Dispatch from the mountains above Merano
A love letter to South Tyrol
“I’m sorry, I’m not a good driver,” the man said apologetically as he slid into the driver’s seat of the mud-spattered black Land Rover Defender. “Just stay calm and don’t panic.”
“He’s kidding, right?” I whisper to Tyson, as this man is about to drive us up one of the area’s narrow, winding mountain roads.
The joke may have also been lost on the five German skiers wedged in the back of the car, who appeared unamused.
My hesitations about driving in the region were not unfounded. One of the first things I read about the Dolomites was this 36 Hours article from the New York Times, which opens like this:
A travel tip for the Dolomites: You don’t want to be the driver, negotiating steep hairpin turns and bands of Italian cyclists pedaling through dangerously narrow mountain passes. You want to be the passenger, the one hanging her head out the window, mouth agape, transfixed on the mountain peaks and gloriously green valleys.
In our case, those gloriously green valleys were covered in a thick layer of snow, which made them even more beautiful—and made the mountain passes even more dangerous. We learned from our Canadian mistakes and splurged on winter tires for the rental car. Plus, they close the mountain passes when, for example, they are dropping charges from helicopters on them to trigger avalanches. (My mom reads this newsletter. Hi, Mom! We were safe, I promise!)
Don’t be misled: this was not an adventure trip. I spent less than one day on skis, a few hours in the car, and most of my time padding around luxe hotel spas in a bathroom and slippers, novel in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. On our first day at Miramonti, our hotel high in the mountains above Merano, we were greeted with the hotel’s signature spritz and the daily afternoon selection of no less than twelve types of cake.
At the spa, we drink tea made from locally foraged verbena. We try the eucalyptus steam room, the Japanese onsen pool, the Finnish sauna, and the infinity pool overlooking the valley before we collapse into the lounge chairs in the dimly lit relaxation room. I fully assume the form of a human raisin, fingers wrinkly from all the soaking.
We tell the front desk that we’d like to participate in yoga and something called “forest bathing,” to which she responds, “Wow! Very active.” Honestly, I love a place where this gentle level of activity is considered “very active.” I could stay here for a while.
“I was born in Italy and my grandmother was born in Austria, but we were born in the exact same town,” says Monica as she leads us into the forest. This land was once Bavaria, then Austria, then Italy—which explains why most people here speak both German and Italian.
Monica is a certified forest bathing guide, which is a thing, and which sounds silly until you try it. Monica grew up visiting this forest, and points out the peak that her mom hiked with three-month-old Monica in her backpack. Monica shows us that forest bathing is a form of mindful walking through the forest, and instructs us to move as if in slow motion. We stop along the way to run our fingers across the velvety moss on a piece of porphyry rock, to crush some spruce needles with our fingers and inhale their scent, and to notice the bark on each tree. We listen to the laughter of black woodpeckers, which indicates the arrival of spring.
Later, I sit in the onsen pool as rain starts to fall, steam rising off the surface of the warm water and mist curling between the mountains. I’m transfixed by these mountains, which I’ve learned are not actually the Dolomites but simply Alps, and part of the Texel group. These mountains are constant drama and change: shifting clouds, the play of shadow and light, changing weather, and different vistas from every angle. I feel like I can’t look away, as if I’ll miss something at any moment.
Tyson is reading a Murakami book which describes one of the characters as having “fog for a face.” The clouds here hang low over the mountain peaks, giving them a fog-for-a-face quality.
It’s blissfully quiet. Everyone speaks in whispers, which seems equally as much for the respect of the other guests as in reverence of our surroundings. We whisper as if the mountains will hear us if we talk too loud—like one of the fog-faced giants would reach out a long stone finger and bop us on the head in rebuke.
We are back in Boston now (sigh), and I’ve mostly recovered from jet lag. I started a new job this week, which is weird and exciting and means that I actually get dressed and leave the house at a reasonable hour.
I’m typing this as I eat the above croissant, which is because I am late for work and adjusting to getting this newsletter out with a little less flexibility than before. Bear with me!
I’m planning to write a little more about our time in Italy. What do you want to know? What types of these newsletters have you been enjoying—travel dispatch, personal essay, movie and book recommendations? Let me know.
I love reading anything you write!! I love reading about this chapter of life and I thought your descriptions of the mountains were stunning. The charm of Boston and your daily rituals are also enchanting.
Jen I’ve loved reading your Substack! You have a gift for describing your every day and your special days, bringing me right into the moment. Your travel blogs have been my fav, mostly because I feel like I’m actually experiencing a place I would be lucky to but may never get to venture. Keep it up! ❤️