One sun-kissed afternoon in June, Lake Como glittered like a sapphire as I stood on the sidewalk in my pink sundress, waiting for the bus to Florence. On my way to a summer studying abroad, I decided to treat myself to a few days in an exotic place, legendary for its beauty. This was Lake Como 2000, pre-George Clooney, pre-cellphone, pre-google, and it felt remote and oh so far from my hometown of Los Angeles where I worked as a belly dancer and circus acrobat.
I was standing next to a shop called La Macelleria when I saw a burly man with a walrus moustache standing out front. His apron made me think the shop was a bakery, and so I entered with visions of cannolis dancing in my head.
It was not a bakery – it was a butcher shop.
As a vegetarian, I’m sensitive to blood and body parts, so when the butcher started waving his arms and talking loudly to me in Italian, with red sausages hanging behind his head and blood staining his apron, I pushed away my visions of Sweeney Todd and smiled politely, pretending to look at a shelf of homemade pasta, so I wouldn’t offend him before I made a quick getaway.
And that’s when it appeared: a bright yellow butterfly, with intricate patterns on its wings. I gasped at its delicate beauty flitting about the hanging meat.
A butcher shop is no place for a butterfly.
I held very still like a flower to see if it would land on me so I could get it to safety. It wasn’t fooled, and frantically fluttered in different directions. I’d recently read an article stating that butterflies defend themselves against predators by making their wings look bigger, brighter, and more colorful.
I think I subconsciously do the same thing with my colorful wardrobe, sparkling shoes, and oversized hats – scaring off possible scalliwags. (I wish it would have worked with whatever scoundrel ended up stealing my backpack with my journal and photos of my time in this magical place.)
I had actually come to Lake Como with a fantasy about staying in a convent in a simple room, pretending I was the kind of person who could live with no material possessions. I found a convent in my travel book and dragged all my suitcases to the front reception area. I had not taken Italian yet, so when the nun with eyes as fierce as an owl kept scissoring her hands and saying “Completo” over and over, I kept thinking she meant, “We have one small charming room left just for you.”
Sometimes it takes me a while to understand something I don’t want to hear.
Eventually I accepted my fate that I would not be living out my nun fantasy, and I pulled my suitcases down the street to a hostel where I slept in their last remaining upper bunk bed with my bags under my head for safekeeping.
I visited ornate villas overlooking the water, staring at the intricate tapestries hanging on the walls, studying the overlaying threads, thinking about the weavers who set up looms and wove these fantastic scenes. What were their lives like? Who were they? Who did they love? Who did they weep over? Who broke their heart?
I walked the enchanting cobbled lanes of Bellagio, and stumbled upon a shop of blown glass ornaments. I fell in love with one of a genie sitting on a magic carpet. As a belly dancer, I have an eye for finding anything that reminds me of my art. Even though I was trying to be non-materialistic, I wanted that ornament with all my heart.
I thought about it, dreamed about it, but at $25 it was too pricey for me, and in a rare moment of common sense, I didn’t know how I would carry it around with all my luggage without breaking it. I had learned my lesson a few years earlier, when I bought a large hat on Candlemaker’s row in Scotland that I was unable to pack. Shaped like a large lampshade, I had to wear it while hitchhiking and backpacking so it didn’t get crushed.
I reluctantly left the ornament shop and cheered myself up with some gelato as I waited for the bus back to my hostel. A powerful storm kicked up, making the lake rock into waves that crashed over the road and flooded the square. Eating stracciatella and people-watching is one of my favorite activities, and when a small elderly woman with silver hair caught my eye, I imagined her sweeping the floor of her pumpkin cottage, a living fairy tale.
Then she whipped out her “telefonino” and start chattering away in Italian. The fantasy cottage I had created for her evaporated in a swirl of technology and I laughed to myself. Cell phones weren’t common back then, and this little remote village was obviously not as remote and exotic as it seemed to me.
I made it back to town, full of gelato and soaked in rain.
I changed into my dry pink sundress and dragged all my luggage to the bus stop, wishing I had my own magic carpet to carry me. It would be woven with all the scenes from Lake Como, waterfalls and mountains, the shimmering lake and hot pink flowers that dripped out of windows and over walls.
Instead of a magic tapestry, I was standing in La Macelleria, wondering how I could catch the butterfly and take it to safety without injuring its fragile wings.
The butcher noticed what I was doing and came toward me like a charging bull. I didn’t know what he would do—would he pull out his cleaver and make butterfly soup? Clap and squash it like a mosquito? Grab it by its wings and crumble it like a piece of paper?
He vigorously marched over to the butterfly, softly cupped his hands around it like he was some sort of butterfly whisperer, walked over to the door, and set it free outside where it zipped away and disappeared.
He brushed his hands on his bloody apron and spoke to me in Italian.
I smiled at him, put one hand over my heart, and bowed, hoping he understood that I admired his gentleness.
We had some sort of exchange after that, laughing and bowing, me saying “Thank you-Grazie” and him saying “Grazie” back to me, but somehow making the one word into three melodic syllables, Grat-zi-aaaah, like a song.
My bus arrived, and I loaded my bags and sat down. When I looked back out my window, the butcher was standing outside, looking at me, his moustache curled up as he pointed his finger. I looked where he was pointing, and saw the butterfly fluttering right by my window, the sun shining through its wings like they were delicate stained glass windows in an ancient cathedral, and I had to glance down to make sure I was actually on a bus and not a magic tapestry.
The butcher waved, and disappeared back into his shop.
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