Never before have I missed skiing like this strange year. I've missed breathing in that crisp air and immersing myself in the splendor of the Dolomites. So this little photograph is a fitting fit, a whirlwind of memories blending together from my childhood ski holidays.

But there are some fixed points.

To my family, who gave me the privilege of learning and experiencing those wonderful places. To the Fognani family (Alessandro Fognani, Marco Fognani), who without you wouldn't have been the same.

To Ivo Pezzedi and Mitti, I also dedicate it to your family, to Herta and Siegfried. To Corvara and the Alps, land of great Masters and beautiful moments of my childhood and beyond.

We hope to soon be able to enjoy a grappa on the slopes together. After all, it's also thanks to you that I have these beautiful memories.

There are nights when sleep is hard to come by, when it's just a thin veil covering something that runs like electricity through your body.

When you toss and turn in bed a hundred, a thousand times, a nervous tickle running up and down from your feet to your head.

When you long for morning already, to kick off the covers, jump out of bed, and finally free your legs that can't wait to get moving.

It happened to me at least once a year when I was a child. Usually on a gray, cold morning between January and February.

There was only one reason: we were leaving for a skiing holiday.

The alarm went off early, at 6:45 to be on time. I didn't even have time to hear the first noises from my parents' room, and suddenly, like a whirlwind, my sister Viola was jumping on the covers, shouting: "Let's go, let's go!" Let's go skiing!' followed my mother's voice as she entered our rooms to urge us to get ready. 'Come on, come on! Anyone who isn't ready doesn't leave for the mountains!'

He didn't know that Viola and I had been ready the night before.

Our car, a midnight blue BMW 318 station wagon we owned in the '90s, was parked already fully loaded.

We spent a good part of the previous evening helping Dad with the expert work of artistically fitting together bags, suitcases, skis, boots, backpacks, and groceries to take on vacation.

He would hold out his hand, intently studying the remaining space in those four seemingly infinite cubic meters that easily swallowed every package I passed him.

Michelangelo sculpting the Pietà with his faithful disciples lending him support.

When we finally set off, the time signal on Radio 1 always seemed stern, reminding us that we were punctually behind schedule.

We had an appointment to keep.

The one with our companions for the skiing holidays. Our dearest friends, our "almost cousins," the Fognani family.

They were waiting for us in their white Passat at the A1 motorway lay-by, always ahead of us poor artists with the full trunk.

A quick hello from the window with our cousins, Alessandro and Marco. A frown from Uncle Maurizio and Aunt Annalisa as if to say, "You're late again this year, huh?"

My father Leo's apologetic shrug as if to say, "What can you do? Art takes time," and that was the signal. Off we go!

The vacation within the vacation began, the journey that took us from Rome to the white landscapes of South Tyrol.

Each time was a little adventure in the eyes of my child, and it inevitably blends into my memory, embracing the dozens of skiing holidays we spent together. The ever-increasing number of stops at gas stations that ruined any schedule our parents had planned, the sandwiches we bought there were the most disgusting and the tastiest of the year, the paprika-flavored chips we bought for a snack that could only be found at certain service stations.

Then began the sleight of hand of switching children and grandchildren from their respective cars.

After the first stop, we lost track of who was in the back seat of each other's cars. It was a dance performed by expert dancers to confuse their thoughts and test their parents' patience.

Marco, about the same age as Viola, often rode in our car and I in theirs, to play with my cousin Alessandro, who was just a year older than me.

But it was just a smokescreen that we, clever strategists, threw in the eyes of the poor adults to disrupt the trip when they least expected it. Poor them!

Each of us cousins ​​brought something new, in a whirlwind of colorful objects that inexorably filled the back seats of the cars. Sometimes it was card games, other times a board game, rarely a video game.

We listened to music from the same CD player, sharing earphones, those portable Sony compact disc players that are still seared into our memories.

of every teenager in the '90s, and which would soon be replaced by the first MP3 players. Bright racing cars in the starry sky, the must-haves of every kid of that decade, vanished on the horizon of technological advancement that swallowed them up in one gulp.

Goodbye, anti-shock function that never worked. I hope you're well up there, in tech heaven.

I often lost myself in some book I always carried with me, even more than one. I immersed myself in pages of fantasy adventures, letting all the nuances of the Italian landscapes pass by the windows. I read a good part of Tolkien's Lord of the Rings like this: between an exasperated rebuke from my mother, who said I was too deep in the pages and not enjoying the scenery, and a sandwich while stopping at the Cantagallo service station.

