See You in the Piazza Read online

  Ed answers, “Magari. Sono Americano.” Meaning, would that I were. I’m American.

  “But that’s impossible, you speak perfectly the Italian.” Music to Ed’s ears. An Italian has mistaken him for a native. This happens everywhere. One reason is that Ed talks to the taxi driver, the desk clerk, the waiter. With anyone, he starts up immediately. William and I should. When I’m complimented on my Italian, that’s because no one expects Americans to speak at all. And my southern accent invades. William is learning. This is his third summer studying with lovely Laura at Polymnia in Cortona, backed up in North Carolina by a weekly tutor. We both have that silly fear of making mistakes, whereas that doesn’t stop Ed. He realized long ago that rhythm is the thing. If you’ve got that down, you’re understood.

  A little shop I like is Via Vai, at number 41, where only Italian wines and products are sold. Most of the town speaks German and sells German goods. Stefano Visintin, the owner, tells me he needed to make a stand. We’re in Italy! He compliments me on my Italian, then Ed walks in and three sentences later, here we go: “But of course you were born in Italy…”

  Even though we don’t need anything, we buy rose hip tea, truffle potato chips, more chocolate—this time Italian—and plum jam. Ed, beaming. Italiano.

  Both Ed and William are drawn to the sleek and fashionable mountain gear. Numerous shops lure them, and, although they are not rock climbing or taking strenuous hikes, they like the super-lightweight orange and crimson and navy jackets, the multicolored rope coils, nifty tools and backpacks. They don’t buy as much as a water bottle but they’re discussing how Prada and Dolce & Gabbana must have been influenced by mountain sports, by bicycling. Even I begin to want a cool red backpack. I drag them out to the other shops on via Portici, an arcaded street of painted houses with pretty oculus windows, and the branching of arcaded alleyways toward cafés and clothing boutiques. Most amazing is the macelleria, butcher, G. Siebenförcher—the paradigm meat market. Step into the chilly space, clean as an operating room, and see every type of salumi, speck, smoked meat, prosciutto, pancetta, sausage, plus beef, lamb, veal, fowl, pork in all cuts, venison, boar, hare, pheasant, and duck. Downstairs, cheese world.

  Our trusty restaurant guides don’t give much space to Merano. We walk into Bistro Sieben, which looks fine and is. I’m becoming addicted to the local pane croccante di segale, a crunchy rye bread with seeds. We order roasted vegetable strudel, the potato and cheese dumplings. All these dumplings! May I not turn into one myself, but they are good. We have salads, too, and soon are back out on the arcaded street.

  What catches my eye most in the Duomo di San Nicolò are not the bone-thin columns splaying gracefully into the ceiling, nor the precious carved pews, nor the stained-glass windows that depict the miracles of San Nicolò. All arresting—but I am most delighted by the doors’ artful ironwork. We walk all around the church, inside and out, examining this phenomenal part of the architecture and admiring the clever levers, locks, hinges, knobs, and cunningly wrought decorative flourishes. Touch them and you touch the hand of the artist.

  Of the old cemetery that used to surround the Duomo, all that remains is a wall mounted with old tombstones, which leads to the octagonal Cappella di Santa Barbara, the chapel for funerals, a one-room church with round stained-glass windows with simple paisley designs, more Turkish than Austrian or Italian. Barbara, now removed from the official list of saints because of her mere legendary status, was a virgin martyr killed by her pagan father. After the deed, he was struck dead by lightning. Hence, she’s the person to pray to in a storm. Why is she here? This area used to be active in silver mining and she’s the saint for miners. Since Barbara is also the name of my older sister, I light a votive for her.

  * * *

  THE PUBLIC HERB garden, the walk of poets, the scent garden, the winter walk, the summer walk, castles, paths among cedars, oleanders, olives, pomegranates, more gardens. This is a genteel watering hole. One should light here for four or five days, at least, not rush through as we are. We lean on the lacy iron bridge looking down at the river rippling over rocks. A tightly groomed dog has escaped his leash and rolls in the mud. William calculates kilometers on his phone. We are anxious to get out into the mountains.

