VERONA has always seemed to me a nearly perfect Italian city. You have the central location, hard by the Lago di Garda with its dreamy vistas (and German vacationers); you have the ochre buildings and busy piazzas and open-air market; you have one of Titian's greatest Assumptions in the duomo; you have Juliet's balcony and statue worn shiny by the hands of thousands of supplicant (or voyeuristic) lovers. And you have the Arena, one of those near-legendary ancient amphitheaters with an acoustic so fine that an unamplified voice there can be heard by 18,000 people — something showcased, every summer, by a full season of outdoor opera.