Necklace of 8 pearls

You always want to start a story with that kind of phrase. Not too long, but sharp—maybe a little ironic. Something that slips the reader into the text before they even notice, like a pickpocket with good manners.

Well, I haven’t come up with mine yet. When I do, you’ll be the first to know.

For now, the basics: This time, I was about to cross half of Italy—and I’d be doing it by plane, train, bus, and ferry. The itinerary? Rome, Venice, Milan, and Bellagio, with a pit stop in Como to catch the boat.

For the first time since my wild American escapades with Alyonka and that very proper anniversary trip to France with my mother, I wasn’t traveling alone. No, this time, I had company. A female companion, no less.

Anya had already proven herself an unstoppable force of motion during our trip to St. Petersburg. Plus, the Instagram-worthy spots she’d dug up looked promising.

So, as a certain Yuri Alekseyevich once said back in ’61:

"Poyekhali!" Let’s go.

I must confess—I’m hopelessly biased when it comes to this city. One might even say I’m in love with it (pardon the cliché, but it fits too well to ignore). This was my third time in the Italian capital, and just like the first, Rome welcomed me like family. It’s that rare feeling—you walk into your favorite little restaurant, the hostess throws her hands up in delight and exclaims, “Long time no see!” as she guides you to your table. Meanwhile, the bartender, that sly devil, has already poured your usual and gives you a conspiratorial wink, as if to say: “Just how you like it, my friend. Sit down, relax.”

Yeah, that’s exactly how I see Rome.

Of course, Rome is the Colosseum and the Roman Forum. Piazza Venezia, del Popolo, and Spagna. The Trevi Fountain, the Quirinale, and Vatican City.

But for me, its real charm hides in the narrow alleys, in the playful bickering of waiters, in the intoxicating aroma spilling out of countless trattorias.

When I arrive in Rome, I feel like I shed my mortal skin and dissolve into the city itself, letting its wild current carry me wherever it pleases. Anya even said I act differently here. I wonder—in what way, exactly?

Two gems of memory I brought back with me this time: a pie and a farewell dinner. And believe me—this can’t be told in just a few words. So, settle in…

Eternal city

Pearl Number One: The Pie.

Somewhere in the endless plains of Instagram, my ever-industrious travel companion discovered a little spot tucked away in Rome’s Jewish Quarter, known for a legendary ricotta and sour cherry pie. The place has no sign. It isn’t even reliably open on weekdays. But if you’re lucky enough to catch this loud (there’s no other way to describe them!) Italian family in action, there’s only one right move: buy the whole damn pie and go devour it on a nearby bench or the steps down the street.

And let me tell you—that's a special kind of leisure. Eyes half-closed in bliss, nibbling at the softest slice of pie, washing it down with freshly brewed, fragrant coffee, and watching the world go by in that lazy Roman tempo.

the Pie

the Street

There’s an old couple deep in a conversation about “high politics.” Their conclusion is pretty straightforward: the people in power are all crooks. They should all be locked up—and some, just to be safe, shot on the spot. Over there, a gang of teenagers bursts into laughter as one of their friends shows up dressed wildly out of character: polished shoes, pressed slacks, and a button-down shirt. They click their tongues, roll their eyes, and ask the universe at large, “And who’s this stylish gentleman?”

A granddaughter squeals and flings herself into her grandfather’s arms. He hugs her tightly, and in that moment, something unexplainable happens—his face seems to smooth out, and he looks ten, maybe fifteen years younger. Then there’s the tightly organized herd of Canadian tourists. Their guide dashes about like a sheepdog, trying to keep the group informed, safe, and out of the clutches of hungry restaurant touts whose eyes laser in on the wallets of unsuspecting foreigners.

Lives, moments, stories… Hundreds of them, crisscrossing like invisible lines. I don’t know why, but I’ve always been drawn to moments where you can “step out” of the everyday storm of places, times, and events. Just sit on the side of the road and watch the roaring, unpredictable flow we call life.

And if there happens to be a mind-blowingly good pie in your hands—well then, that’s what I call a life well lived.

Pearl Number Two: The Dinner.

For our last dinner in Rome, we went back to a place we’d stumbled upon completely by accident the day before while looking for a different restaurant. The ambiance had it all—narrow cobbled street, outdoor tables, house wine, and divine pizza. The whole scene was tied together by the staff: attentive, smiling, and occasionally bursting into classic Italian canzoni to dial up that Atmosphere™ to eleven.

