The road less traveled, or how not to run into George and Amal in lake country

First let me say, George and Amal can keep Como. Not for this girl. Not a fan. Let me give you a visual…

Picture it, Como fall 2018. Weather beautiful, warm, clear-not a cloud in the sky. Now, quit looking at the sky and focus on the 78,890,423 people and cars paying zero attention all around you, because you’re about to smash into that car that decided that lanes are for suckers. Did I mention Como is crowded and much like the rest of Italy, filled with insane drivers?

Now, I’m sure that Como is gorge, but I wouldn’t know because I was ten and two with head on a swivel trying not to kill anyone or get us killed. No way I could take my eyes off the crowded ass streets for even a nanosecond, or, for certain, there would have been an accident-car vs. pedestrian, car vs. car, or maybe a ménage of all three, but an accident for sure. The hubs navigated around a gaggle of angry Italians whilst I deftly maneuvered our tiny car through the streets of the city. Here’s a sample of our convo as I wove us through the droves like the cool headed, chill gal I am:

Me: babe, babe, BABE, LOOK at all the people!!

Hubs (hushed, calm tone): ok, you’re doing great…you’ve got a turn in 400 ft.

Me: HOW FAR IS THAT?? JAYSUS that guy almost ran me over! He’s not even in his lane!!

Hubs (hushed, calm tone): ok, still doing great-just going to need you to take a left here.

Me: OMG WE AREN’T EVEN IN THE TURN LANE! FECK IT, I’M GOING, I’M GOING. OK. GOING.

Hubs (hushed, calm tone): ok, please don’t hit that lady and her dog.

Me: SCREW HER!! She just JUMPED out in front of us like she owns then place, y’all are SO difficult, I swear, it’s like she wants to hit my car with her!

Hubs (hushed, calm tone): ok, gotta another turn up here in 300 feet, watch those cars-you’re doing great.

Me: FECK THESE FECKING CARS. I HATE THIS PLACE! THE CLOONEYS CAN SUCK IT! GET ME OUTTA HERE!

Hubs(hushed, calm tone): ok, babe, doing great…just take that turn. Ok great. Doing great babe.

So, obvi I was elated when we started to wind up the streets of the residential areas outside of town. I think there were some amazing palatial estates, but I was too busy trying not to side swipe everything in my path as the roads are really like 1.5 lanes and since the houses were there way before cars were, they are jacked up on both sides of the road and you will in fact hit them if you’re not careful. For this reason, the hubs and I just laugh and laugh and laugh when we see some tourist in a Range Rover…what are you doing in that monster? Our tiny car barely fits! Needless to say, I couldn’t wait to get the hell outta Como and on to the lesser known Brissago, on the Swiss side.

Even though Brissago is in Switzerland, it’s in the Italian part and it is something. Homes built into the cliffs, with elevators to take you up from your garage-where you’ll be parking your Porsche because you have a ton of money because you live in Brissago. Gorgeous lake and mountain views with flowers everywhere.

After a short panic attack and meltdown over having to parallel park an unfamiliar car, in a foreign country with narrow ass streets, we checked into our hotel, which was great…

We stayed at the yacht club, which sounds fancy, and it kinda was, but we were on vacay so don’t judge. That view tho…

Since this place was so fancy, I busted out my dressiest Old Navy dress and we strolled down the promenade, got turned away at two restaurants-it wasn’t like they told us there was a wait, it was more like-not tonight, we are full…not sure the Old Navy dress was working in my favor as a glass of the house wine costs more than the dress did, but we ended up at a delicious place with an amazing view and the only people who cared about my dress were the asshole German couple next to us who laughed at me for 10 minutes after I asked the waiter a question about the menu. But, it’s hard to be mad at all this:

That night, after dinner, we watched a German game show in which a man stands in front of about 30 women and then they proceed to talk about all the reasons they wouldn’t date him, on national television, and then the one woman who says she can tolerate him gets to go on a date with him. Couple that with the Italian game show where contestants guess how old someone is and you’ve got yourself must see TV. Not one chance any European game show would fly in America. It was a perfect Swiss Italian night. The next day we walked the promenade again and I teared up, not at the beauty-which was something-but at the fact the gelato shop wouldn’t open before we left. I mean, I had soufflé the night before, but, again, vacay so it’s allowed.