Italy: The Alps, Italian Style

To prepare for six weeks in Italy, Jan and I read quite a few books, and watched several films, about Italy during World War II. You might want to know that John Hersey’s A Bell for Adano still rings true as a novel about that era, and also that Roberto Benigni’s Life is Beautiful is a movie that hasn’t lost its power to make us laugh, weep, and cheer—all at the same time.

It may surprise you to know, though, that my experience in Italy has confirmed that I do have certain right-wing inclinations, at least in one respect. Hopefully, the only thing I may be said to share have with the Fascisti of the last century is their taste in real estate.

The lakes of northern Italy—the last seat of Mussolini’s government, his final hideout, and eventually the scene of his capture and execution—remain a deeply appealing destination, particularly as Jan and I were able to be there after the winter ski crowds had left and before the summer vacationers arrived.

Earlier this year I enjoyed spending a day in San Francisco with my friend Tony’s wife, Ronda Bowman. She wanted to visit a bar not far from Fisherman’s Wharf, where she and Tony used to enjoy Irish coffee and a splendid view. There we met a well-traveled, slightly drunk American businessman and his young, Asian-American secretary. Besides making jokes to the effect that Tony would not be my friend much longer after he learned I’d taken his wife to this bar, the well-traveled man strongly suggested that I visit Lake Garda when I came to Italy. He also had plenty of other advice, which I promptly forgot. But Lake Garda stuck.

So Jan and I rented a car and drove up there from Bologna, which we made our first home base in Italy. We loved being in Riva Del Garda, beautifully situated at the top of the lake. So much so that we arranged to stay longer.

The narrow lakes of northern Italy were formed by glaciers and contain many micro-climates that vary with elevation. Palm, lemon and olive trees flourish at lake level, while higher up the craggy peaks falcons soar, and fog clears to reveal glistening snowcaps. The towns of the lakes are linked by a good ferry service. Romans loved the area as much as the latter-day fascists, and the early Christians, did.

Culture and nature are equally captivating in this part of the world. I particularly enjoyed exploring small village churches, set in their own quaint piazzas that are often accessed via mazes of medieval archways. Typically the churches, and their bell towers, command beautiful views. The uniquely tuned bells toll the hours and joyously peal when prompted. Unlike many of their big-city counterparts, village churches are usually left unlocked. They are maintained as quiet settings for settling the mind and opening the heart during the week, and for celebrating the presence of God on Sunday.

The city of Bolzano, which slugs it out each year with Bologna for the title of   Italy’s “most livable” city, is located even further north: the gateway to the stunning Dolomites, a UNESCO “world heritage” mountain range—in a remote region of which the famous “Ice Man” was discovered, one of the most remarkable archeological finds of the last hundred years.

The museum in Bolzano that is devoted to the Ice Man and his story is well worth a visit. His mummified and frozen body can be seen, but even more interesting to me was the display, and analysis, of the clothing and artifacts that were found with his body, as well as the impressive recreation of what he must have looked like before his murder. (Yes, there is ample evidence that he was shot in the back by an arrow and bled to death in a crevasse.) Though his copper axe, tattoos, arrows, bows and amulet bag were unable to save his life, the dry air and thick ice succeeded in perfectly preserving his body for thousands of years.

Jan and I could not find an apartment right in Bolzano of the sort we have discovered we need (one with a separate bedroom, a full kitchen, free Internet, and plenty of fresh air and natural light), so we booked a place 30 kilometers away. We are so glad that we did—but we were not prepared to walk into the town of Nova Ponente and find everyone speaking...German! Aren't we in Italy?

The village of Deutschnofen (Nova Ponente’s German name) reached maturity in the days of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. In many ways this town lives in the past—but the past that its residents prefer to imagine predates both World Wars. The leather shorts, dirndls and Tyrolean caps that some residents still wear (both for work and for special occasions) reflect the nineteenth, not the twentieth or the twenty-first century. Streets, homes, farms and gardens are immaculate. Schools and churches are welcoming, beautifully designed, and well maintained. People are friendly, but they are not speaking Italian, let alone English!

Italian people we later met, during the 10 days we next spent in Milano, were not terribly generous in their views of the German “separatists.” “They want our tax money but not our culture,” we were told. While nothing suggested that the people of Deutschnofen were fascists any longer (if they ever were), we observed an unsettling insularity and uniformity of appearance among them, even as we embraced the charm and beauty of this small town’s peaceful way of life. What, if anything, did we not understand, and could we not, in our ignorance of the language, even ask about?

As the beautifully tended graves at each village church suggest, perhaps every generation takes its worst memories with it, leaving the next generation to remember and preserve what was kindest and best and most beautiful. However, if our ancestors’ hardest truths are lost, how do we, the living, avoid re-presenting them?