A Personal Experience

She limped her way down three flights of stairs. I followed her slowly, readying myself for any missteps. The old terracotta-coloured walls were cracked like dehydrated desert earth. The sun flickered through small iron-barred windows, barely lighting the stairwell, and the azure blue sky peeked behind neighbouring rooftops. She didn’t even notice. Her attention was fixed on each step as if they were moves on a chess board. We reached the bottom and pushed open the heavy door. There was an explosion of light as the hot morning sun spilled into the stairwell. We proceeded down the driveway.

The mountain tumbled downwards, peppered with orange rooftops before meeting the edge of glorious Lake Como. The morning light danced on the calm water like a starry sky. Monstrous mountains were painted across the distant horizon, their tops dusted white with snow untouched by the summer heat. I took her hand. It was warm. I expected it to be cold, but there was still some life left in that soft embrace.

We crossed a quiet road to a broad concrete wall overcome with wild star jasmine. Its sweet perfume was overwhelming. The smell of a flower posing as real jasmine was fitting, for our trip itself was posing as a real holiday. We couldn’t ignore the significance of our journey - a final escape before the harsh reality of her fate set in.

Menaggio was just waking up as we arrived in town; its roads filling quickly with miniature vans carrying tools and fresh produce. Elderly men sipped coffee, discussing whatever it was that could get them so worked up that early in the morning. She smiled as she pointed out the places she recognised from her first visit. She was in charge of this trip even though she couldn’t fully participate. She was like a film director sitting behind the camera, applying her expertise to ensure the randomness went according to plan.

I started believing she actually was a director when we reached the piazza near the lake. Its quintessentially Italian beauty seemed staged like a Hollywood film set, so I knocked on a wall to make sure it wasn’t hollow. Hard as rock.

We took a seat outside a cafe against the promenade. A waiter came, gave us some water and let us be. She sat there smiling, staring out across the lake at the boats bobbing on the water. I sat there staring at her, knowing that no matter where we were, no matter what great lake, man-made monument or bustling city we would visit, she was my journey and this was the rest of her life.