  From Merano, it’s only eleven kilometers to Lana, through vineyards and laden orchards. We could lean out of the window and grab an apple. On the edge of Lana, we leave the car in covered parking near the lift up to Vigilius Mountain Resort. None of us ever has been on a cable car. We load in our bags along with two brave souls and their coach, who are taking the lift up for paragliding. I’m scared, but once we begin, it seems that we’re never too far above the ground. Like the birds, we skim through the larch forest. Up we go. And up, the town of Lana and the valley receding quickly.

  Gripping the railing, I focus on the wide view and try not to imagine the cable snapping, sending us careening down the mountain. William smiles all the way up. Ed, of course, talks with the paragliders and their coach.

  Soon we swing gently to a stop. There to meet us is a man, incongruously in a suit, from the hotel. He whisks our luggage onto a small vehicle. We walk—no cars allowed up here—the short distance to the hotel, a luxury monastic building designed by Matteo Thun, architect of Merano’s thermal complex. The larch-wood exterior looks as though it was gathered from weathered old fences, though the sweep and shape of the design say that the place is contemporary. Instead of landscaping, there are purple and yellow wildflowers and swaying grasses. And views and views of blue-tinged mountains.

  We get to stay three nights. Will I go stir-crazy? No car, no streets, no shops, the entire concrete world gone. What there is to do: Walk, read, swim, soak in a hot pool that is half inside and half outside in the trees. Eat, of course. The hotel has a casual restaurant in Tyrolian style, and, upstairs, Ristorante 1500—for 1,500 meters above sea level—which conjures the feel of a barn with its exposed wood and three-hundred-year-old beams.

  An architect’s make-the-best-of-it moment in designing a hotel must be the hallways. How to design that difficult space, other than with wallpaper and patterned rugs? At Vigilius the halls are not static. They’re wide with smooth stone floors, and playful sculptures on pedestals punctuate the way. The sculpture exhibits change periodically. Our rooms have the Germanic folded duvet bedcovers—no top sheet—but also contemporary rosy velvet chairs facing the view. On a ledge, a book of short narratives, an annual publication written by guests, and a basket of Braeburn apples from a local farmer. The bathroom counters and tub surrounds are made of pale, smooth larch. By the tub, a jar of hay for a soaking bath.

  All through this area, we’ve heard murmurs about climate change, and as many awards attest, our hotel is state-of-the-art eco. The dividing three-quarters-high wall between bedroom and bath is made of baked clay. It doubles as the heater for the room. I read an elaborate description of the hotel’s biomass (wood chip) heating system, with such filtration that pollutants are minimal. Many excellent hotels in the region have no air-conditioning because they’ve never needed it. End of June. Hot. Now they do. At night on the ground floor, we can open the door in our glass wall for a breeze but I’m afraid of animals coming in. Lucky for William, he’s on the second floor. Still, owls could fly in and settle on the bed.

  * * *

  WE’VE ARRIVED FROM Merano late in the day. William is ready for the pool. At the entrance to the spa area, I see Greek words from Heraclitus etched on the glass wall.

  πάντα ῥεῖ

  The attendant doesn’t know what it means, and neither do I. We have the indoor infinity pool to ourselves, the hot pool, too. Moving from the one pool to the other and back, we seem to float through the glass wall and into the view. Both pools are paved with white stone slabs. After, we feel energized. Is that because the water is slightly radioactive? Throughout the hotel this buzzy, prized water runs in all the pipes. It’s highly regarded as t
herapeutic, and is sold as bottled water as well.

  William is out for shots of the streaky purple sunset. We rest. Already the go-go-go of the last few days melts away in the peace of this place.

