I don’t speak German.

The last time I visited Alto Adige was 2018. I arrived in early October by myself, without a car, after the end of the summer season, when every rifugio was shut until winter and all the places I had starred on my google map were taking a much needed rest between August and December. I was not aware that crisp October was not in demand. I may have been the only one in the town of San Cassiano, in the province of Bolzano, in the northernmost region of Trentino-Alto Adige. I think the only living thing I spoke to that whole trip was a cow.

Quite a few, actually.

Nevertheless, and maybe actually as cause and effect, it was one of my favourite trips, and I spent the next few years talking about how much I loved the Dolomites. I walked endlessly and breathed in mountain air so pure and clean (1500m above sea level) I felt I had been drugged. I knew absolutely nothing about South Tyrol, nor the different sub-regions within the area, nor the vastly varying ways that the vegetation changes from one mountain range to another, nor that German is the first language.

I suppose ‘Moo’ varies not, as far as linguistics are concerned.  

Fast forward to a few weeks ago, when I opened up the entire map of Italy on AirBnB and searched for somewhere clean and inviting, outside of a sweltering city, in a place where I could work remotely, go for a nice walk, and not be stressed by masses of summer tourists.

Evidently, AirBnB’s algorithm works quite well. It showed me an apartment designed with light woods in a town called ? (I did not pay attention to this until after I booked) in what I dubbed as ‘the mountains.’ In the midst of London’s heat wave, in a flat that lacked air conditioning, the mountains sounded positively ideal, and the apartment looked lovely. I booked it for a few weeks.

I am trying to build a new business, and I have a fourth novel on my shoulders with quite a few pre-sales, pecking at me like a bird with every day that goes by that I do not work on it. I have my range of distractions, from family hardships to girlfriends I want to spend time with, as well as the pressing fact that I was living (just kidding, to anyone in the government, of course I was just on holiday) in a country for whom I did not possess the right to live and work without documentation. My brain was turning to fuzz. My emotional load had cranked to high with a personal event in my family. I had been feeling, quite suddenly, a lack of air. (As it so happens, this may have been further induced by the utter lack of air con in the UK, about which the FT has apparently written a rather factual article concerning the rising deaths and poor performance in the workplace due to the lack of aforementioned air. If Brexit didn’t shoo everyone away, suffocating your inhabitants is second best?)

Needless to say, between trips to storage and summer festivities, I did approximately zero research on the area. I knew only a handful of hotels nearby that I had long dreamed of visiting (I am, as a matter of fact, not a trust fund baby in search of five stars but rather I worked in hotel development and brand work with many properties up and down Italy. It is one of my passions and I do plan to open one of my own one day).

So I flew. From City, thank goodness, because I will be a snob about Heathrow and plead with the UK to take a few notes from SFO; do better essentially.

From City to Linate. 90 minutes. A breeze. From the Sixt rental car desk to the car itself, to figuring out how the air con works, about 8 hours.

Kidding, but truly, minimum of 3, I’d say? Can we do better here, as well?

I do recall the very handsome young man who hopped in the front seat with me to address the air con issue. Welcome to Italy, ‘twas a rather cliché moment but gosh some cliches aren’t worth rewriting.

One suggestion for all trips, especially when you’ll be doing loads of driving: rent a good car. Rent a car you will like to drive. Rent a car that responds smartly when you are winding down a mountain with sharp hair-pin turns. Rent one with all the gimmicks. Rent a comfy one. Rent one in which you will feel like a million bucks when you go for an evening drive, surrounded by mountains on all sides, glowing in the summer sunset, with the windows down and vineyards skimming by the windows. What is simple summer joyousness if not that? (It’s many things, but that is just one of them, isn’t it?)

So I drove for a few hours. The first toll, I took a ticket. When I arrived at the next booth, I inserted the ticket, but it did not work. A man came on the machine and said he would open the gate manually. I inserted my credit card into the type of machine that swallows it, for what we hope is just a moment while we refrain from breathing waiting for it to run back to its mother. The gate went up. The man on the machine was talking to me. I saw the open gate, was evidently not thinking, and drove right on.

In every trip there is a blunder, isn’t there?

Alas, credit cards can be replaced. Before I even hung up with the company, I had a new card uploaded in my Apple Wallet. Imagine if Chase Sapphire took over the Sixt desk. What a world!

I arrived in Lana. The view from the kitchen table, ie my desk, is verdant and covered in vineyards and apple orchards and an alpine home here and there. Farther up, its covered in dense forests.

Now here come the facts that I’ve only just taken the time to look up, on my last (for now) night in Lana. Because I am the type of person who reads about the true story after seeing the movie.

Forests cover nearly 50% of South Tyrol.