Meanwhile, the holiday within the holiday passed quickly. The process of change in the world around me is still vivid in my mind.

The Apennines gave way to the plain. We crossed the Po River in a whirlwind of colors and were on the road to Verona, and beyond, the Alps, our destination, stretched out like a wall shining silver and indigo in the afternoon.

The plain was gradually replaced by hills, then by the first mountains of the Alpine foothills, standing guard over that marvelous region like immortal guardians.

The road began to gently climb around us, slowly lifted from the earth by these cyclopean beings. We'd put on a song by Battisti or Zucchero and let ourselves be lulled by the mammoth granite formations hundreds of meters high.

The mists of the plain suddenly became a river that flowed alongside us, accompanying us as we entered this new kingdom. The vineyards, cultivated almost vertically, adorned small castles and farmhouses, guarding the delicate curves of the mountain valley that slowly closed in on us.

We passed through the tunnels the highway presented us...and finally, the surprise, long-awaited but always new: the landscapes, solid green and brown with lacework of cream and gray hues of Dolomite rock, were enriched by the pure white of the snow, dotting the wooded valley as it rose like powdered sugar on a chocolate cake.

Finally, the highway, the last vestige of the "lower" world, was abandoned in favor of mountain roads scented with conifers and where the air smelled good.

The strip of asphalt seemed set among centuries-old fir trees, so intensely green it almost hurt the eyes. They towered over an undergrowth of beige pine needles and mossy rocks.

Every now and then, a flash of something alive reminded us that life was pulsating in those mountains.

The numerous hairpin bends took us ever higher, challenging those peaks, whose past is buried in oceans; They looked at us with the severity of teachers unsure whether to lecture us in the face of such insolence, and with the love of a mother, who welcomes the prodigal son into her skirts.

We were a procession of pilgrims who had come from far away to admire their forms. Timid men who irrationally turned down the radio to honor the landscape.

Humble, before the majesty of the Dolomites.

The initial bumps were surmounted with ease by our little caravan: even though we had come from far away, we were experts at tackling the treacherous climbs dotted with stalled cars, drivers struggling with spinning tires, and the puzzle of installing snow chains.

We left the less worthy behind without looking back. No mercy.

With the last mile of dancing, our cars crossed the Gardena Pass, and there we saw it, the sign: "Bëgn udüs. Welcome." Welcome - to Alta Badia. That year too, we had been rewarded for our journey.

Bëgn udüs...welcome. How strange that mountain language, Ladin, sounded to our young ears when the locals greeted us around town! But over time, it became synonymous with vacation and the cold, exotic scents of those valleys.

Corvara awaited us a few kilometers further down. We could already see it. It lay peacefully in the last lane of the Badia Valley. Comfortable and satiated, it seemed to stretch out along the valley like a noble Etruscan after a sumptuous lunch.

The excitement and ecstasy of the end of the pilgrimage gripped everyone, young and old. We had finally arrived. We glided through the narrow streets of Corvara, our cars puffing from the journey, catching sight of a friendly, dark wooden roof in the distance. Unique, indistinguishable.

Our families, and before them my father and uncle, have always stayed at the Garnì—the name for a guesthouse or hotel in South Tyrol—"Bonaria."

Moreover: since its founding.

The two had the honor of meeting one of the kings of these valleys at a very young age. Their, and consequently our, ski instructor. An expert in every type of technique, refuges, slopes, jumps, and passes.

secret places throughout the Alps.

As an adult, I happened to speak with ski instructors from far-flung places who, at the mention of his name, would bow their heads in respect.

I'm talking about Siegfried Pezzedi, the man to whom I owe the boundless passion with which my father took us to these wonderful places almost every winter, starting at the tender age of four.

They met him in their twenties, in the late 1960s, when they first came to this corner of Italy that had a strong Austrian feel.

He was their first ski instructor.

They immediately became friends, thanks to the explosive mix of Roman charm and subtle mountain hilarity. From then on, they returned to Corvara every year, with Siegfried as their instructor and guide to secret gatherings filled with grappa, hunting stories, and valley intrigues that wouldn't be out of place in any court chronicle.