Both times we were served by Lorenzo—a charismatic rascal with the profile of a Roman god. Turns out, he’d been to Moscow once, helping a friend-architect bring an ancient Roman architecture project to life for a design competition. But it was during our first visit that he completely won us over with this gem of an exchange. Gotta show you this one in dialogue form:

Me: “Excuse me, could I ask you something?”
Lorenzo: “Of course!”
Me: “Do you have that most fundamental of modern necessities—Wi-Fi?”
Lorenzo: “Alas, I’m afraid not…”
Me: “But… why not?”
Lorenzo: “Because here, we only believe in one fundamental thing. And that, my friend… is pizza.”

Blurry but happy as hell

And you know what? He wasn’t lying. That pizza was beyond all praise.

So, it’s no surprise we came back the next day. This time, an American woman named Jessica was sitting at the table next to us—a nurse from California. The scalpel-and-gauze priestess immediately roped Lorenzo into a conversation, and soon enough, Anya and I found ourselves pulled in too. That’s when Lorenzo decided to share the harrowing tale of his trip to Boston. Now, without the full video—his gestures, poses, voice inflections, and wild expressions—it’s hard to do it justice. But I’ll try.

Here it is, from Lorenzo himself:

“It all started on the plane. I had a 12-hour flight ahead of me. Next to me sat some Indian guy—and he was… barefoot! Madonna! The smell! By the end of the flight, I couldn’t take it anymore and ended up forgetting to fill out some anti-terrorist declaration—questions like, ‘Do you have any close relatives who are confirmed terrorists?’ or ‘Are you, by any chance, related to Bin Laden?’ Ha! If I were—I’d be flying business class!

So, I arrive, and this massive black guy in airport security uniform pulls me out of the crowd, gives me a look, and says I have to fill out that damn form. What could I do? I rush over, tick all the boxes, fill in every damn blank, and by the time I’m done—two more planes have landed, and five hundred passengers flood the terminal. And boom—I’m back at the end of the line.

I tried everything to get the officers’ attention. Jumping up and down, waving my paper around, shouting in what I thought was English—something like, ‘Hey! Fat guy in uniform! I filled the form! I want to be free!’ But nope—nobody cared. So, I waited. Again.

Three hours later, I finally get to the customs officer. By that point, I really looked like a terrorist. But they let me through… only, of course, my luggage was gone. I barely managed to explain to the taxi driver where I needed to go, and he dropped me off at this place straight out of a haunted house film. Like, seriously— ‘Ancient Curse,’ ‘Creepy Ghost Girl,’ or ‘Mansion of Eternal Sorrow’ kind of house.

I tiptoe inside thinking, ‘This is creepy as hell.’ I shout, ‘Anyone alive in here?!’—half hoping someone answers, half hoping no one does. Suddenly, these guys jump out of nowhere. Turned out they were my roommates. They grilled me a bit, cracked some jokes, then dragged me to some place to eat… Kentucky chicken or whatever. I took one bite and said, ‘Eh, I’m not that hungry.’ But in my head, I’m screaming: ‘Mama mia, I wanna go home!’

But you know… I got used to it. Picked up the language a bit. In the end, it was a good trip.”

Internationally tipsy

At this point, Lorenzo looked right through us—lost in his memories, reliving every mad moment.

I remember, as we were leaving, I thanked him. Not just for the meal or the laughs—but for giving me a story. A story I now get to share with you, dear readers.

Thus ended our adventures in the Eternal City.

Next up: a tale from the city-labyrinth, where tattooed gondoliers roam, shopkeepers sneer, and locals rise in protest against selling their buildings to foreign investors.

The City on Water

This is where Johnny Depp ran across terracotta rooftops, fleeing the Russian mafia in The Tourist, and where Daniel Craig in Casino Royale dropped an entire building into the water so justice — and MI6 — could prevail. I've heard so many stories about this place and just as many opinions. For some, it's damp and reeks of mold. For others — it's the very essence of romance: gondoliers, San Marco, and the Doge's Palace.

