any bar.)

I also had bresaola, a kind of salty, dried meat from the plush Valtellina region, plated with steinpilz, a delicious wild mushroom, and sharp rucola salad.

Observing my two curious kids splashing in puddles, being fascinated by waterfalls and hidden corners, even the way they sat down on the side of a random street, just to…sit and watch the world go by, reminded me that life is for these tiny, treasured moments.

Did they understand a word the tour guide was saying in the grand palace? No.

Did they care that it was rainy weather and not “suitable” for exploring? Of course not.

Did they whine that, during siesta no stores were open to browse? No, not these kids.

They simply enjoyed what life had to offer them in that moment: lots of muddy puddles, fascinating steep steps and cobblestones, giant door handles fabricated hundreds of years ago…

…and ripples of murky water in an old piazza fountain, reflecting their own mischievous smiles.

+++

Back at home, I continue painting my version of the Montana Leone, the forms I see in it, the colors that inspire…

…the daughter picks up my brush and messes up a corner.

I let her…

No matter that the weather is grey, or how many clouds gather at its peak, that mountain will always be beautiful, and it is the daily view like this that makes me appreciate my own sense of sight.

Every morning, we get to wake up and watch it shift forms, spreading out on the horizon “just like a volcano,” my son always says, excitedly.

We get to see it transform, and at times completely disappear into the fog…but it always returns, to welcome our days, or to say goodnight.

“It’s as if you’ve never seen it before,” my husband remarked yesterday, when I’d had an explodation mark about its current beauty.

But I agree with my Belgian neighbor, Cara, who says, “It’s the most beautiful mountain in the world!”

And if you could see it, I bet you’d say so, too

Postcards From Como

Yesterday, we finally bought an Internet stick device so that we can finally have some connection in our little apartment. It’s painfully slow (I have loaded about four pages in 30 minutes) but at least I finally feel a little more in tune with the planet.

Not that being out of cyber-touch is so terrible at all, though. Whereas before, I would wake up to check emails, news and updates, now I wake up to quiet mornings by the lake where I can run in peace while the boys are still snoring. Whereas before, I would stay up past midnight, staring at my computer screen, now I am back at the canvas. Good old aquarelle paint, an ink pen, and many glasses of shared red wine.

Recently I have painted a series of postcards inspired by the views on Lake Como, from the Northern tip where we live. When I tried to buy some postcards at the only department store in town, there were none to be found, and even in the bigger towns, there were no postcards from our small town that could accurately depict life as it is here.

I decided to paint the scenery I’ve captured, both through my eyes and my camera lens, to paint stills of life in motion, and to bring color to where it is mostly a thousand blue hues. Already, there has been some local interest in my art, and even the town priest has requested postcards of our simple chapel and bell-tower that stands by a river cascading down to the beach—just a short walk from our alleyway house.  A few other local cafes and hotels are also displaying my art for sale, and that makes me quite happy.

Ours is a tiny town, but so charming. You know it’s small when you go out to the corner cafe, and run into your only upstairs neighbor jogging, your landlord going for cappuccino, and the mayor’s bunch just leaving the bar.

I feel strangely at home, and “home” is where my heart feels alive.

Saxony in September

We never had seasons when I was growing up. The tropics are only wet, or dry—and almost always humid. Coming to Europe for the first time in 2008 was a big change, and I finally learned why people talk about the weather!

My son, who was born on a snowy winter’s night in Saxony, got a headstart on me. He loves the cold, and the moment he first held snow, tried to eat it. It’s been a journey of discovery for me, every time we travel together. Depending on the time of year that we visit Germany, the colors and seasons always change, so each time is a little different, and each time is special.

Now, in mid September, we are having what they call here, an “Old Wives Summer”. It can be very warm during the day (over 25 degrees) and very cold at night (less than 9). I thought it would be much colder at this time, but we are even able to take long walks in the forest without jackets, and the garden is a lovely place to play.

Taking a slight break from work has given me time to enjoy life with him. Today a butterfly flew into our bedroom window and he got so excited. We wake up and look at the cows grazing outside, and the fat chickens over the neighbors’ fence. During our strolls, there are lots of tractors and farm machines out here in the country, and we spend time just watching them. There are strong horses too, and beautiful dogs…the forest is alive with showers of light, raining down on the evergreens. Sticks and stones, mud, rocks and even slippery slugs. It’s paradise for a little boy.