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The next morning, sipping a cappuccino under the yellow awning of a lakeside cafe, I contemplate a row of vintage Rolls-Royces lined up under the pouring rain. It is the 24th annual meeting of the Rolls-Royce Enthusiasts Club-Swiss Section. The cars are magnificent — gleaming sedans and convertibles dating as far back as 1928 — but only a handful of brave souls armed with raincoats and umbrellas venture out to admire them up close. "Yeah, it's a pity, but what can you do?" Says Mike Strauss, club president and proud owner of a 1978 Silver Cloud II, as he stirs his espresso and looks out at the deluge.
Strauss, a 41-year-old independent TV producer from Ascona, eagerly describes the joys of Rolls-Royce ownership. "For most people, possessing a Rolls Royce is only a dream — something for very, very rich people. But that's not true. You can buy an old Rolls for as little as $30,000. Rolls owners are very quiet types. They enjoy good food, fine wine, cigars. They don't drive fast. These are cars for elderly people. If a young, dynamic person has money today, he buys a Ferrari." I make a mental note to visit the Ferrari factory for a test drive on my way to Rome.
It is still drizzling as I wait at Ascona's main dock for the 9:35 boat that will take me to the Italian town of Stresa. Only a few minutes behind schedule, a sleek, white, two-deck passenger ship glides through the morning mist and nestles up to the pier. The metal gangplank clangs down, a sailor in a smart navy blue uniform and white cap takes my ticket, and I step onto the forward deck of the Italia, a 44-m craft that has plied the waters of Lago Maggiore since 1965. I venture upstairs to the wheel house and ask to see the captain. No problem. Roberto Baicchi has plenty of time to talk during the two-and-a-half-hour trip — plus an able assistant to take over the wheel.
A curly-haired, mustachioed Italian with a twinkle in his eye and a vague resemblance to Marcello Mastroianni, Baicchi, 52, served in the Italian navy for six years before taking up his current duties criss-crossing the 64-km-long lake with boatloads of tourists and commuters. Five times a week, in high season, he steers a passenger ship between the Italian town of Arona, on the southern shore of Lake Maggiore, and the Swiss city of Locarno at the northern end. He usually finds himself at the helm of a diesel-powered vessel like the twin-engined 700 h.p. Italia, but what he prefers is the hydrofoil. "Faster, more fun. Like a Ferrari," he laughs. The job is mostly "tranquillo," though the waters can get rough in bad weather and the frequent rains and fog obscure the view, obliging him to navigate by radar. But this freshwater sailor doesn't miss the adventure of the open sea. "For the family, the lake is better," he says.
Baicchi, his wife and two daughters live in Arona, where he was born and raised. He spends five nights a week at home and two in Locarno, which makes him an astute observer of the differences between real Italians and their Swiss cousins. "They love us and we love them," he says, with elaborate gestures that one rarely sees on the Swiss side. "But there is a difference in mentality. The Ticinesi are more severe, more rigid than Italians — and closer to their money. But we get along fine. I have lived among them for years. Also — for the younger members of my crew — they have nice girls, you know?"
The boat stops at a succession of little lakefront villages with red tiled roofs and stucco facades: Brissago, Cannobio, Luino, Cannero. On the Swiss side, the buildings are immaculately painted; once we cross the Italian border, though, the patinas become more cracked and weathered. Baicchi explains that most of his passengers are tourists, though some are Italians commuting to work in Switzerland. "But this lake could play a big role in Europe's transport future," he says. "There is a project to link Maggiore to Mantua and Venice via canals. Once that's done, it will be possible to ship cargo from Switzerland to the Mediterranean instead of using trucks. That would make Ascona the northernmost Mediterranean port."
There is a knock at the cabin door. The sailor who took our tickets is reporting to the captain about some urgent matter, judging from his waving hands and rapid-fire speech. The captain shakes his head, "No, no, no, solo aglio e olio, e non troppo fritti, i broccoli. Semplice! Capisce?" Despite my limited Italian, I understand that the urgent matter is the preparation of food.
"Talking about lunch?" I ask.
"For the crew only," Baicchi grins. "We sell sandwiches to the passengers, but the crew needs a proper meal. We're Italians!"
I ask about Ticinese food — is it really like Italian cooking? The captain wags a finger. "No, no. Very different. More like German — heavy, too much meat, lots of sauce, too sweet. And their pasta is never al dente. Pasta is no good in Switzerland. That's why I make sure to have an Italian cook on board."
The cook, it turns out, is also the ticket-taker, Davide Sammartino, a tall, square-shouldered 26-year-old with a permanent five o'clock shadow. "My grandfather had a restaurant in the south of Italy," he tells me proudly. "He and my mamma taught me to cook." Soon the whole ship smells of garlic and broccoli. At every port, the women manning the gates (they are all women, for some reason) get a kiss on the cheek from Sammartino and a progress report on the food. The captain sticks his head out of the wheelhouse window during one stop and shouts, "Don't you dare overcook the pasta, or I'll throw you overboard."
When we reach Stresa, the sun miraculously appears, inspiring motorman Massimo Vanzulli to sing a few bars of "O Sole Mio." The remaining passengers file off the boat, but Baicchi invites me to stay behind and eat with the crew.
Crew members lay a checkered oilcloth over a table in the main passenger cabin, while Baicchi closes all curtains. "So people on the dock don't see us eating pasta on board," he explains. "Doesn't look serious."
Sammartino appears wearing a green apron and wielding a steaming pot full of pasta. Other sailors follow with plates, cutlery, ricotta cheese, spicy olive oil and a couple of bottles of 1998 Squinzano red wine. Soon, we are all diving into the penne and broccoli, which are cooked to perfection. Baicchi gives Sammartino a wink. Then he spoons a couple of hot peppers out of the oil bottle and insists that I eat one. "Yesterday, I ate five," he says. It's a macho thing.
"I'm from New Orleans," I reply, pouring a spoonful of peppers over my pasta. "I can eat them all day." I sense that I have immediately risen in the captain's esteem.
We finish the meal with a creamy Gorgonzola — the kind you can't find outside of Italy — followed by a lemon liqueur. I ask Baicchi what the lake means to him. "First of all, security for me and my family. And the work pleases me. It's a beautiful job — un bel lavoro. The lake, for me it's alive. It's like a person. I know it meter by meter, know all its secrets. I have this lake in my soul."
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