A few years later, Siegfried opened his small hotel with his wife, Herta.

Dad and Uncle Maurizio have been guests at the Garnì Bonaria ever since. We, their proud offspring, could be said to have experienced it in our swaddling clothes. Perhaps my cousins ​​and I were even conceived there. I like to think so.

They were waiting for us in the lobby filled with hand-carved, light-colored wood furniture, typical of the Dolomites. Alessandro and I had barely put down our first bags before the ritual began. The Maestro was a tall man, a few years older than my father but looking older.

No.

Ancient was the right word, with tanned skin, carved from wood and leather, forged into a labyrinth of wrinkles by the sun and the harsh weather of the high altitudes. The price we pay to the gods of the valleys for living in this corner of paradise. He gave the impression of a gruff man, but his features were softened by playful eyes like those of children, and his mouth was a white gash, always ready to smile, aware of a joke only he knew. Apparently slim, he actually had the texture of an oak tree. His hands matched the skin of his face: heavy, calloused, yet gentle.

Siegfried would measure us, slowly circling us. Then he would stop, satisfied, and comment, patting us on the head, "You've grown, huh? Good, because this year we're doing difficult things... I haven't decided yet whether to take you to the poles—for the uninitiated, that's preparatory training for the slalom, remember Alberto Tomba in the good old days? Well, we weren't like that, obviously, but we tried—or take you straight to the Quattro Passi circuit, which has a lot of new jumps this year."

A bit like saying, "I don't know whether to take you to the fairways or keep you on your toes studying all day."

Alessandro and I looked at each other and smiled.

We would end up doing both. As always.

Herta, beside him, greeted our families with a peremptory and musical "Allora!" As if to say, "Allora! It took you a while to get here, huh? But since I love you all, I made cookies with powdered sugar on top again this year. They're in your rooms, on the fridge."

So many things can be communicated with one word.

Over time, we had learned to understand all the nuances of his "Allora!" Much depended on the accent on the last "a."

Mind you, it could also serve as a warning.

Like when he found us in the breakfast room downstairs playing Monopoly instead of doing homework. His "Allora!" had a completely different tone in those circumstances!

If Siegfried was the King of the slopes, she was certainly the Queen of the home, managing, then as now, their guesthouse with the precision of a Swiss guard.

And it showed.

The guesthouse was small but welcoming. It spanned three floors, with three or four rooms and apartments per floor. Everything was meticulously crafted with those simple wood finishes and furnishings so common in the Dolomite Alps, exuding a timeless charm and built to last.

Almost every piece of furniture was laden with photos, cups, medals, and sports awards of Siegfried and his sons, Ivo and Mitti, also ski instructors (of course). Only toward the ground floor, near the living area, were the cups and medals replaced by faded photos of the youth of this happy and timeless couple. A clear sign of the boundary between the dominion of the King and that of the Queen.

The scent of lilac and wild rosehip permeated the stairs, enclosed by a wrought-iron handrail, which ran from the ground floor to the third-floor attic.

A simple plasticized sign reading "Do not climb with ski boots on" broke the artisanal atmosphere of the place.

Of course, the four of us climbed it punctually, earning us some very, very angry "So!"s from the Queen.

Finally, the long-awaited days of skiing began, complete with ski school every blessed morning.

Finally, the long-awaited days of skiing began.
, complete with ski school every blessed morning.

Ale and I always cheated during the selection process to be put in the same group. At the time, he (and perhaps not only him) was better than me.

We waited in line with the other kids for the ski instructor in charge of class selection to come by after a very brief tryout on 50 meters of slope.

"You yes, you no, you go to class 5, you stay here...", he would come up to us and usually direct us with a pat on the head to different but "nearby" classes.

He separated them with ski poles planted like flags, dividing the groups of budding skiers.

The poles magically shifted to include me or Alessandro in one class or the other. The other kids looked at us in horror, as if accusing us of having desecrated some official moment.

They didn't know we were almost at home there.

Usually the instructor, who was often the same one from the previous year, noticed. He'd roll his eyes, turn around, and continue his round of introductions: "You're welcome, you're welcome, you're in the beginners' course..."

Alessandro and I exchanged satisfied glances: that year, too, it was a success.

Those mornings are a confusing kaleidoscope, blending like colors on a painter's palette.

The races with Alessandro, chasing as many jumps as possible along the slope, defying the instructions of our guides.

