Stereopticon

Weather’s gorgeous, so I head down the tree-lined gravel path along the lake to the Melzi gardens, slight breeze off the lake. Six years vacationing in the same town, six years on course for the Melzi gardens. I’ve imagined the walk for weeks in advance, and I see the entry, long trail of gray gravel, plane trees stretching ahead as if in cadence, green mountains in the distance, lake rippling endlessly, extending out of sight. I pay the admission fee, take the path, and look for a bench to sit on to consciously absorb the surroundings. If I don’t the words will carry me away and I’ll only dimly see where I am through the noise in my head. Benches near the path, none in use, views of the lake, clean air, occasional crunch of gravel under the feet of passersby. I choose one, trees on both sides of my field of vision, and let my eyes rest on the lake. After several minutes I close my eyes and visualize the water, words lurking in the background, but I don’t hear them at every moment.

When I’m as relaxed as I’m going to be I get up, much to see, paths to walk at different elevations with broader views. I stop at the octagonal open-air temple, four open doorways, walk inside, alone in the temple with air and lake, enjoying the space around me, glance over my shoulder to see if approaching gravel crunchers will turn toward me, but they go by. No boats are passing, clear sight of the mountains on the opposite side, no engine noise, movement of trees, breeze blowing through them and over me.

I continue on my way, on the path to the villa, small pond there with lily pads, not as spectacular as the pond at Monet’s gardens but not a fraction as crowded. Here you can take in the lily pads in peace, no orgy of tourists snapping photos, a lake view in front of you and the villa behind. No camera with me, hands free, alone, my eyes guiding me. The windows of the villa are shuttered, the house closed to the public, and I wonder what it looks like inside and think that as many times as I’ve passed through I might be recognized, someone inside the villa might push open a set of shutters and invite me in for a look. It’s you again, we’ve missed you, come in for a glass of wine and a chat. You’re alone this time, tell us about it, we want to know. I turn away from the daydream and make my way to the entry on the Loppia side.

The small structure where you pay to enter is unoccupied, as it has been on every visit I’ve made. The woman who works there sits nearby in a chair under a shade tree, a book in hand, the same woman every year, I’m pretty sure, and I smile when she looks up, glad to see her still reading and soaking up the shade. Since I don’t speak her language I gesture that I want to go out and later come back in. She gets it, nods, and her attention returns to her book.

I walk to the restaurant just outside the gate, too early for me for lunch, but I park myself at a small table on their narrow patio and order a beer. Across the street is the covered veranda where they serve food and to the left a small marina. I’ll eat here one night for dinner but for now I sip my beer and look out at the veranda, the tables set, a handful occupied, greenery on top of the pergola and surrounding the dining area. I watch the boats idle in the marina and the swaying trees above the walls of the garden. Occasionally a car drives slowly by on the road between the restaurant and the veranda. Only one other table on the patio, unoccupied, and the two empty chairs at the table add...