Venice didn’t greet us rudely, exactly — more like with a touch of defiance. She was like a self-assured model who knows everyone’s watching. It felt like she didn’t care whether you admired her or not. If you do — fine, enjoy the view. If not — well, don’t block the light and move along.

The mood was heightened by the shopkeepers along the main street, barking things like, “Either buy it or put it back!” And the gondoliers — tattoo sleeves and bored expressions — ferried tourists through the canals as if the romance had long since worn off.

It’s worth mentioning upfront: Venice by day and Venice by night are two entirely different beasts. Daytime Venice says, “Oh look, what cute little alleyways! How delightfully maze-like! Hmm, are we lost again?” But come nightfall, it’s all, “Well. This is it. This is where we get stabbed.”

You see, aside from the main streets, Venice basically dies at night. There are hardly any streetlights, and the other pedestrians disappear. Turn into one of those little courtyards and you step into a world of unnerving silence and twisted alleys. The only signs of life are the occasional fellow tourist, their face lit pale-blue by a phone screen, staring at the map with rising panic, trying to figure out where the hell they are.

I confess I’m a paper map enthusiast. I navigate them pretty well and believe they add a certain poetic flair to any journey. But this time? I thanked every god of every pantheon I could think of that Anya had downloaded an offline map. That’s what got us back to the square where the buses were. She told me the same map had saved her in Iceland — and here it proved itself again. Without it, I’d have had no choice but to spend the night in some alleyway, contemplating the cruel twists of navigation in a labyrinth.

Pearl Number Three: The People

One evening, on our way back home, we emerged from yet another alley and found ourselves in a square that was clearly alive with something special: street musicians were playing, strings of postcards with handwritten wishes were fluttering overhead, and whole families were singing, dancing, and chatting away.

To figure out what was going on, I resorted to my favorite tactic — grab the first local by the sleeve and interrogate them thoroughly. Anya usually finds this level of unfiltered directness mildly horrifying, but I can't help myself — I just have to pepper the locals with questions. This time, my unsuspecting target was a father sipping beer with his wife while their twin daughters chased each other around the square, laughing gleefully.

A simple “Ciao” and the question “So, what’s all this about?” was enough to get him talking.

The building next to us, he explained, used to be a children’s theater. It had long since fallen out of use, but the locals, with the city’s permission, had transformed it — and the surrounding area — into one big communal playground. Here, kids could run wild, make up games, and socialize, while the parents kept half an eye on them and traded gossip.

Everything was fine… until modern-day Venetian reality barged in.

The problem is this: more and more buildings in Venice are being snapped up by foreign investors, stripped of their cultural significance, and turned into fancy (and not-so-fancy) hotels. The former children’s theater was slated to meet the same fate. But the residents refused to give it up without a fight. In protest, they occupied the building. Eventually, they had to be removed — with police involvement, no less.

But the Venetians didn’t back down.

Instead, they pitched a large tent right at the building’s only entrance. Since then, a rotating crew of passionate locals has been living inside the tent, keeping the protest alive. And tonight? Tonight marked a small but powerful celebration — exactly one year since the start of their fight to save the theater.

Moved by their determination, we thanked the man for his story, wished them luck in their battle, and headed home — to digest the day’s impressions of this endlessly multifaceted country.

Pearl Number Four: The Bellini

Wikipedia tells us that “Bellini” is an alcoholic cocktail invented in Venice in the first half of the 20th century; a mix of sparkling wine (traditionally prosecco) and peach purée, often served at celebrations.

What it doesn’t tell you is just how magical it is to grab a couple of bottles of the stuff, shoo away the pigeons on Piazza San Marco, and settle down on the pier to watch the boats lazily bob on the water — occasionally having to fend off some overly assertive seagulls.

Don’t be alarmed by the 750ml bottle size — it only has about 5% alcohol and goes down as smoothly as a chilled peach compote.

We polished off three bottles over the course of an evening. The first one disappeared almost without us noticing, washed down with a surprisingly decent pasta-to-go and an absolutely divine tiramisu. The remaining two we drank later that evening, somewhere near the Bridge of Sighs, gazing out at the crisscrossing tourist boats and the stately, white ferry “irons” gliding past on their mysterious tourist errands, occasionally blocking our view of the island of Giudecca.

Another fairytale sunset.
Another pearl added to the collection.

