Monday musings in Varenna

It's 2:50 in the afternoon, and I'm sitting on the balcony of my room at Albergo del Lago, watching the play of sunlight on Lake Como. The temperature has risen to a pleasant 12°C, and I've shed my morning jacket in favor of just a light sweater. Four days into my stay in Varenna, and I'm still discovering new dimensions to this place.

This morning I woke early, as is my habit, and was out the door by 7:30. The village was still waking up, with only a few locals moving about their morning routines. I walked north along the shoreline path, continuing past where I'd ventured on previous days. About twenty minutes from the center, I found a small pebble beach where the path widened slightly.

I sat on a flat rock for nearly an hour, watching the shifting light on the mountains across the lake. Three mallards paddled close to shore, occasionally dipping their heads beneath the surface. The water was incredibly clear—I could see small fish darting about near the rocky bottom.

It struck me that I've now been traveling for 76 days. That's 76 days of new experiences, new faces, new challenges. And somehow, 424 days still stretch ahead of me. The math is simple, but the implications feel vast. I've barely begun this journey, yet I've already accumulated so many moments that have shifted something inside me.

The value of staying put

I've been in Varenna for four days now, longer than I initially planned. Something about this place encourages lingering. Perhaps it's the off-season tranquility, or the way the village seems to reveal itself in layers rather than all at once.

Yesterday's conversations with the gardener at Villa Monastero and the café owner have stayed with me. Both spoke about November as the time when Varenna "returns to itself" after the tourist season. I feel privileged to witness this more authentic version of the village.

After my morning lakeside meditation, I returned to the center and found a small café I hadn't visited before. The owner, a woman in her sixties named Maria, served me an espresso and asked where I was from. When I mentioned Norway, she smiled and said her nephew had worked on an oil rig there years ago.

"You're smart to come now," she told me in careful English. "In summer, you cannot move in the streets. Too many people taking pictures, not seeing anything."

I nodded, understanding exactly what she meant. There's seeing a place, and then there's seeing a place.

Afternoon explorations

After breakfast, I decided to revisit the hilltop chapel I discovered a few days ago. The climb was less challenging the second time, my legs already familiar with the steep stone steps. At the top, I found an elderly man tending to some plants around the chapel grounds.

He nodded at me but continued his work in silence. I sat on a bench overlooking the lake, taking in the panoramic view. The chapel bell rang once at noon, startling me from my thoughts. When I looked over, the gardener was gone.

I made my way back down to the village and stopped at a small alimentari to buy some bread, cheese, and fruit for lunch. The shopkeeper recommended a local cheese—a semi-soft variety made in the mountains above Lake Como. It was creamy with a slight tang that paired perfectly with the crusty bread.

I brought my simple meal back to my room and enjoyed it on the balcony, watching the occasional ferry cross the lake. A yellow warning for fog has been issued for early tomorrow morning, but the current conditions are perfect—clear skies with just a hint of high clouds.

Thoughts on depth versus breadth

I've been reflecting on my approach to this journey. Before I left Norway, I imagined myself moving constantly, seeing as much of the world as possible in my 500 days. But these past few days in Varenna have shown me the value of depth over breadth.

By staying in one place longer, I've started to notice details I would have missed. The way the light hits the water differently throughout the day. How the village has its own rhythm—the times when locals do their shopping, when the fishermen return, when the church bells ring.

I've started to recognize faces. The woman who walks her small white dog every morning at precisely 8:15. The man who delivers fresh bread to the cafés around 7:30. The teenager who practices his skateboard tricks in the small piazza after school.

These observations wouldn't be possible if I were rushing from place to place. There's something to be said for slowing down, for allowing a location to reveal itself gradually.

Tomorrow I'm considering taking the ferry to Bellagio, just to explore another part of the lake. But I'll return to Varenna for at least one more night. Something about this place feels unfinished—as if it still has secrets to share.

The sun is starting to dip lower now, casting longer shadows across the lake. I think I'll walk into the village again before dinner, perhaps find a spot to watch the sunset.

Seventy-six days down. Four hundred and twenty-four to go. And no rush to get anywhere in particular.