We never actually intended to come to Italy as part of this journey and when we eventually decided to go, we found a part of Italy we wish we’d known about forever. Before the main event we made a fuel stop in one of the country’s many food capitals. In Bologna, arched portico sidewalks shimmer in an endless expanse around the city; although it’s entirely possible that the shimmer was a result of a satanically named heatwave chasing us through the European continent. However, no amount of hell sent heat deters from the heaven that is pasta in Bologna. Meals were followed by slow strolls accompanied by mounds of gelato worthy of their reputation. Summer outdoor movie theaters were set up in the main square for free viewings every night. We left as fast as we arrived, but it was plenty, and we were eager to escape the heat.
The train dropped us off in the thick humidity of a Venetian summer. Without so much as a pause for a picture for a gondola, we ducked our way through crowds of selfie sticks wielded like samurai swords, and joined the five other travelers for our holiday van ride to the mountains. As the only Americans present, we knew we were onto something that was going to be different. Through the thick Venetian haze it was hard to imagine that some of Europe’s most beautiful and dramatic mountains were only a few hours away. Sometime later we weaved our way into deep valleys and carved up sharp switchbacks into the beginnings of a range of mountains that encouraged shameless attempts at blurred photos through the windows.
Our destination was a small family run Chalet in a small village tucked up into northeast corner of Italy. Up here international borders are purely geographical. The residents on this high knee part of the boot speak Ladin, followed by German and Italian. English is a rareity in this part of the Dolomites. A river carves through the village, each side occupying an opposite slope of the valley. Other brown and white chalets, haus’, and sport hotels dot the landscape complete with one slender church spire. Our haus is most aptly described as an adult summer camp. A self serve bar modeled after a traditional german pub gathered other adventure chasers each afternoon to swap the day’s stories over a pint to two. Tomorrow’s excursions would be presented and lunch order sheets passed around. We’d sit at long tables to share family style dinners cooked by the grandmother and her son. Most of the week’s residents knew each other from year’s past, always meeting here during the same few time every year. They’d pick up right where they left off, and we were warmly folded into the family, complete with a scotch soaked blessing form four Scottish priests. They’d been crowdsurfing at a concert until 2AM the night before but they still managed to get up for the 16 mile hike that morning. The next day, they’d still cruise past us up the hill.
We discovered a landscape that felt like parts of different planets. Mornings would be spent drifting through rolling green fields plucked right from the set of “The Sound of Music,” complete with families on the trail clad in Lederhosen and leather knapsacks. White gravel paths lay like ribbons over grass valleys spreading in every direction. The air up here is clean and warm, but for the first time in months it doesn’t feel heavy or oppressive. Currents of cool and gusty breeze whip down at just the right times, pressing us to continue upward. Eventually the grassy knolls give way to a new landscape that could have been imagined from Elon Musk’s version of Mars, or the moon. Craggy rock spires and towers erupt through the clouds. Their surface are the gods’ version of ancient drip sand castles. At their bases loose scree piles up like sand dunes. At each of the spine’s summits the wind blows a little bit harder, sometimes swooping us into momentary cold gray clouds. For hours we walk atop this alien moonscape. The only sound around is the crunch of gravel under our boots and the whistle of the wind’s bow on the spire’s stings. On the descent we pause on our first grassy plateau to visit with golden brown colored cows perched on the cliff high above our village. We carve our way down a ski run, stopping halfway at the deck of a refugio for a glass of local cider and homemade strudel with our group.
That evening after dinner we sit together on the deck for some good crack with a few scotch drinking priests and wild and free Brits. We laugh at each other’s idiosyncrasies. We tell each other stories of our lives from parts halfway across the world and marvel that despite how big the world is, the things that connect us are very small. One of the priests gives an “Amen“ followed by a “cheers” and “down the hatch.” Not long after, thunder ripped open the sky above us, lightning splashed off the rock faces, and we watched the rain hit the ground like a million pieces of gravel.