The trips to the Marmolada glacier, where the sky was a true blue and the light reflecting off the ice of the slope hurt the eyes. Where you could fill your lungs with pure air, just long enough to dive down one of the most panoramic slopes in the Dolomites.

The races to outrun everyone in the single file that formed: long lines led by a teacher in a red or blue tracksuit and long, long lines of students filled with fear, excitement, frustration at yet another fall, or simply amazement at those frigid yet warm scenes, tinged with pink and crimson, of the Dolomite valleys in January and February.

The ski resorts welcomed us with the rhythmic sound of chairlift seats clattering rapidly from the mountain station. Veritable mountain subways, metal arteries that carried the lifeblood of tourism to this kingdom.

Before lunch, after their respective lessons, Dad and Uncle returned from their mysterious morning rounds, collecting their offspring at the start of Col Alto, the main ski lift in Corvara at the time.

There was always time for a few runs together before lunch, and our parents, strict and demanding teachers, always wanted to check if their children were properly forging themselves in the sacred fires of alpine skiing.

Like modern-day ninja masters evaluating students still uninitiated in the secret arts of the ancient East.

We kids actually just wanted to have fun and often resented their lessons, but I have to thank them if I now consider myself reasonably good.

Uncle Maurizio would take the floor, with his proud Tuscan accent, which blends with his Roman accent, making it still unique and engaging despite the harshness of his explanations of skiing techniques. "So, guys, torso facing downhill, hips facing uphill..." While he spoke, he would position himself like a mannequin, his torso bent in a concentrated pose, letting himself slide slightly downhill. "...then shift your weight, mind you, the weight on the downhill ski!" When you make a turn, you lean down, down...down, 'Sandro! Don't stand up! You lean down, point the stick, and pull yourself up like a spring and make the turn.'...and boom! Suddenly he'd pull himself up, lightening his weight on his skis, rotating in the long-awaited turn, "...then it repeats. Now Leo comes down and shows you. You start when we stop, so you can show us if you've understood!"

At that point, Dad would take off with the speed of a hawk.

He would quickly descend the slope with the agility of a man fifteen years younger, drawing a line of turns on the slope's wall, executed with the cadence of a well-constructed metronome.

He would stitch the white expanse with a perfect serpentine. A skilled tailor, executing a gigantic cross-stitch on a sheet of snow and ice.

We cousins ​​would always exchange a few plaintive jokes. A trick to ease the tension every child experiences when they're about to be judged by their parents.

We tried with all our heart, but we could never have emulated such seasoned skiers.

On the other hand, we had the complete lack of fear that only a group of tough guys raised on ski holidays from a young age could possess.

What was it like? Hips uphill and weight downhill? The attempt to achieve technical perfection lasted as long as speed brought that thrill of freedom and enjoyment we sought.

When the air whistles in your ears and the cold mountain wind whips you so hard it makes your feet numb.

cheeks, penetrating the fleece of my hat.

At that point, everything vanished, leaving only the desire to continue. Infinitely.

It still happens to me today when I go skiing.

We often ended up falling, knocked off balance by a pile of fresh snow or a sudden slope. We laughed about it. Dad and uncle would tear their hair out.

On rare occasions, we were more diligent and they complimented us, but we didn't want to give them too much satisfaction.

It's thanks to their perseverance and these draconian lessons that, over time, as I grew older, the pieces fell into place. Slowly absorbed by my mind and muscles, until they converged into the techniques they so desperately tried to teach me as a child.

Like a plant that's watered but never blooms, until one fine morning, when you find a bud you didn't expect.

I first noticed it during ski trips with my high school friends.

Movements that other friends, not exactly inexperienced, found difficult or performed sloppily came naturally to me. It was a balm for my popularity, which wasn't exactly great, in high school.

There, I realized how much I'd learned as a child and its value.

Around lunchtime, we'd arrive, rattling aboard some chairlift, at the mountain hut where Mom and Aunt were waiting for us. They'd wait for us on some panoramic terrace, waving from afar, as one does at a station when a train leaves.

We were always ravenous.

We'd stride boldly into these wooden huts packed with skiers in multicolored ski suits. We'd easily penetrate the wall of spicy aromas of Ladin cuisine mingled with the faint scent of cigarette smoke and juniper grappa.

