The morning started with oatmeal and espresso. The plan for the day was to start at the Franciacorta outlets, then drive around Lake Iseo and have a look at some of the villages there. Before heading back to Como, I also wanted to introduce Gerli and Saskia to Bergamo, one of my favourite old towns in Italy. And, perhaps even more importantly, to the best scissorpizza in the world.
The first obstacle of the day appeared before we had even left Como. A market had been set up overnight, and Gerli would probably have been perfectly happy staying right there among the mohair sweaters instead of going anywhere near the outlets. I, however, had made a plan, so naturally everybody had to follow it. We made our way to the parking garage, collected the car and headed off. Unfortunately, the Italians had not learned how to drive overnight, so Gerli’s opinion from yesterday remained firmly unchanged.
We eventually made it to Franciacorta and wandered around a few shops before deciding it was time for lunch. We chose a cafeteria-style place where all the food was displayed in front of us, mostly because it seemed easier to point at something that looked edible than to try to guess what might be hiding behind an unfamiliar Italian word. Gerli had risotto, which was good but came in a portion large enough to feed a village in Africa. I had vitello tonnato, which was very good, followed by tuna with roast potatoes. The tuna had unfortunately been cooked until it had given up all hope, and the potatoes were somehow watery despite supposedly being roasted. Saskia had a fruit cup, which she approved of, and chicken-and-pork skewers with roast potatoes, which were apparently a bit dry. Then I was asked whether I wanted coffee or espresso. I said coffee. I got espresso. Apparently it had not really been a question.
Shopping went considerably better after lunch. We found clothes and a handbag at Calvin Klein, a Starbucks mug, and eventually a pink Barbie suitcase from another shop. The suitcase was actually a “logistical necessity” on this trip, because we were rapidly reaching the stage where getting everything back to Estonia would otherwise involve leaving either some clothes or one family member behind.
After the outlets we drove towards Iseo, which turned out to be a very cute little town by the lake of the same name. We walked around for a while, took the usual unreasonable number of photos and generally liked it a lot. Compared with Como it felt much calmer and less crowded, which was rather nice after the tourist chaos we had been experiencing there.
From Iseo we continued along the lake, driving through some of the smaller lakeside villages in the general direction of Bergamo. I say “general direction” because at some point I managed to navigate us the wrong way and added a completely unnecessary 16-kilometre loop to the journey. Unscenic detour.
By the time we reached Bergamo, we had a very simple and, in theory, completely foolproof dinner plan. Gerli and I would get scissorpizza, Saskia would get sushi somewhere else, and then we would all sit somewhere together and eat. The pizza part worked beautifully. We chose our slices and about ten minutes later were walking through Bergamo carrying two enormous pizzas and feeling very pleased with ourselves. The sushi part was less successful. There was no sushi. We kept walking. Still no sushi. There also seemed to be nowhere selling anything remotely suitable to take away. There was a sweet shop, but even Saskia did not consider candy to be a proper dinner. Eventually we found a restaurant whose menu had a couple of salads that looked potentially acceptable. The only problem was that they would not let us sit there with our pizzas. Fair enough. We asked whether we could sit there if we promised not to eat them. No. Could we order Saskia’s salad, go somewhere else to eat our pizzas, and then come back so she could eat her salad? Also no. Our rather creative dining arrangement was clearly not going to happen.
So we went to a nearby park and ate our pizzas there with a group of local pigeons watching us very closely. The pizzas were excellent, so at least that part of the evening lived up to expectations. We also had some free entertainment because a wedding couple was having their photos taken nearby. The bride looked lovely, but her veil had clearly had a hard day. By this point it had gone from bridal white to something closer to seal grey and was collecting fallen leaves and assorted Bergamo street debris as it dragged along behind her. At least she would have plenty of physical souvenirs from the city.
Once we had finished the pizzas, we returned to the restaurant and ordered Saskia a roast beef salad and me an affogato. We specifically asked for everything to come together. Naturally, the first thing that arrived was a paper bag full of bread. Then came the water, which to be fair we had actually ordered. Then Saskia’s salad appeared. My affogato was nowhere to be seen. It then became clear that Saskia was not particularly impressed by medium rare roast beef, so she ate the greenery underneath it instead. Not that there was exactly a meadow hiding under there. Possibly ten leaves of lettuce. Eventually my affogato arrived too. We had the roast beef packed up to take away, stopped at the sweet shop, and finally headed back towards the car to drive to Como.
This was when the highway decided that the day had not yet contained enough entertainment. There are toll booths every 10–15 minutes or so, all very helpfully labelled in Italian so that tourists can enjoy a small reading-comprehension exercise while approaching several lanes at motorway speed. Most of the time we managed to work out which lanes were for locals with subscriptions and chose one of the others. At one point, however, there were large European Union flags above some lanes and then white signs with Italian writing above the others. We are Europeans. There were EU flags. The decision seemed obvious, so we drove under the flags. About 20 minutes later, we discovered that perhaps this had not been the correct interpretation. We arrived at the next toll station and, unlike every previous time, no nice little amount appeared on the screen for us to pay. Instead, there was some Italian text. We pressed a button. Nothing happened. We pressed another button. Still nothing. The drivers behind us started honking, which surprisingly also did not make the machine work. Eventually we found the customer-service button and pressed that. A man’s voice appeared and wanted to know why we did not have a ticket. Because we were not coming to a Celine Dion concert? Apparently not the answer he was looking for. He then asked where we had come from. Como, we said. A number appeared on the screen: €73. There was a short silence before the Soviet woman in the passenger seat announced that there was absolutely no way we were paying €73 when every previous toll had been somewhere between €1.80 and €3.70. So we waited. The cars behind us continued expressing their opinions through their horns. Eventually a woman who had been moving around between the lanes helping various confused drivers reached us and asked where our ticket was. We did not have one. She asked where we had come from. Como. She pressed a few buttons and the amount on the screen changed from €73 to €6.50. Much better. We paid and escaped. At the next toll station we decided that, despite being proud Europeans, we would no longer follow the EU flags. Instead, we tried one of the lanes with the mysterious white signs. And that was where we discovered the machine that gives you the little ticket. The ticket that both the man and the woman had been asking us about earlier. Ah. Mystery solved.
We made it back to Como after dark, ordered sushi for Saskia because approximately ten baby lettuce leaves had not managed to keep her fed for very long, and called it a day.
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