Refried Neurons

The “plan” for today was Lake Como. And by “plan,” I mean someone said yesterday: Let’s get out of Milan tomorrow, and everyone nodded. So bright and early (definition: too early to eat), we met at Centrale station — which also happens to be next door to my hostel. Did that help me grab breakfast? Of course not. Mainly because the bathroom was occupied by the Chinese girl who decided laundry-in-the-sink was the right activity just as half the dorm wanted to brush their teeth.

But hey, I did manage some morning shopping: wine, bread, ham, salami, cheese. Priorities.

Then we faced the ticket machines. Why can’t Italy just pick one system? Even the same operator puts different destinations on different sides of the station. We missed the first train, obviously, but it gave us time to order croissants and coffee — which turned into a small battle because the barista brought us something else entirely. Eventually, armed with the right pastries, we hopped on board, and by the time we’d licked the crumbs off, we were in Como.

Now, Lake Como — the mythical playground of the rich and famous, promising sunshine, glamour, yachts… except today it was cold, grey, and about as glamorous as Skegness in November. K, in her shorts and t-shirt, immediately turned blue. Shops were still closed, so there was no chance of buying extra layers. Luckily, T had a spare jacket. Crisis half averted.

We strolled to the lakefront. I’ll give it this — gloomy or not, Como is stunning. It’s basically Chamonix, but swap Mont Blanc for a lake. Within minutes, sailors were circling us like vultures offering boat rides. With five of us, I thought, How bad can the price be? Turns out: bad. Let’s just say they took one look at us and decided we were backpackers with “beer budget, champagne dreams.”

So instead, we found a picnic spot on a wall by the lake. Towels — meant for swimming — became tablecloths. Or, if you want the less glamorous version: makeshift protection against urinary tract infections from sitting on cold stone.

This is when tragedy struck. My “easy screw-cap” wine? Corked. No opener. I tried the classic student tricks: coin, house key, brute force. Nothing. Desperate, I left the group and went on a heroic quest across Como to find salvation. Surely, I thought, any food truck selling wine has a corkscrew. Wrong. One even told me: “No, sorry.” A food truck that sells wine without a corkscrew is like a dentist without a drill.

Defeated, I hit the supermarket, bought a corkscrew, and — because I deserved it — another bottle of wine. Half an hour later I returned triumphant, bottle finally open. We toasted Como with wine in plastic champagne glasses. Not glamorous, but better than slugging it from the bottle like winos.

And of course, that’s exactly when the sun decided to show up. For an hour or two we were living the dream: lake views, gossip, chatting with Swiss fishermen, and slowly getting drunk. Eventually, stomachs won. We stumbled into the first pizza joint we saw. Was the pizza good? Couldn’t tell you. It existed, it filled us, and that was enough.

By mid-afternoon we staggered back to the station. After swimsuit and souvenir shopping, K and I had a revelation: no alcohol for the train ride back. Horror! In a mad dash, we bought one last bottle just in time. Back in Milan, I stopped at the hostel to dump unnecessary clothes — and, fatally, the corkscrew.

Now we had wine but no way to open it. Again. At this point, I started to sound like a functioning alcoholic with logistical issues. But Brera was next: endless kitchen showrooms. Surely, in the land of designer kitchens, someone has a corkscrew.

Nope. We saw everything else: sinks that vanish, splashbacks that retract, drawers that play hide and seek… kitchens designed for people who hate kitchens. Not one bottle opener. Finally, we found a place serving wine. A kind waiter almost helped, until his manager swooped in: “We don’t provide that service.” Como flashbacks.

So we walked into the dodgiest bar imaginable. Ten seconds later, wine open, dignity intact (sort of).

The evening continued with bathroom showrooms — which, by that hour, were basically wine bars with taps and toilets as decoration. Knackered staff poured us drinks and joined us in pretending the week was over. By 9 pm, I decided enough was enough. Not because I was sensible, but because I had a 6 am flight from — who knows where.

Back at the hostel, instead of sleeping, I entertained the dorm with drunk chatter. My favorite: a lovely solo traveler from Indonesia, who slept in what I can only describe as a pink burka — yes, even covering her hair, in a female-only dorm. I was surprised, but we had a good laugh, swapped stories, and she promised to send me Indonesia tips.

Finally, half-packed, half-drunk, I collapsed into that feverish kind of sleep where you wake every hour convinced you’ve missed your flight. Somehow, at 4 am, I made it out, onto a plane, and by 9 am I was back home. Sober? No. Alive? Barely. But with a proper breakfast in front of me, I decided Como was worth every corkscrew-related crisis.