An Afternoon Near Como

Here at the edge of Lake Como, the sloping mountains and rolling waters unite to create winds like this swamp girl's never felt before. The gusts arrive with varying power, sometimes to playfully tousle your hair and other times to remind you that even your bones can be chilled.

On the lakeshore, this wind is continuous--the pushy friend of amateur windsurfers and the bane of recently coiffed fashionistas. Yesterday I went on a long walk with my sister, her boyfriend's sister, sister-in-law, and her infant girl. Lots of sisters, sisterhood. Joyful camaraderie is to be expected on a trek like this, but we would periodically find ourselves turned into a band of haggard survivors each time a freshly fierce wind would nearly topple the stroller and we the strolling. Andalo Valtellino has truly swept me off my feet.

On this breezy walk, we made our way to a latteria sociale, which I understand to be some sort of farm/store/social club, which I suppose made total sense in a small valley village in the 20th century. I went on the promise of bearing witness to the great mucche of Valtellina. I was assured that these cows were more artists than appropriately functioning mammals, real celebrities of the dairy world. I survived the treacherous winds and stroller topplings with a serene image in mind: luscious, fat, friendly cows grazing languidly on steep mountainside pastures, chewing cud and communing expertly with the wind. Pristine, bodacious cows that would scale down the pasture when they saw that I, a fellow creature steeped in tranquility and grace, had arrived to pet and appreciate them.

This image carried me forth until the final sweaty moment when I turned the corner of the cows' keep (which was in a metal barn and should have disillusioned me then and there). A long bovine line flanked each of the two main walls. Their hides were mottled with earth and shit (though I couldn't tell the difference) and speckled unwitting passersby. They thrust their heads through metal bars to reach their meal of hay and angrily butted heads with their stall mates. I made wet eye contact with one. I reached out my hand in greeting, in serene solidarity, but she snapped her teeth and whipped her thick tongue at me, never breaking her warning eye contact. Behind her a large instrument that resembled a neon green fur tree rotated quickly on a spit, repositioning itself from vertical to horizontal depending on the position of the animal leaning against it. It was a sort of scrubbing mechanism, relieving the unreachable itches of the herd; a car wash for cows. Somewhere nearby the echoes of flowing water tickled my attention. I scanned the area for a stream or small waterfall, remnants of my previous mental image. I was greeted by a lifted tail, an exposed anus, and a fascinatingly violent expulsion of piss. I found the sound surprisingly soothing.

Our group left the mucche and headed to the store on the premises. My comrades had had far more realistic expectations of this adventure than I, including the baby, who executed some really stunning "Moo" noises. We sated our exhaustions with milk, cheese, and gelato, which I think are independent food groups in the Valtellinese diet. I had a wonderful time. I got a sunburn on the walk back that I later treated with latte solare, or "sun milk," a fitting detail that delighted me. I learned that human babies are resilient, cows process liquids much more efficiently than we do, and the valley is arduous but gratifying.