Rain is falling on Lake Como, but that’s okay. The roof over the terrace protects us, and the view across the lake is not impeded by fog or low-hanging clouds. The temperature is lower than yesterday, which is also okay, because that was too hot for old people on the move.
One could swim, but we will not. Instead, we will read and relax (and write meaningless garbage, which floats through an unencumbered brain). This spot on the planet is perfect for for sloth. The only sound is rain falling gently on vegetation, punctuated by the occasional church bell announcing the hour.
The outer edges of a slow-moving low pressure system pass in waves over northern Italy, bringing alternating nice and inclement weather. The British Isles and Central Europe feel the brunt of the low, whereas we get the best and the worst. Hot, wet air hits the Alps, rises, and forms thunderstorms. The rumble from the gods’ bowling match boom ricochet off the surrounding mountains and roll down the lake, reminding me of artillery barrages or arclight drops in a different place and at a different time.
Like wars, thunderstorms come and go. Whereas the foolish destruction of war ceases and moves on to another place, nature--when it wants--always wins.
Today, we can enjoy the beauty of nature with no fear of harm...even from the consequences of man’s tampering, which still makes headlines about other parts of the world.
Prior to writing novels, the author enjoyed a multifaceted career: from decorated combat aviator to advertising professional to global communications director of a major consumer brand. He has traveled the world and met sports, film and television stars, political leaders, and royalty. He graduated from Middlebury College, is married, lives in Germany, and has two grown children.