Milan

“Oh! Just like Barcelona. And this part — like Venice. And here — a copy of Paris.”
Such thoughts buzzed in my head during the first few hours of strolling around. To be perfectly honest, I had no idea Milan would be so… well, so meh.
Maybe it was the order of our itinerary that ruined it for me — after the one-of-a-kind chaos of Rome and the moody elegance of Venice, the fashion capital just couldn’t keep up in the wow department.
Or maybe it was Milan’s overpowering centrality — a hub of fashion, finance, shopping — and in the shuffle, the true Italian charm, the stuff that makes my sentimental heart hum, got lost somewhere.

Instead of those delightfully shabby buildings, breathing with stories and time — neat, copy-paste façades.
Instead of cozy, homely trattorias — luxury-class restaurants with spotless napkins and emotionless waitstaff.
Instead of scooters and locals lazily strolling about — Porsche and Lexus cars, flanked by armies of urgent business suits, each housing a furrowed-browed exec haunted by quarterly reports.

Architecturally, there’s the UniCredit building complex — they look like massive Leviathans made of steel and glass, momentarily surfacing from their financial deep sea, unsure if they should plunge back into the depths.
Not far from there towers the Vertical Forest — a handful of buildings draped in greenery from top to bottom.
Looking at them, I couldn’t help but think of Hundertwasser’s house in Vienna. That one looked like the illegitimate lovechild of a mad architect and a deranged gardener — weirdly charming and strangely harmonious.
The Milanese version? More like two enormous moss-covered USB sticks.

And right in the middle of this corporate landscaping stands the Duomo cathedral — the last island of classic, familiar Italy.
But even it, poor thing, got roped into Milan’s businesslike agenda: part of it was under renovation, covered in construction tarps… which doubled as massive ad banners.
Now, I wouldn’t call myself a religious man, but turning a cathedral — built over four centuries, mind you, a monument and a place of pilgrimage — into a glorified billboard? That feels wrong on a very basic level.

Maybe that’s why Leonardo da Vinci, perched on a nearby pedestal, has that deeply depressed look on his face.

Duomo with ad-block on

Pearl Number Five: Abundance

Another location Anya had marked with a metaphorical red pin as “must-visit” was the supermarket Eataly — a genuine fever dream for any self-respecting epicurean: multiple floors packed to the rafters with products from every imaginable corner of Italy. Toss in the in-house cafés, mini-restaurants, and wine tasting stations, and you’ll understand why I approached it with the inner trembling of a man walking toward his doom.

Don’t get me wrong — I’m a hedonist through and through. But even my panic-prone imagination was already serving up vivid scenes of us emerging hours later — five, maybe ten — laden with so many bundles, bags, and parcels that pack mules would pause to salute us with a mix of awe and pity.

I’d love to lie and say that five years spent at an all-women’s faculty trained me into a paragon of patience and shopping stamina. But alas, no such transformation occurred. Like most average males, after ten or fifteen minutes of meandering through shelves, my eyes start to glaze over, my serotonin levels plummet, my legs turn to lead, and the will to live begins to fade into a gentle, tragic whisper.

But credit where credit’s due — Anya kept things mercifully swift.
True, she laughed maniacally and insisted that we absolutely had to explore every floor, but in a rare act of compassion, we confined ourselves to just the first.
And the mental footage of her haggling with herself over which jam or pasta to buy — eyes narrowed, lips pursed, pros and cons weighed as if it were a matter of national security — will stay with me for years.

Bellagio
Until now, we’d been ridiculously lucky with the weather. Rome and Venice had offered us full-on summer in late September, and even Milan, in its stiff, businesslike way, politely chose to rain only at night, so we could stroll through a freshly rinsed city during the day, jumping over puddles still in the process of vanishing. Bellagio, however, clearly decided that our journey lacked contrast — and greeted us with rain and a stabbing, soul-piercing wind.

Back in Como — where we were meant to catch the ferry to Bellagio — I fully realized the error of my ways: shorts and a t-shirt were not, in fact, suitable travel wear for the remainder of the trip. My Fabergés merrily jingled in the breeze while Anya giggled at my misery, as I hobbled toward the train station and tried to layer up using whatever scraps of warmth I could find.

Under the soggy drizzle that just wouldn’t stop, we sloshed across Como, bought our ferry tickets, and grabbed a quick bite at a nearby restaurant — miraculously open during the sacred siesta hours. Then it was time for the final leg of our Italian odyssey.

