������ý

My taxi zips down the narrow road that wraps around Lake Como like a belt. Motorbikes and cars are zooming by so precariously, I’m tempted to perform the sign of the cross.

The driver, unfazed by this de facto NASCAR course, gestures toward the vague outline of a building along the lake. “That’s George Clooney’s house.”

I crane my neck to the right as he adds, “And he’s actually here!”

This guy may be feeding me tourist catnip, but I have trouble resisting