To get to Lugano we decided to drive the pretty route alongside Lake Como and then over the pass to the shores of Lake Lugano and along the side of that too.
The border between Italy and Switzerland on this road was not checked at all, we just drove straight through. With the amount of traffic on that narrow road the absence of border checks was probably the only expedient solution, whatever the Swiss might vote in their referendums.
But this route proved to be a mistake, not because it was not intrinsically pretty, and not because it was raining, it was because it was so busy, busy with tourists, many being herded along in parties. And this is April, what on earth must it be like in August? We asked ourselves rhetorically. We have had some successful holidays in a town on the other side of Lake Como, but we resolved never to go to that area again, but then again we thought, we are tourists too, so really we should not be snooty about this, it’s all our fault, people will be going to Cupra Marittima and San Bonifacio in their hordes soon, and we’ll complain it isn’t what it was and resolve never to go there again either.
A couple nearby to us in the restaurant we chose for dinner had nothing to say to each other. This was in Lugano, the Italian-speaking part of Switzerland, how can Italian speakers ever have nothing to say? With listening we found out how. The couple were both American.
Lugano is a very international city, and rich too, with shops for Gucci and Armani and Vuitton and all that expensive rubbish.
In the bar where we had our pre-dinner drinks, and in the busy and popular pizza restaurant where we ate our dinner, I insisted on speaking to the waiting-on staff in their own natural language, which is Italian. I was one of the very few customers doing that, most people there for eating and drinking were speaking English; my Italian is strong enough now that I can nearly always use it in preference to English and the staff, though surprised, are happy for me to do so. Sadly the same is not true of my French or German.
We ate pizzas. We had not had a pizza this trip in Italy, so decided we should in Italian-speaking Switzerland. The pizzas were very good, but far, far, too salty, which is typically Italian, and which you don’t really notice until later in the night when you wake up with a pressing desire to run the taps in the bathroom dry.
The Americans ate a lasagne for him with a small glass of ‘lager’, and a spaghetti bolognese for her and a glass of red wine, though she ordered another glass of red wine later. We got the impression that they ordered these dishes as that is what they knew, they were a bit too cautious to be adventurous.
And they sat there, in excruciating silence, and Hilary said: ‘Why do they stay together? It’s so painful. If we ever get like that, promise me we’d part’. In saying this, of course, we find that we do have something to say to each other, so this is one of those self-referencing conversations, a bit in the class of ‘This page is blank’.
Many of the men in the bars and restaurants of Lugano were wearing suits, which makes me think it is a city with a large financial sector, a fair number looked Japanese.
Lugano also has a sizeable Muslim population, we saw many women in headscarves passing by as we were sitting outside having our drinks – for the rain had kindly stopped while we were in Lugano – including one young woman with the full black hide-your-mug works, she was with a boyfriend who was dressed in a western-style shirt and jeans, though with a Middle-Eastern appearance. He came over and said, ‘When I try to kiss my girlfriend, I get a gobfull of grubby black canvas, is this how it is supposed to be?’ No he didn’t, I made that up.