(I’ll drip these in, not to overload you, though I do love a fact).

Driving in, after you exit the autostrada, or autobahn as they call it here, the perception is: Is this the most idyllic town in the mountains?

It’s heavily planted, every traffic circle is boisterous with brightly coloured flowers, and people crossing the street at crosswalks smile widely and say thank you. In fact, everyone is smiling, much of the time.

The Alpine buildings lining the town’s main road are painted like a field of wildflowers in Spring: greens, light pinks, oranges, and whites. And between chestnut trees, there are boughs and boughs of oleander mushrooming onto the sidewalks. Pinks and whites. On side streets—anemones, a delicate tree with a drab name (crapemyrtle), Rose of Sharon. Sunflowers rise high like overeager students, Wayfaring trees line narrow pathways along rushing water, Sweet Chestnuts sprout furry little fluorescent buds that blow my mind, and kiwis grow by the hundreds on arbors over my head. But, I shall return to the fruit, because that in itself is a sensation I can’t yet translate to paper. Effort must be made, however.

I am, as most are, easily enchanted by Novelty. I am easily charmed and I fall in love and all is roses, and then a few days go by and I think, ah, bene, I think I’m done here. But no, not here. Not in this nook of verdant idyll, very close to the Austrian state of Tyrol. Now, let us situate ourselves with a little history/geography lesson, because I did not know any of this and it is actually fascinating and illuminating all at once. You think, oh there are mountains, and we say ‘Morgen’ instead of Buongiorno and license plates are marked with a D for Deutschland. All of the products are in German and the road signs are in German and the architecture is unmistakably Alpine and literally no one walking around you is speaking Italian, and you think, oh isn’t that charming, I thought we were in Italy but oh well.

Here’s the thing about South Tyrol: it was Austria. Then, briefly, Germany. Then some more political reshuffling. In fact, until 1992, the region was still negotiating the terms of its identity. And now, in 2025, South Tyrol is nearly autonomous. It retains most of its taxes. It governs much of its own affairs. And while technically part of Italy—thanks to a postwar trade-off—it doesn’t feel like Italy. It is, in that the espresso is very good, but it’s not, in that when I speak Italian to everyone, I am the odd foreigner.

Short answer, it’s about 30km from Lana to the Brenner Pass at the Austrian border. I still ask myself every day, why are there German plates and not Austrian, but I suppose Austrians have plenty of Alpine towns to choose from.

I am here to work remotely, but I have balanced my time with a solid dose of Outdoors. Dare I say, something about this place reminds me of Marin, a previous address. There is that Northern California aesthetic—the dense forests, the winding, mountainous roads, the ubiquitous views, the air, the lack of pretense, the fresh local produce, the cyclists, the hikers, the happy people. Indeed, if it weren’t for all the German, and the very well-priced produce, one might mistake this for NorCal.

Except, it’s not of course.

In the mornings, I rise just after 5am and it’s alright light out. The sun hasn’t risen, but it’s that inbetween hour, when it’s undeniably Daytime yet peace still abounds. I made myself a strong cup of espresso blend (from Kutrawant, outstanding coffee I will miss dearly) and sat on the terrace watching the peaks. Then I set out on a walk— flights of fancy in every direction. Some mornings I traced the town, edging around apple orchards, already enlivened with a moving tractor, or above the town on the Waalsteg, where the church steeple seemed painted onto to the drapes of mountain silhouettes behind it. Other mornings I drove up to Tirolo, where I walked along orchards and Chardonnay vineyards toward the castle. There are countless paths in Merano, or just about anywhere. This is Alto Adige; it is land of Outdoors. If I were staying higher up on Vigilius, I would relish a sunrise walk 1500m above sea level.

What I find endlessly fascinating is the mix of alpine and mediterranean vegetation. One morning I woke to see snow capping the peaks in the distance, and yet my car is parked next to a heaving oleander bush and a palm tree. Echinachea are very happy here. As is lavender. There are hydrangeas, like what I see in my native New England, and roses, and the number of fruit trees is infinite. On my walks through Lana, I stumbled upon apricot trees, peach trees, plum trees, fig trees, pear trees, and, as mentioned, the most insane kiwi arbor I’ve ever seen. Two kiwis in London costs 5 pounds. I could save a great deal by flying to Bolzano, renting a car, driving to Lana, and plucking a bucket of kiwis from the Waalstag path. If only we could somehow reinvent the car rental ordeal.

Up on the mountain, the wildflowers are endless. Large-leaved lupines in multi-hued pinks and violets shoot up from depths of green bushes. Timothy grasses provide playful foreground to the distant views. Yarrow covers almost everything. Spruce trees sport hues of green so rich you think your sunglasses are tricking you. And fireweed spurts up in bright pinks.