When she's you gf

When she's your ex

Upon arrival in Bellagio, the sky still hung low and moody, like a barfly calculating whether he can afford just one more shot. At least it had stopped raining. Small victories. The next challenge: dragging our suitcases to our accommodation, which, naturally, was located significantly higher up the hill than Bellagio itself.

The memory of Anya, storming uphill in full “I got this!” mode, dragging her suitcase like a warrior pulling a reluctant ox, still cracks me up. At one point, I missed the right turn, and after a while, calmly informed her that for the last 300 meters, she had been resolutely trudging in the wrong direction. It was like one of those Mastercard ads:
“The look on her face? Priceless. For everything else, there’s Mastercard.”

The irony of it all? That Sisyphus-level struggle was completely unnecessary: the owner of the house caught up with us in his car just 50 meters from the finish line and casually told us that if we had called, he would’ve driven over to pick us up. Oh well. Consider it cardio.

Once we checked in and caught our breath, we decided to see what Bellagio had to offer on a grey, angry day. And offer it did: empty streets, a raging lake, and wind gusts so fierce they nearly flung me off the viewpoint like a discarded napkin. After our rapid-fire excursion, we wisely decided to return home, but not before stopping at the supermarket to secure essentials for surviving the wilds of Italy.

Namely: wine, cheese, and prosciutto.

After a little tasting session of the local goods, our noses thawed, our spirits lifted, and we were once again ready to face whatever the next day had in store.

In the Goblin-dubbed version of The Lord of the Rings, Senya Ganjubas (aka Samwise Gamgee), gazing at the distant glow of Mount Doom, turns to Fyodor Sumkin (aka Frodo Baggins) and says:

“Fyodor Mikhailych, what a view! So beautiful it makes you forget to swear.”

That was more or less the thought echoing in my own head when I opened the shutters in the morning — shutters that had failed so miserably to shield us from yesterday’s bad weather — and hungrily devoured the scene that lay before me.

Piercing blue skies streaked with lazy wisps of cloud, green mountains patched with specks of houses, and water in the lake that shimmered like a cut sapphire. I’d be lying not to say I had never seen anything more beautiful in my life.

Usually, I’m the kind of guy who gets giddy over ancient ruins like the Colosseum. You know — history, fates of long-dead people, “the breath of time,” all that jazz. But what I saw now was beauty of a completely different breed — a kind of primordial elegance, only slightly seasoned by the presence of mankind.

Anya, on the other hand, reacted to this feast for the senses with the stoicism of a seasoned glacier-hiker. And I get it — for someone who’d conquered Icelandic waterfalls and glacial landscapes, these cute little mountains probably looked like grassy speed bumps.

When we stepped outside, it felt like we’d stumbled into a postcard of leisure: palm trees swaying in slow motion, turquoise pools, a scent of calm drifting in the air like a well-worn silk robe.
With no plan other than to “get to the water somehow,” we meandered through side streets until we found ourselves on a quiet little pier — sleepy ducks bobbing in place and the view so ridiculously picturesque that I remembered something I once overheard:

“Now children, this is Italy. Italy looks like a boot...”
“You look like a boot. Italy looks like heaven!”

I wanted to sit on that pier forever, not even looking anymore — just absorbing. Soaking up each detail with my soul. I wanted to paint the view — then throw the painting away, knowing it could never come close to the real thing. I wanted to write a song, sing it once, and never again — because not even music could capture the kind of joy that was flooding through me.

After bathing in that serenity for a while, we set off to meet Bellagio for the second time. And what a transformation it had undergone overnight!

Shops and cafés were open now. Tourists shuffled gently along the cobblestone paths, in no rush whatsoever — understandable, considering the whole town takes maybe 15 minutes to cross from end to end.

The lake, which just the evening before had thrown a tantrum of crashing waves and white foam, now whispered softly along the shore, as if embarrassed by its earlier outburst.

One of the first things that jumps out at you in Bellagio is the sheer number of elderly people. They’re everywhere — lounging in cafés, conquering staircases like creaky warriors, cursing their arthritis under their breath while meticulously inspecting souvenirs in the gift shops.

Thanks to these spry and stylish retirees, a curious little theory began to take shape in my mind…

Pearl Number Six: The Pens theory.

