Frank Sinatra comes out of the water and wraps himself in a soft white bathrobe. The morning is clean and clear and a few drops slide down the tuft of unruly hair that perches on his forehead. The blue eyes that, together with his voice, have conquered more than half the world, are fixed in the landscape that faces him.
A small stone pier dies in transparent waters that reveal rocks covered with a thin layer of moss where some small fish roam quietly. The immensity of the deep long garda, he largest in Italy, it extends where I look.
Some time ago he finished his sound and stormy romance with Ava Gardner and his heart has felt, again, the heat of falling in love. He wants to buy that house of the fifteenth century, where he is at the moment, to turn it into the bed of lust where he furtively meets his lover, the lake garda.
But the house does not sell and Frank will have to look for a more earthly love.
I understand what Sinatra felt from the moment I watched the sunset over the Garda from the balcony of my room in the hotel Caesius. As we approached with the van we saw how an immense ball of fire sank in its waters, and now a pink sky acts as a vault of the calm blue lake.
The next morning a large sailboat awaits us at one of the piers near the small town of Bardolino, one of the tens that sleep on the banks of this great lake that is divided between the regions of Lombardy, Veneto and Trentino-Alto Adige. The stately vessel, made of dark noble wood, seems to be about twenty meters long and does not take long to sail the waters with haughty dignity.
The crew is made up of two very nice Italian men, with tanned skins, who keep talking to us about what we are seeing.