Mornings at Lake Como were like waking up in the middle of a dream; hazy, eyes-squinting with sleep, slow yawns, and then starting every so slightly when you looked out the window. It's funny because I thought that I wouldn't love Lake Como, that I would find it gaudy and flashy like a diamond as big as the ritz, but instead, in our little village almost empty of people - in the dead of winter the Lake feels like a ghost town, it's only in Summer when George and his wrestler girlfriend arrive that the area starts to heat up - I felt so at peace and so well-rested that I couldn't help but feel like I was in a constant dream-state. This seriously was the view from my bedroom window, across terracotta-tiled rooftops and that shimmering expanse of water to the pale houses across the way, the mountains, the turkish delight sunrise. It was love at first sight, real, heart-stopping, gut-wrenching love. I drank it in and couldn't get enough of it. I took a hundred photographs on one morning, I fell asleep with the shutters open, I woke up to that pale morning light washing over me.
When I'm grown up and married to a Swiss banker, and we live in Zurich in an apartment with white walls, I'm going to insist that we have a house on Lake Como that we'll run to every other weekend - and all summer - where we'll sit on the balcony and watch the water and eat peaches and think of Italy.
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