Let’s get one thing straight right off the bat — this has nothing to do with British currency. For some reason, even though the word “pens” is tucked neatly inside “pensioners,” it feels like a whole other species altogether.

See, according to my theory, there are pensioners, and then there are pens.

A pensioner, when seated at a café, will dine with dignity. They’ll dissect every dish with clinical precision, sip their wine like they’re judging a competition, and listen closely to their own organs for the slightest complaint.

“Was that fish fresh?
Did I overdo the wine?
Oh! Was that a twinge in the heart?
…Ah no, false alarm.”

Then they'll take a stately stroll and call it a day, retreating sensibly back to the hotel.

But a pens? A pens will slam back a shot of Tuscan red, smack his lips with satisfaction, give his gray mustache a mischievous little twirl, and lean in to whisper to his missus:

“Oi, darling — they’ve got bulk vino at the supermarket for two-fifty a bottle. Let’s snag a couple and head to the pier. Time to ruffle some ducks!”

That’s the life I hope to live when my hair’s all silver and my knees start forecasting the weather.

There’s just something about the word pens that smells of pipe tobacco and adventure, that tastes like rough red wine and grins with the sound of a meaty head-slap dealt to an unruly grandson.
It hums with that particular mix of wisdom, rebellion, and not giving a single solitary damn.

Pearl Number Seven: The Sunset.

By the time we were wrapping things up in Bellagio, we had pretty much worn out the soles of our shoes crisscrossing the place. So, after one last raid on the souvenir shops, we figured: why not wrap this all up with a picnic somewhere new?
Anya had her sights firmly set on catching that golden hour — a holy ritual in the religion of Instagram — and was determined to snag a dozen perfect shots bathed in divine lighting.

Loaded up with snacks and something warming for the soul (read: booze), we wandered off in search of the right spot. Not just a spot — that would be too pedestrian. The right one. Picturesque. Maybe with bonus ducks.

And boy, were we rewarded.

We found a secret beach. No, really. It was marked that way on the map — “Secret Beach.” Which, of course, made us question how secret it actually was, but hey — let’s not split hairs. What mattered was the vibe: a little dock stretching out into the lake like a pontoon tongue, a pebble beach fringed with patches of stubborn grass that just begged you to lie down and let the world fade away.

There was even a humble little bar — more of a grounded food truck, really — its glass shelves gleaming with the promise of liquid happiness.

As we wandered, posed, munched, and toasted, evening snuck up on us like a cat in silk slippers. And suddenly, without fanfare, Lake Como played its final ace.

The scene was so overwhelming, so devastatingly beautiful, that I wanted to scream — but my voice got lost somewhere between my lungs and my heart. I remember turning to Anya, my voice catching with emotion, rasping that this trip was now carved into me for life.
And I meant it.

I stared out at the mountains, now softened by a gentle haze, looking like they belonged in some high-fantasy dreamscape rather than a map of Italy. The sun drew a golden road across the lake, molten and impossible. Even the rhythmic splashing of oars and the oddly musical swearing of a coach urging his kayakers along didn’t break the magic — they added to it, like percussion in some absurd, operatic finale.

It was the kind of moment that doesn’t need embellishment.
The kind where life forgets to be complicated and just… shines.

Meanwhile, the nearby towns lit up their windows like a string of fairy lights, the sun dipped below the mountains for good, and Anya stood up with the kind of resolve usually reserved for revolutionaries. "Time for a swim," she declared.

She’d brought it up earlier, and I must admit, I hadn’t exactly jumped at the idea. The thermometer hovered stubbornly around 15°C, the wind was frisky, we had no towels, and I was deeply committed to a life that involved neither removing my pants nor parting ways with my jacket. I was in peak grandpa mode, ready to grumble my way through the rest of the evening.

But after the wine, and then some beer on top — courtesy of the local bar, which failed spectacularly to meet our hopes for rum or tequila but did offer us alcohol with a sympathetic shrug — we decided to prepare for our heroic plunge.
“Water’s great, comrades,” one of the bar owners called out with a wink. “Just swim fast and you'll be fine — you’re Russian, aren’t you?”
Well. When patriotism calls.

For me, the swim was… brief.
I hobbled across the multicolored pebbles like an arthritic flamingo, hoping to slip into the lake with the grace of a swan, slowly easing into the chill.

