Strauss at Midnight

I had the chance to see an unspoiled Lake Como before it became a haven for the rich and beautiful.

It’s one of those memories I return to more than most.

It was a time that was much simpler.

GPS existed by way of a lot of paper maps, and asking for directions meant dashes into hotel lobbies or random people on the street.

I visited way back and experienced one of my favorite memories of all time, and so wish I could go back, or at least peer through a curtain that would allow me to see it in living color one more time.

This experience was with the same guy, who remains a good friend to this day, where I learned about heights, humility, and a cow.

It was the same European road trip, and I remember crossing the Swiss-Italian border. That crossing was so clear because we went from hearing only the hum of the car, our conversation, the radio, and peaceful Swiss quiet to an increasing cacophony.

It didn’t take much to know when we crossed into Italy, and it was beautiful.

You have to love the Italians, so full of life!

We decided to spend some days in Lake Como on the fly, which took some knocking on B&B doors to find a place without a reservation in the middle of summer.

But, hey, it’s Italy, and if there was a will, there was a way, in the pre-app days.

Knocking on doors eventually found us a room perched on a hilltop with a magnificent view of the lake below.

Yes, it was one of those views that make you so happy to be alive, and it also had a fabulous terrace for morning coffee and breakfast. We know how fantastic Italian coffee is, as is the Greek, by the way.

My friend and I did what you do when in Lake Como—go out on the lake.

He couldn’t rent a large boat since he didn’t have the required captain’s license.

So, we ended up on a teeny, tiny little motorboat, which, after taking a look at the other boats, felt like an insult, but we survived being the smallest boat in all of Italy that day.

Later that night, after dinner and gelato, we decided to walk up the hill instead of taking a taxi to the B&B.

So glad we did.

As we walked deep into the night, we heard music—violins and other instruments. It was nearly one in the morning, but we deviated toward the music and what was happening.

It turns out it was a summer village party. There was plenty of food, and although we had had a full meal, you can guess what my friend did.

Yes, a beeline to the food.

I took a seat to watch the people on the makeshift dance floor.

And, this is where one of my favorite memories happened.

There before me were probably 30 pairs on the dance floor in the middle of the night, high on a hill on a summer’s eve under a black sky that allowed for the stars to twinkle pre-mass satellites.

There, before me, all of these people paired together danced Strauss waltzes on the wooden dance floor, as smoothly as swans gliding across the lake.

I remember my feeling of amazement at seeing young boys leading their young female partners.

I wondered where children learned to waltz. It was so alien to me as a New Yorker, but it was sublime and beautiful.

Traditions do matter, I’ve learned, and that was one of my earliest lessons on the topic.

I remember a very old couple, so advanced in years, but they held onto each other and danced as if it were the first time.

The impression of that night stayed with me through the years because I don’t think it’s anything I would ever see in America, certainly not in New York City.

And I recall making a point of not dancing when my friend asked me. On this one, I just wanted to be an observer.

But since then, if there’s a moon, star, (and satellite) lit night to dance under the sky a warm summer’s eve, with my partner, I’m all in.

Observe once.

Participate in the memory…always.

© 2026 Linda Spencer, My Red Sneakers. All Rights Reserved.