Bam bam bam
“Apra la porta, scusi, apra la porta!”
I looked down into the sink of the rail car washroom, trying to think of my next step. Was I about to be kicked off the train? Yelled at? Arrested? I didn’t know, but there was no way I could spend the night in Como.
I first heard about the splendor of Lake Como – and their stadium – by being a fan of the Gentleman Ultra’s website. There must have been a post that brought me into conversation with Richard Hall, who strongly advised me to pay a visit there one day. I had used the site’s ‘Alternative Club Guide’ for info in my thesis on A.S. Roma’s politics and fandom, which first got me into building a relationship with Rich and Luca Hodges-Ramon.
For a few Thanksgivings during my 20’s, I had left my family to hang out with a few friends in Italy, and in this case, to see my cousins in Zurich. Life was strange at 27 for me – I had bad vibes for the entire year with thoughts of Jim Morrison, Hendrix, and Jannis Joplin in the back of my mind. I had just earned my Masters in History, yet life was only getting harder. My job had just run out of contract, and I was feeling as if the next phase of life was skipping me – my close friends had stable careers, girlfriends, and the great parts of life on their horizon. Me? I was just trying to match a few pairs in my deck of cards.
I left Newark Airport in late November, with a few pairs of underwear and an oversized puffer vest from Superdry. Perhaps I was pushing the idea of minimalism a bit too far, but nevertheless, when I arrived in Zurich seven hours later, I was greeted by zero degree celsius temperatures and a small snow storm.
Over the next few days I felt increasingly bad, as a tingle in my throat turned progressively sore. I didn’t think too much of it until the day my cousin dropped me off at Horgen train station at 6am – and it was still snowing. I watched curiously as the train bustled past sleepy Swiss villages in a dark dawn snow fall, eventually up into the staggering Alps. But by the time it pulled into stazione Lago di Como, I had cold sweats. But there was a more pertinent issue…
I had no idea where I was going. Not a clue, and as I was about to find out, dramatically underestimated the size of Como. I booked some hostel right outside the city center called Cascina Respau. It looked like a fun spot, with food served on site.
“Easy,” I thought.
Getting off the train I looked left, and then right. I pulled out my iPhone 7, but strangely, the GPS had no idea where I was, and kept skipping around. But I was able to access the hostel’s website, and followed the instructions as best I could, using the lake as a reference for direction. There was a bus line… somewhere… but I couldn’t find the stop, and even so, had no idea how far I needed to go. I foolishly felt slightly embarrassed about asking for directions, and just kept to myself instead, figuring that I would figure it out.
I regretted that decision 45 minutes later, as I found myself walking upwards on the side of a never-ending highway, bewildered as I tried to step past a homeless encampment. Now I started to really feel alone, and I had broken into a cold sweat. Not feeling an ounce better, but running on empty.
Eventually I made my way to the right bus stop, where I was instructed to call to be picked up, as the actual location of Respau was only accessible by a private vehicle. That ‘private vehicle’ was a six-wheeled offroad machine, that proceeded to wind up a small mountain. As I entered my room, I was informed by the nice caretaker that everyone had left, and I would be the last guest of the season. The hostel was barren, dark, and cold, and I started to feel as if I was part of some prank reality show. I considered what to do, as the following morning I had planned a car rental. My objective was to reach Genoa and dive into the Ligurian Sea, like when Ciro Di Marzio jumps into the Mediterranean after playing Russian Roulette in Gomorrah. This was a poorly considered and planned idea.
In the middle of taking a cold shower, I spotted a spider – and at that very minute, decided that whatever and wherever I ended up, I would be leaving this hostel for good. I made my way downstairs into the restaurant area, having two entrees in order to stock up for the night – tagliatelle in a beautiful ragu, and a divine roast pork with fall squash. Perfetto.
I nervously informed the caretaker that I would be leaving in order to meet my friend in Florence, and ran away too quickly to see her reaction. The catch was that now I had to scale down the rock-laid-hill that the ATV had just brought me up, with my silly big orange duffel bag on my back, and an old wheelie-carry-on that thudded against every single cobblestone. I recognised a church that I had seen from the way up, and getting back to the bus stop, asked for directions towards the stadium.
Somehow, the timing had worked out perfectly, and I would be making Como against Gozzano. I grabbed a ticket at the booth which was more like a high school setup rather than one for a professional team. That attitude would benefit me, as I asked the man collecting tickets where, and if I would be able to put my bags somewhere.
“Certo!” as I watched him wheel my possessions away into some backroom in the ticket shed. I figured if I never saw my stuff again, that they were just possessions anyway. I was in Como, they sell underwear. Making my way up the stands of the half-full stadium, I turned to face the pitch, in what had to be one of the most beautiful sights I’d ever taken in. A sunset background over rolling hills, hugging a meandering lake. Villas dotting the countryside in the distance, and sailboats catching the wind. In the foreground, a beautiful match of Italian football.
But as it was still Italy, you know that there were more than a few upset men in their late 60’s and early 70’s, shouting and cursing as if this Serie D match was in fact a battle for the Scudetto. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Como achieved a big win, and spirits were high as the Stadio Giuseppe Sinigaglia emptied out. It was getting dark, but there was no turning back. My plan was to get to Florence by train, derailing my Gomorrah dreams, and lacking an answer to where I would be sleeping that night.
Milano Centrale was packed on this particular Sunday night. Tickets were sold out for any train into Florence’s Santa Maria Novella, but having slept overnight in this particular station eight years ago, I know I didn’t want to wake up alongside gypsies yet again.
So I hopped on the last train south, without a ticket. The plan? Dodge the train conductor, stick around the vestibules, and hide in the bathrooms. They could have told me the only seat was on the roof, and I still would have gotten on that train.
I knew if I could hold out for an hour or so, I’d be able to hop off, and face no consequences. But the announcement on the intercom exposed my fatal flaw – Bologna. I had completely forgotten the train had to make a stop before Florence, and that the conductor would definitely check at that point in time. The gig was up.
I opened the bathroom door to accept whichever fate may be coming my way. I pretended to not understand Italian, and asked to buy a ticket, where they read to me the riot act of how I needed to make a reservation, yadda yadda yadda. €79 later I grabbed myself a seat, where I must have taken my first sip of water in hours. I was close to collapsing.
The night eventually ended in a smoke filled after-hours pub where I first saw clubheads snort coke off of horizontaled Vespa mirrors, and an Albanian gangster was gunned down several years prior. It was the only spot open that late, the only place where I could see familiar faces. My voice was completely gone, my body was calling it quits, and my mind completely spent.
I spent the next four days of my ‘holiday’ sweating out my upper respiratory infection in a budget-hotel bed.
But Como sure was beautiful.