On a dreary overcast morning, George Clooney was nowhere to be found. His canary-colored mansion on Lake Como was only viewable from the water and we saw just one person on the terrace.

“That’s probably someone on the cleaning staff,” said our tour guide, as we zipped past the mansion in a small tourist skipper, the chilly wind against our scarf-clad faces, all six of us. Due to the cloud cover, the temperature felt barely above freezing.

We were present far outside the tourist season, when Clooney usually arrived. A few other boats lilted on the water, but there wasn’t much activity.

Our gazes remained on the mansion, which together with a tall cypress tree, a mix of laurels and broadleaf evergreens, cast a shimmering zig-zag pastiche of yellow and green reflections on the water, as if our group had sailed straight into an oil painting. With my phone, I snapped a dozen photos.

Clooney purchased the villa more than 20 years earlier. Back then, not many foreign celebrities gallivanted around these parts. He invested a few million to fix up the place and triggered a generation of sightseers. According to gossip from the locals, Clooney was now sick of people sneaking photos from the lake. I couldn’t blame him.

While others in our group swiveled their heads to scan the landscape surrounding Clooney’s home, I instead fixated on the reflections and gave thanks, not just for the sheer privilege of a business trip to Como, but also for shaking off the paparazzi impulse I once had, around 2010, when I saw photographers hounding Clooney’s then-partner while she waltzed out of LAX.

That was a different business trip, a different me.

Yet there on Lake Como, the memory came right back.

After returning from a long trip overseas and landing that day at LAX, I slumped at the back of an inter-terminal bus on a 90-degree afternoon. Hordes of sweaty passengers crammed their way through the doors, all struggling with various sizes of luggage. Everybody seemed miserable.

Out in front, on the road, we saw a woman stride confidently across the sun-baked asphalt, but with something draped over most of her head. A small mob of photographers encircled her as she walked, capturing images in rapid-fire fashion from every direction as she approached the garage. Unfazed, she ignored them all, not giving an inch.

After the woman disappeared, the paparazzi dispersed and a few of them boarded the bus. One sat next to me, spreading across two seats when he only needed one. A camera hung over his shoulder while he flipped through photos on a second camera.

“Who was it?” I asked him.

“George Clooney’s girlfriend,” he said, without looking up.

As the bus lurched its way forward through the mess of traffic, with sounds of shifting transmissions and horns outside, a toxic thought came to me. My travel writing career was circling the drain. I would never make any real money and I was going broke. I could land assignments that took me far away, but I rarely got to write anything interesting or elevate the stories of marginalized people the way I really wanted.

Watching the paparazzi, I thought, maybe I could do this. I could be one of these jerks. Get into the business for a few months, make a quick fortune peddling photos, then bail. Done.

After a few seconds, maybe a few minutes, the idea dissolved. Luckily. But for a brief spell, after witnessing those guys, I actually thought about it. I really did. In a life of bad decisions, that would have been a bad decision.

Now with killer shots of the reflections on Lake Como, I’d happily give away the photo on social media. My journalism career was still adrift, but I’d managed to plug the drain for a few more years. Thankfully, I never turned into one of those paparazzi creeps.

As we zoomed past the villa, the person on the terrace shuffled back into the building. I didn’t care either way if Clooney was around. I had my artsy photo of the water and I felt fantastic.

With the reflections now behind me, I turned around for one last glimpse of Clooney’s mansion. I heard the motor of the boat and nothing else but pure, pristine water rippling in the wind.

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At Hotel Villa Porta on Lake Maggiore, everything seemed to suggest that borders were pointless. Maggiore was a huge body of water that curled its way from Italy to Switzerland. The luxurious 30-room Villa Porta, part of an expansive 200-year-old complex with multiple boat docks, was nestled against the hills near the tiny village of Colmegna, a few miles from the Swiss border.

Driving any direction from Villa Porta, visitors would see virtually no difference between the Swiss side of Lake Maggiore and the Italian side. The landscape, people and language seemed the same.

I sat alone in perfect solitude on the patio. The weather was overcast and beautifully grim. Everyone else was inside. The lake was majestic, as usual.

Inside the lobby, a spiral staircase took me up one floor and concluded right underneath a quote from the Buddha: “Don’t dwell on the past, don’t dream about the future, concentrate your mind on the present moment.” The Italian translation flowed much better, being a more musical language, but I relished in the moment. A peaceful air enveloped the whole place.

Villa Porta came with a splendid history, which only added to its sheer timelessness. The proprietors gave me a book that explained the history and various incarnations of the property, published many years ago when the place was still called the Camin Hotel Colmegna. The book contained a wealth of information. There were endnotes and a list of sources that previously referenced the property over the last century: exhibition catalogs, archival materials, winemaking histories and even military records. It was perfect companion for any wandering alt-scholar, anyone interested in surveying of those parts of Europe where borders seemed silly.

For me, Villa Porta was an example of why I traveled so much: The personal and the historical were inseparable. This property proved it. The owners were part of the history. The spatial experience of the landscape was inseparable from the owner’s personal story, going back decades. I loved such places.

Other travelers might prioritize the private apartments on the hillside, the wine list or the cigar space outside. For me, espresso and history books became the activities of choice.
And the history of the property was indeed amazing to contemplate. After incarnating as a hunting lodge, the place transformed into an inn. Then came 200 years of subsequent reincarnations. The book spilled the entire story, replete with historical photographs, vintage postcards and extensive commentary.

None of which seemed like “the past,” that is, with any relationship to “the present.” Every component contributed to the timeless nature of the whole place. The Buddha’s words kept me in the current moment.