  * * *

  ALL GUESTS ARE invited to the living room for a prosecco before dinner. I adore the unlikely colors. Long sofa banquettes built along two walls are upholstered in burnt-ocher velvet with orange, plum, and red pillows, all the colors that dance in the fireplace. Beyond the glass wall, we drift out to the terrace for the aperitivo. All the other guests speak German. My German is limited to es var einwal ein junger Bauer (there was once a young farmer), and Ed’s to Frühstück (breakfast) and Einfahrt and Ausfahrt (entrance and exit, which provoke laughs on the autostrada). We are exiled to our own company. William, the only child present, is brought a drink of mint and orange. Suddenly a downpour opens and we rush inside. A gray skein of mist covers the mountains and the larch forest darkens.

  * * *

  OUR FIRST NIGHT, we chose Stube Ida, the hotel’s Tyrolian bistro. I don’t know what home cooking is in these hills but, please, let it be like this. Frico, a fried potato crisp with guanciale and red onions; cabbage leaves stuffed with the great Piemontese Fassone beef, buckwheat, and sour cream butter; fried chicken with sour peppers and apple chutney; gnocchi with chanterelles and thyme; black bread soup; tagliata (sliced grilled steak) with rosemary and a sauce of vino schiava, a DOC grape of the area. Savory and comforting, like the restaurant’s atmosphere: A huge tile stove remains from an earlier incarnation of the inn; wooden tables and mountain chairs with heart shapes carved out of the backs speak to the tradition but don’t read as kitschy; and, of course, the mountain view. Hikers stop here at lunch and eat out on the terrace but it’s different at night, when the coziness kicks in.

  * * *

  OUT EARLY, WE take the short walk to chair lifts for further adventures in higher meadows and forests. This time, I’m not afraid; the ride feels exhilarating, bobbing along over hikers and cows ringing their bells and lowing. Closed into the chair with a bar across pulls out fleetingly some lost primordial memory of being confined in a stroller. We take well-marked trails to a lake, but when we arrive, we find the lake has become a marsh. The trails are easy and tamed. No scrambling or tricky footing, just alpine air and gorgeous blue sky. We walk all morning and circle back to the chair lift in plenty of time for salads on the terrace, more pool time, and, for the men, an hour with kettle bells in the exercise room. I retire to read.

  * * *

  WE’RE FALLING INTO a routine of hikes, lounging with books by the pool twice a day, and photographing bees burrowing into flower faces. Ed studies Italian. I’m unable to put down my Jane Gardam novel. We’re easily clocking seven or eight miles a day outdoors.

  The last two nights we have long dinners at the more formal Restaurant 1500, where Chef Filippo Zoncato presides over the kitchen. We bond with a waiter from Sardinia who regales us with descriptions of Sardinian food while pouring tastes of Alto Adige white wines from the Cantina Terlano co-operative of twenty-four winemakers. Crisp and fresh as a local apple, their Terlano Chardonnay sets a standard. And here’s my love, Sanct Valentin sauvignon from St. Michael-Eppan. All their whites are winsome and strong. We also fall hard for the Pinot Nero Sonnenberg, Cantina Burggräfler.

  Some of our favorite tastes from the chef’s brilliant locally sourced menu:

  “Tacos” formed from celery root and filled with sweet and sour carrots, soft goat cheese, zucchini, and oregano.

  Rice with asparagus, grated egg, and luppolo selvatico, wild hops.

  Lamb with purée of fave and agretti, that bitter, grass-like green.

  Suckling pig with kohlrabi, rye, roasted onions, and caraway.

  Branzino, sea bass, with rhubarb, turnip greens, and toasted pine nuts.

  Millefoglie with pistachio, hazelnut, and sorbet of sambuco (elder tree) flowers.

  Yellow peach with cream of white chocolate and Champagne granita and basil.

  After dinner, movies (usually in German) are shown in the library, or we can lie out in the wildflowers, looking up at the stars. They seem so close you could reach out and snatch one out of the sky, put the sparkle in your pocket.

  Three slow and relaxed days paradoxically speed by. I forgot to take the hay bath. Shouldn’t I have had a facial? All too soon, we board the cable car and begin our descent.

  The Greek quote written on the spa door—now I know what it means: Everything flows.

