The Froth But Not the Coffee

 Last weekend took me on a last-minute press trip to Milan and Lake Como. More about that later in "Journeys"  when I can transfer my pictures to the Mac. But, for now a confession. My hotel, The Four Seasons, was a hundred yards from La Scala but I could not make it to a performance. On the Friday night they were giving Massenet's  "Manon" - never a favourite and on the Saturday, Verdi's "Luisa Miller." I had no ticket and the press trip kept me out and about and just far enough  from the great temple of opera, on the Friday night,  to feel that, if I cupped my hand to my ear, I might even hear a few sublime voices echoing through the hot, turgid Milan night air. Saturday took me to Lake Como, to a gorgeous resort called "Casta Diva" - once the home of legendary 19th century soprano, Giuditta Pasta and just across the lake from a villa that once housed composer, Vincenzo Bellini. It is said that he could hear her rehearsing. 

I was far enough away by then for those fantasies of hearing present-day singers to fade away. And the "Casta Diva" resort did their best to compensate by providing a young soprano and tenor to serenade us during dinner. But the longing for La Scala was too great. I ate a starter, applauded the fine young singers, looked at my watch and calculated that I could perhaps, just perhaps, find a way to sneak into  the last act of "Luisa Miller."   My hosts saw my dilemma and provided a taxi. I rode the 50 minutes into Milan in the company of Luigi, an articulate and informed driver, who told me stories of the "Clooneyisation" of Lake Como. More on that in "Journeys."

Luigi and I arrived in town too late  for that last act. I bid him farewell, and made my way to the great green doors of the opera house. I pulled one open and stepped inside. La Scala's ushers, Le Maschere, as they are known, were standing around in little groups waiting for their working evening to end. I was too late so what was I hoping for?
"Can I just sneak into the ovations?" I heard myself asking . "We can't do that," said an usher. "Please - just a  quick glance." This was tantalizing. I could hear a tenor off in the distance. I hadn't looked at the cast, hadn't had the time but even through the thick walls, I sensed it was one of the greats. "Go on," I persisted, "just a peek." I was advised to come back when the show was over in 15 minutes. I wandered outside for those 15 minutes. On this late June night, the air was thick with heat and unmoving. Lovers kissed among the trees on the little piazza in front of the theatre. The great glass-roofed 19th century Galleria arcade was quiet. Nearby a new gelato parlour beckoned but I had my date with the ovations.

When I returned to the theatre, a kind young usher, ushered  me into the auditorium. THAT auditorium. The one that still somewhere in its ether, holds the echoes of voices from Caruso to Pavarotti.  This is the theatre that looks the way we all imagine a great opera theatre should look. Red velvet, gold filigree, chandeliers - all wildly impractical for truly listening to and seeing an opera but this is La Scala and most of us don't care.  The singers came out for their bows. And sure enough, there was one of my favourite tenors, the great Argentinian, Marcelo Alvarez.  And wonder of wonders, there was baritone, Leo Nucci, 70 years old and bowing to tumultuous applause. I joined in. How daft is that? But by now I had realized that I was getting the froth if not the coffee in the cappuccino. And in Italy how bad could that be? 

Bergamo - Bells, Balls, and Walls

Bergamo, Italy: a cultural city guide from The Sunday Telegraph

Janette Griffiths offers an essential cultural guide to Bergamo, Lombardy's finest hill town and once the home of Donizetti.

By Janette Griffiths 5:07PM BST 12 Apr 20116

So many Italian hill towns, so little time. Most of them, however, are not easy to reach – not because they’re on hilltops, but because you have to brave an autostrada or ride a train for hours. But Bergamo’s airport is only three miles from the town, making it easy to see as a short break at the end of a cheap flight from Britain.

Bergamo is on the fringe of the Alps, 45 minutes' drive from the Italian Lakes and 26 miles from Milan. It's divided in two: the Città Bassa is the lower, more modern half; busy and sternly handsome. But a glance upwards at the bell-towers, domes and spires of the ancient upper town, the Città Alta, and I know that my decision to stay in a hotel up top was the right one.

I alight the local bus at Porta Sant'Alessandro, one of several gates that were the only entrance to this walled town six centuries ago when Venice and Milan were fighting to control it. Once inside the walls, I walk to the main Piazza Vecchia, where the sight of the winged stone lion of St Mark atop a mullioned window, confirms that Venice won and then ruled Bergamo for 350 years.

I glimpse snowy mountain summits from street corners as I return along the main Via Colleoni to Piazza Vecchia. It's one of the loveliest little piazzas in Italy, with its most intriguing treasures tucked away at the far end behind the Palazzo della Ragione.

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Here are three major religious edifices – the Duomo, the Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore – a rather plain-looking sandstone structure – and the very ornate Colleoni Chapel.

Colleoni again. He was a successful 15th-century mercenary, and such an alpha male that he reputedly had three testicles. They appear on his coat of arms, which I'm encouraged to rub for luck as I leave the chapel which houses his tomb. This place is more impressive on the outside.

Next door, inside that bland sandstone basilica, the opposite applies: I enter to find myself under a ceiling writhing with hundreds of white stone limbs and some of the most exuberant, almost surreal marquetry in Italy. Donizetti, composer of 75 bel canto operas and a Bergamo native, is buried here. In a few minutes, I wander down to his house, now a museum.

Later I join the locals for their evening stroll along the city's walls. Later still, as I'm eating dinner a loud bell starts to chime. It has been rung every night for centuries to remind locals that they must rush back to the upper town before the great gates close.

I don't have to worry. No gates are closed these days. I tuck into a creamy local Branzi cheese, safe inside the walls. In Bergamo, there's no better place to be.