Presently, Villa Porta staged many themed music parties throughout the year: Chopin nights with a live piano player. Barber of Seville parties including music from the opera and attendees drinking Barbaresco from nearby Piedmont. Everything you’d expect in Italy or Switzerland. But we were in Italy.

An employee told me that 72 weddings would unfold on the property this year. Banking groups would hold their meetings. There would be cooking classes and chefs demonstrating how to make fresh pasta.

Outside, the property sprawled horizontally and crept up the hillside. I saw a waterfall, a private beach and even more apartments.

Yet the tranquil setting on the lake became, for me, Villa Porta’s prime quality. Maggiore tended to produce that effect. I sat outside, even in chilly weather, where a double espresso became a perfect companion. The following morning, I sat inside, with a double espresso, and repeated the experience. We’d been all over the Northern Lakes region on this trip, and Villa Porta provided the best espresso so far.

Even better, Villa Porta was a perfect base from which to explore the other parts of the lake, in whichever country. Lugano and Locarno, both in Switzerland, were just a short bus or train ride away. Or if one wanted to stay in Italy, the village of Luino was a five-minute bus drive down the road, where one could raise the ghosts of Nobel Laureates Ernest Hemmingway and Dario Fo, the latter of whom actually lived in Luino, an area soaked in historic freedom struggles, from the independence movements of 1848 or the revolts of 1898.

In the end, the only thing I missed was the International Herald Tribune, my favorite newspaper when traveling. It was long gone, many years ago, in fact, but I still missed it. Villa Porta did provide several other papers in the restaurant at breakfast time, but they just didn’t compare.

I was OK with this. I had my double espresso. I had my radical history. I had the ghosts. Borders were pointless and I was content in the present moment.

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On a gorgeous morning near the River Aude, British expats are taking French classes in a vegan tea shop that doubles as an art gallery in Quillan, France. As I drink a pot of tea, an organic rooibos blend of some sort, other expats saunter in for their language lessons. French locals arrive with food to join the group and assist in the conversation.

The tea shop, Naturaya, exudes a global peacemaking vibe, with open airy rooms, eclectic furniture, African art, Chinese calligraphy and various health elixirs curated by the owner. Along with many other groups, Naturaya regularly hosts the native English speakers, who seem like a sizeable chunk of Quillan’s population, which might only be a few thousand. This might also explain a few British pubs around town, where one can watch rugby or football.

Over the course of a few days, I discover that Quillan would be a wonderful little base from which to explore the occult underbelly of Southeastern France. The surrounding targets are already famous: Rennes-le-Château. Carcassonne. Cathar castles, Rosicrucian legends, winding roads and the foothills of the Pyrenees. Even before Holy Blood, Holy Grail was published 40 years ago, even before the bloodline of Jesus conspiracy later went Hollywood, this part of France was a magnet for various fringe spiritualities, in all the right ways.

But first, I need to acquaint myself with Quillan, even if just for a brief visit. In addition to Naturaya, I begin to sing the praises of a few joints in particular:

• Over at Bar Le Glacier, the bartender seems surprised that an American like me is knowledgeable in Association Football. This happens all the time. For 30 years, I’ve been through this. Yet I can identify most of the club scarves draped across the ceiling. Hundreds of them, perhaps. I even ask if I can watch the Liverpool game or the Nottingham Forest match during the subsequent days. The bartender says, through a translator, sure, no problem, as long as the France rugby game isn’t on.
  
• ArtVin3, a wine bar and art gallery, features live music and a fantastic charcuterie board. An Irishman plays acoustic guitar and seems to know a hundred songs. He tells me stories about the legendary Charles Trenet and we talk about La Mer, since I’ve played the English version a few times, but there is no keyboard in the house, unfortunately. Next time, I tell him. Upstairs, we find another space, an art gallery where the works on display include several by the owner. The room would also serve as a splendid function space for events. Again, I vow to return.
  

• Bienvenue au Tibet becomes a fantastic local restaurant, as we spend a few moments. We devour a purple cabbage concoction, plus an esoteric mushroom and cashew nut mélange. I cannot believe an authentic Tibetan restaurant exists in this tiny French village. It is so good.

• Operated by a Canadian woman, Biblioteque Anglais, is a small English bookstore that only opens for a few hours a week. People wander in and trade their used books, while taking a few more for the next round. The friendly proprietor talks our ears off. I spy a few things I might want: an old Len Deighton spy novel and even some Orhan Pamuk.

• La Fabrique Coffee Truck shows up for the weekly street market, where many locals pick up their produce, plus breads, antiques and other goods. A fantastic local artisan roaster, the owner of La Fabrique makes me a double espresso that does the trick.

From there, the infamous occult mysteries of Rennes-le-Château make themselves known. We drive up the hill on a drizzly November morning. At first, we are the only ones in the village, but by the time the Bérenger Saunière Museum opens for business, a few other tourists begin to meander through the streets. The gift shop even sells Knights Templar tea-La Tisane Du Templier-an herbal blend of meadow sage, yarrow, asphodel flower, juniper, nettle and thyme, all of which I only know thanks to Google Translate. The tomb of Saunière himself is now located outside the cemetery and only accessible if one pays for the museum tour. I do not find any buried treasure, but the views of the surrounding landscape are impeccable.

As I finish my rooibos concoction, the French conversation group continues to filter in for lessons at Naturaya. One woman shows up with a loaf of bread for the group. She asks me: “Où habites-tu?” I reply: “Somewhere near San Francisco.”

I don’t want to go back to California. Such is the vibe of Quillan, a wonderful place.

A journey without a story is a journey incomplete. This is why I do what I do, and that’s why I live the way I live. I can do no other.

The next day, I depart with my bag of Knights Templar tea and begin the journey homeward.

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