LAKE COMO IS scaled like the iridescent tail of a great big fish. It glints and glimmers under the sun — dark bluish emerald at bright midday, silver come aperitivo hour. Opulent and storied with an aristocratic past, the lake has been the jewel of Northern Italy for centuries.

On the day of my arrival, I check into Il Sereno, a property that caused quite the stir when it first opened. In a region known for its neoclassical aesthetic, Il Sereno cuts through with stark and modern lines envisioned by renowned Spanish architect Patricia Urquiola. Taking in the views from the balcony, towering verdant mountains rise into spectacular peaks. Lunch is prosciutto and sweet melon, hand-rolled pasta in a creamy pesto sauce, and a caprese salad of plump mozzarella and sweet tomatoes. My room has a noise-canceling quality about it, a hushed elegance. Featuring dark, soothing slabs of wood panel, the space has a balcony outside with a deep, round chair that I curl into for a moment to stare out at that mesmerizing, mystical lake.

I take a dip in the pool, a sleek stretch of water on the lake’s edge, and then head toward the tiny village of Torno, wet hair dampening the back of my cotton dress. The little port is sun-drenched and frozen in time like a bug in amber — tourists and locals laze over sweating glasses of Aperol spritzes in the tiny piazza. To my annoyance, the ferry to Como, where I plan to sightsee, is late, so I stop into the square’s church. Dim and cool within, I hold the gaze of saintly Renaissance faces. I ask for patience, and to be absolved of my chronic New York City haste. I also ask for the ferry to please come soon, as I am quite earnestly on a schedule.

The next day I hike to Villa Pliniana on a secret, leafy trail. It’s the oldest villa on the lake. In 1573, the governor of Como, Count Giovanni Anguissola, bought the land and began construction. He had murdered the Pope’s illegitimate son, the cruel and ruthless Pier Luigi Farnese, stabbing him to death along with fellow adversaries. Loved by the citizens of Como, the governor lived out the rest of his days in relative peace at this villa-fortress, unreachable by land due to the extreme topography surrounding it.

Later guests of the villa included the likes of Napoleon, Byron, Shelley, and — my favorite — two scandalized lovers: Prince Emilio Barbiano Belgiojoso and the beautiful French noblewoman Anne Berthier de Wagram. In 1843 they fled from Paris to Pliniana, Anne leaving behind her husband and child, to live together in total isolation for nine years within the villa. At midnight, the lovers would wrap themselves naked together in a bed sheet and dive from the top of the loggia into the lake, so the story goes. The terrified villagers across the water thought they were a ghost. Gazing up at the hand-painted, frescoed ceilings, I can only wonder what secrets this place has seen, what true ghosts still haunt its halls.

Another passionate tale awaits at my next property, the Mandarin Oriental, Lago di Como, housed in the former Villa Roccabruna. I make my way through a front salon lined in a rich wallpaper of blossoms and peacocks, out onto a columned balcony overlooking the terrace below. Here, I learn, once resided the great opera singer Giuditta Pasta, a famed soprano of her time. Across the water, composer Vincenzo Bellini heard her singing and searched all around the lake to find her voice. She became his muse and greatest inspiration. In 1831, Bellini would compose his most significant works for Pasta — “Norma” and “La Sonnambula” — which she’d perform to great acclaim at La Scala in Milan. The composer supposedly wrote “Norma's” opening act, the stunning “Casta Diva,” to highlight the immense range and beauty of her voice.

Once in my room, I play the aria, popping open a bottle of Prosecco and sprawling on the carpeted floor as Maria Callas reaches an impossibly crystalline note in her stirring 1954 rendition. I listen to another from the opera, “Mira, o Norma,” while exploring the property’s gardens, in awe of a larger-than-life manicured hedge that seems to have been shaped into cursive.

That night, I dine in a glass-enclosed greenhouse. The menu features exceptional crudos, tempura, and one downright perfect cut of beef. I wonder what Giuditta Pasta might have had for dinner here. I wonder if she often dined with Vincenzo Bellini between rehearsals. I wonder if he was very handsome in person. Upon meeting him for the first time in 1835, a jealous poet had remarked, “You are a genius, Bellini, but you will pay for your great gift with a premature death. All the great geniuses die young, like Raphael and like Mozart.” Bellini died, I later discover, at 33.

The next day, a skipper named Fabio drives me across the lake to Passalacqua, Lake Como’s newest development. Under renovation for many years, the eighteenth-century villa is officially set to open the following day. Pulling up, the property is a sight; I make my way up through the technicolor gardens, their vibrancy echoed in the custom textiles adorning the outdoor umbrellas and cushions designed by Milan-based designer J.J. Martin. Entering the villa, classical music flows through the soaring halls, and ceilings drip with gem-like Murano-glass chandeliers. Each room has a different color palette: blush pinks, moss green, surfaces of swirling white and caramel marbles. The restoration is a masterpiece.

Taking in the double-height balustraded music room, lined in original frescoes and dripping in Baroque splendor, I am told this is where a certain composer used to play: Vincenzo Bellini. It is here he composed his two greatest works, “Norma” and “La Sonnambula.” I shake my head in disbelief. But of course.

After exploring every gleaming inch of the hallowed halls, I sit down for lunch in the garden overlooking the water. Future guests are in for a treat; Passalacqua’s cuisine is exquisite. The grilled vegetables are sweet, the crudo is tangy, the pasta sauce rich and round. The crunchiest, airiest breading cloaks a slab of tender veal Milanese. Everything is presented on delicate red-and-white china, a reminder that this is so much more than just lunch.

On the boat once again, I chat with Fabio. Boating is just his hobby, it turns out. He’s a pilot. His wife is a lawyer in Milan. He lives half here, half there. I ask him which home he prefers. “Milan is a big city. But Como …” he looks out at the water, spellbound. “I love my lake. I love this lake … I am a lucky man.”