“There’s nothing here,” I say, my fingertips slamming the keyboard indiscriminately, opening tab after tab in search of something – anything – useful about Pigra. The most comprehensive resource I can scrounge up is “Pigra is located above the picturesque town of Argegno and can be reached by cable car. From Pigra you can do the wonderful hike down to Colonno (2 hrs.) situated on the lake.” There is information on Argegno. And Colonno. And just about everywhere else in Lake Como, home to Hollywood royalty and…well, ‘normal’ royalty alike. But information about the town of Pigra remains elusive. “Located at 881 metres above sea level, Pigra is accessible by the Valle d'Intelva or by cable car…” They didn’t say the cable car – 'funivia' – was a yellow lego brick that hurtles me upwards, clearing the height of the mountain in less than five minutes. They definitely forgot to mention the cableway bumps where the little box briefly straightened and then skewed again, forcing my stomach to fold in on itself, not unlike the bus-shop caprese calzone I deeply regretted eating that morning. “The town’s panoramic view…” The emerald pine trees spear upwards, arrow-like, as if aiming for the clouds but the ever-sloping mountain lets them stretch skyward in vain. Beyond them, the lake gleams. Narrower than expected, reaching beyond the horizon – a fluid sheet of glass. The clouds skim the mountaintops which circle protectively around the water. In the distance, I realise that the dark cloud I thought held rain was just another peak – it made its cousins look like foothills. “Population of 294 and an area of 4.3 square kilometres…” I skid on the cobblestones, worn smooth from five centuries of foot-traffic and alpine winds. I vow to step more gingerly but break my own promise within seconds, my feet flying. Every wagon-narrow street, every vine-smothered rickety building, and every ancient stone – they all slant, as if their collective sacred duty is to tilt every tourist back into the lake and leave the town to its locals. A group of these locals, named ‘Gatti’ – cats – are gathered around a water fountain. Pigrans are called ‘cats’ because they scamper up into the mountaintops and never come down. I cheerily greet the villagers in my new-fledged Italian. Some nods and a wave return. I hear their conversation – the parts of it that I understand. “casa…Maria Gabriella…” I recognise the name of our host – a warm lady who embodies everything I ever wanted from a grandparent. Within moments of arriving she had called me ‘bella’ and was foisting homemade peach cake upon me, watching each bite and telling me which neighbours she had bought the three types of milk from and who grew the best peaches. The gathered ‘cats’ at the water fountain knew where we were staying. The Johannesburger in me wanted to feel unsafe at this revelation but it would be misguided. Maria Gabriella is the only game in town – no hotels, no hostels, no nothing – just Maria Gabriella’s guest room. As if summoned, she appears at the street corner, and embraces me as though she had not fed me only hours previously. “You have not fallen off the mountain!” she exclaims, delighted. I laugh feebly, recalling my recent cobblestone figure skating. She takes my arm and steers me towards a set of stairs. “Are you going to the festival?” she asks. “Festival?” I repeat, leaning heavily on her, speechless at the prospect of anything more frivolous than a potluck happening in this one-donkey town. “The...” She frowns. “I do not know how to translate this.” We turn down another alley, which drops into more stairs. In the distance, I see a makeshift stage set up on the village green. A teenage girl grabs the microphone, opting for “American Idiot” which she belts in broken, Lombardian-accented English. The song echoes through the mountaintops, broken only by the revving of a string of Harley Davidsons which pour into the village. A poodle barks from the first sidecar. And another. A German Shepherd cruises past us, his pink, wet tongue lolling in the wind. I begin to laugh, remembering my Google-indictment of Pigra. What were my exact words? Ah, yes. “There’s nothing here.”