We had the arrogance of hungry cowboys entering a Wild West saloon after a ride of hundreds of kilometers through the Colorado desert.

At least, the pace was that of the damned boots that constantly forced you into a "heel-toe-heel-toe" dance to avoid slipping.

We must have been a hilarious sight, but we were so hungry for food that we didn't care.

We threw ourselves onto the refuge counter, evaluating the dishes on display: speck with Puccia—the dark sesame bread they use in those valleys—polenta with mushrooms, spicy goulash, or simply a sausage sandwich.

We would have devoured it all.

Fat and happy as chicks, we had just enough time for a quick break before the most challenging moment of the day arrived.

The hardest test.

The private lesson with Siegfried.

A mixture of exhaustion and excitement pervaded Alessandro and me, the "grown-ups" for whom those secret lessons were reserved.

Two more hours on slopes even more difficult and icy than the previous ones.

We felt like squires selected for a grueling apprenticeship by their lord, to have the honor of serving him as knights in the future.

Of course, they would be adorned with ruinous falls, bruised bottoms, sore muscles, and half-frozen limbs in soaked Gore-Tex gloves.

But they would also be full of new places to explore, refuges where you could buy Austrian chocolates of unlikely flavors, and secret paths to follow through thick woods that suddenly lead to a beautiful drop, the kind that makes your stomach jump.

Things that only a Maestro like Siegfried could give you.

His modus operandi was to always take us on slopes reserved for more expert skiers. His great classic, which later became our favorite, was the Gran Risa, a famous stage of the Alpine Ski World Championships.

Simply one of the slopes with the steepest gradient in the Dolomites: 63% at its steepest.

Furthermore, the Gran Risa route transformed after lunch, making its roughly 1.5-kilometer stretch even more treacherous.

Tired and worn out by the hundreds of skiers who had recklessly worn it down throughout the day, it bared its claws in the form of long sheets of ice in a thousand shades of turquoise. The snow accumulated by the morning's long hours of fun transformed into compact, waist-high whitish bumps, sometimes with an even steeper drop on the hidden side, toward the valley.

In the narrow passages, fist-sized granite rocks sometimes jutted out from the white blanket, making it even more difficult to maintain stability.

In the 1990s, the gully was only a few dozen meters wide in several places, and the route, when it curved and changed direction in the fir and conifer forest, took on an almost vertical slope.

The Gran Risa. Translated from Ladin: the great rift.

A frigid hell along the mountainside.

And we, the youngsters, saw only amazement on the faces of the adults we passed with ease and a bit of recklessness, struggling behind.

Or to our Guru and mountain deity.

I can't remember how many falls we took on that slope. But I certainly remember the value of always getting back up, that place gave me.

The ski week went by like this. Quickly. Always too quickly. Faster than we could ever have skied.

Between hot chocolate at the Café Corvara, between feasting on dumplings in broth or venison with blueberries, it was already time to begin the ritual of packing our bags into our respective cars and the long journey home. This time, tinged with melancholy, no longer with euphoria.

Over the years, we grew up. My parents and uncles got older.

Everyone began to have their own commitments, big and small: first with studies, then with work.

The opportunities to spend a ski week together slowly dwindled.

The laughing Siegfried, the Maestro who used to ski down the slopes, jokingly, just to entertain us, and who made us drink hot chocolate laced with liqueur in the huts on Mount Boè above Corvara, has passed away after fighting his battle with a terrible illness.

He completed his final descent, hips facing uphill and torso facing downhill, with his perfect technique and springy legs. Gliding elegantly and quickly down the final slope. Disappearing from view at the change in gradient with a final burst of agility and technique.

There, where we can no longer follow him.

But Siegfried, rest assured, you have won the battle for your legacy. Your children, the new top experts of those valleys, carry it forward, along with us, the children now adults you taught.

The Garnì Bonaria is still there, immaculate and everlasting in those valleys frozen only by the temperatures. With its queen of the hearth, Herta, diligently managing everything, welcoming guests with freshly baked pastries.

Whenever I can, I always try to organize a week of skiing in Corvara. Sometimes I manage to organize it with my cousins, other times with friends. Other times, unfortunately, I can't.

But when I cross the Gardena Pass and enter that world, I feel rejuvenated, I always feel like a child, I always feel at home.

Bëgn udüs. Welcome. Willkommen.

Bëgn udüs in Alta Badia.