What actually happened was: I got waist-deep, slipped, and belly-flopped into the water like an overfed cormorant.

A few panicked strokes later, I realized I wasn’t drunk enough. The cold hit me all at once, every cell in my body collectively shrieking. My teeth clattered out a rhythm so intense it could’ve given castanets a complex.

Like some prehistoric fish deciding to evolve in record time, I scrambled out of the lake, desperate to dry off and feel something — anything — resembling warmth.

Anya, on the other hand, stayed in the water far longer, calmly floating around like a Bond villain on vacation. Cold clearly had no power over her. Dangerous woman.

Once her aquatic thirst was quenched (and slightly pickled), we contemplated launching a cheeky heist on the bar for more liquid courage — but in the end, our moral compass flickered back to life, and we stumbled home.

The next morning was pure chaos, which should come as no surprise — departure mornings always are. After a frantic packing session, our host kindly drove us to the bus stop.

My ever-practical travel partner had done the math: “Fifteen euros for a scenic ferry ride versus three-fifty for a bus that takes the exact same amount of time… Do I even need to explain this?”

So, we took the bus.
And honestly? No regrets.

Pearl Number Eight: The Bus.

To tell the truth, up to that moment I had never tackled a mountain serpentine road by bus. Or by any other mode of transport, for that matter. It felt downright surreal to watch how, on a road that would barely qualify as bike-friendly, two public buses somehow managed to pass each other. And not just pass — they’d hug the mountain slope on one side, brush against the guardrail on the other, and still have time to honk cheerfully, swap a bit of gossip, and pull faces at each other like, “Hey, you handsome devil! Lookin’ sharp today!”

At one of the stops, a group of chatty schoolgirls was waiting, though one of them didn’t join the chatter — she was fully engrossed in perfecting her hairstyle, using her phone as a mirror. By the time the bus pulled up, she had tried and dismissed about ten different styles. As she climbed aboard, the driver peered at her over his glasses with mock seriousness and asked if she was sure her hair was up to par. Because he wasn’t. She burst out laughing, stuck her tongue out at him, and dashed off to catch up with her friends.

A few stops later, we were greeted by a gaggle of schoolboys, pushing and shoving each other to burn off excess energy. The first one up — a chubby kid in a burgundy hoodie — stepped onto the bus, and the driver spun his whole body toward him, threw up his arms and exclaimed, “Now that’s a hoodie! Milan Fashion Week’s still a way off, but you’re already runway ready. Gimme five!” The boy blushed a little but clearly loved the attention.

And so it went — all the way to Como. At one point, a girl boarded with what I can only describe as a Hungarian sheepdog on a leash. She was about the size of a German Shepherd (I mean the dog, not the girl), but completely white and curly like a living wool rug. The driver immediately began cooing at the dog, marveling at how rarely he gets to transport “such a delightful little lamb.” The dog, unlike the hoodie kid, wasn’t the least bit shy — it barked cheerfully, wagged its tail, and tried to lick the driver right in the face.

I’d only ever seen things like this in movies — the kind where everyone in a small town knows each other, and casual warmth is just part of daily life. But this time, it was real. And I’ll admit: I was hit with a sharp pang of pure, clean envy — the kind that comes not from resentment, but from a deep yearning to belong to something so sincerely human.

Epilogue

And then, we arrived at the station — and from there, everything blurred into a single indistinct streak: train, bus, plane, train, train, taxi. Home.

Sitting in my kitchen, sipping freshly brewed coffee, I found myself in that familiar daze that always sneaks up on me after a journey ends. In my mind, I was still on the lakeshore, soaking in the beauty that surrounded me.

This story wouldn’t be complete without a few words of gratitude. Gratitude to Anya, for making this trip happen in the first place. Not everyone would agree to stroll to the nearest store with an ex, let alone cross national borders. Thank you, luv, for saying yes! I hope you’ll always tackle your goals with the same fiery determination you showed while hauling that suitcase uphill in Bellagio.

And I’d like to end with a well-worn quote that still hits the mark:

"Travel is the only thing you buy that makes you richer."

So go get richer, my friends. It’s easier than you think.

P.S.

AAAA!! TAKE IT OFF! TAKE! IT! OFF!!