  Maialino da Latte, Purè di Pastinaca, Fave, e Mele

  YOUNG PORK WITH PURÉE OF PARSNIPS, BEANS, AND APPLES, SERVES 10

  A winter dish from Chef Filippo Zoncato, suitable for the great outdoor life at the serene Vigilius Mountain Resort. The chef’s method given below is beyond the capabilities of most home cooks. You’ll get great results from the regular oven roasting of a large leg of pork or a pork loin: a 350°F oven, 25 minutes per pound and roasted to an internal temperature of 145°F. Do take his method for the vegetable purée, such a good pairing with pork.

  12-pound boneless leg of pork

  Salt and pepper, QB

  A handful of black peppercorns

  10 to 15 bay leaves

  12 parsnips, peeled and cut into disks

  Milk and water, QB

  6 apples, peeled, cored, and quartered

  2 onions, sliced

  Extra-virgin olive oil, QB

  2 cups fresh fava beans, shelled

  Season the meat with salt and peppercorns, and stud with bay leaves.

  Lay the pork leg in a vacuum and cook in a steam oven for 20 hours at 150˚F.

  Remove from the oven and set the pork, still in its pouch, in a tray filled with ice water.

  When the meat reaches room temperature, cut into slices, in portions of about 5 ounces each.

  Cook the parsnips in water and milk in equal parts, until fork tender. Drain them (putting aside the cooking liquid) and blend with an immersion blender until a thick purée is obtained. Season.

  Steam the apples over boiling water until barely tender. Mix them with an immersion blender until you obtain a purée. Leave to drain.

  Sauté the onions in olive oil until translucent. Season with salt and pepper.

  Blanch the beans in boiling water for 4 minutes. If they are fresh, no need to peel. If older, rub off the outer skin. Season and add a little olive oil.

  If you like, brown the pieces of pork over a medium heat, to make the skin crisp.

  Heat the parsnip purée and make egg-shaped little servings. Place a slice of pork on a plate and add the parsnip alongside. Spoon the fave over the pork slice. Finally, arrange the mashed apples on the side of the plate with a sprinkling of onions.

  Ristorante 1500, Vigilius Mountain Resort, Lana, Trentino–Alto Adige

  Vipiteno became Italian in 1919, quite recently by Italian standards. Formerly part of the Austro-Hungarian empire, the town used to be Sterzing, renamed from the original Roman Vipitenum. Although Italian for a century now, the Austrian heritage still thrives.

  We park on the edge of the village and walk down a stage-set main street that’s interrupted midway by Torre delle Dodici, a fifteenth-century clock tower dividing the old town from the “new,” though it’s hard to tell the difference. Tall houses in all the colors of macarons, with balconies of flowers, line the street. Arabesque iron shop signs, arcades, statue, fountain—a vivid scene. Lots of silly little dogs are paraded by their owners, and one couple pushes their collie in a perambulator. The dog barks like mad as they stroll. William buys a gray T-shirt and I buy a black bag to hold all the local jams and honeys we buy.

  A trading center since time immemorial, Vipiteno is the northernmost town in Italy, hailing distance from the Brenner Pass, which
was first mentioned around 13 B.C. The pass is where our Stone Age ancestors with icy hair scrambled from the cold down toward the sun. During Roman times, the area thrived because of silver mines. And thrives still.

  We order salads at an outdoor terrace. Here comes the collie, still barking. Two women near us drink the biggest glasses of beer I’ve ever seen. The waiter is Romanian and seems to speak neither German nor Italian. We point. It works out.

  * * *

  AT THE TOURIST office, I unfold a map. The vacation possibilities are fabulous. The Dolomiti are well organized for any walking, hiking, skiing, tobogganing, camping, or spa experience one could dream of. The map stars trails and places to stay, from rustic to five-star, and rifugi, mountain hut stops that serve food to hikers and sometimes offer rooms. William wants to stay in one of the Tyrolian classic houses—timber porches with ornamental balustrades and flamboyant flowers lining each floor. He’s never seen The Sound of Music but a fantasy unfurls on its own: eiderdown, cheese, amber honey on bread, and goats outside. I look through brochures picturing dozens of these places. Oh, for the time to spend a month.