Cortina (draft)

a few hundred miles south of the Austrian border sat a small ski town nestled in the heart of the Italian Alps. the mornings were quiet and cool and you felt clean walking the streets before the sun rose and brought light to the valley. in the spring you could hike from Lago Di Braies to a small Rifugio further up the mountain where you felt warm by the fire and the wind would rise in the evenings with a deep howl from the valley below.

on spring days the gravel felt fine underneath your feet and the Lakes were still in the morning breeze. you would start the trails on a gentle incline before the terrain changed and you could hear the rush of the stream and the rocks began to slip from underneath you. it felt good to sweat as you climbed further in the silence, shedding layers as the sun rose and your body began to warm. you could the hear voices of people you could not see carried from above on the mountain, words in tongues you couldn't understand that were beautiful and full of wonder.

crip air greeted you on top of the ridge, the relief of the summit, the calm above the storm, the lush green expanse of grass and sunflowers that overwhelmed the skies rim. a father asleep in the white chair on the edge of the hill, crip beer swirling in clear glasses, the distant ring of cowbells, a life above the clouds. the jagged peaks of Seceda breaking the perfect skyline, small white trails snaking their way out of sight towards the river below. a feeling that you were standing on the doorstep of heaven, miles above the earth itself.

people screaming and laughing with joy, the distant roar of a waterfall churning below, the rattle of cable cars above suspended in the air like a spiders web. swimming in the freezing lake with the breath forced from your lungs. feeling heavy in the fresh water with tall mountains with spruce trees lining the edge of the Lake. the sun piercing through the canopy, your body shaking as you dried your feet and began to walk once more to feel alive.

a change in season now, the hum of a funicular passing high above the mountains into the ravine. rain falling gently on the slopes again, how immense the world felt under these grey skies. the crack of thunder down the valley, soaring on the top of the world. pastures spanning further than you could see, old cottages lined with pink flowers and small tanks that collected water running from the stream, a life desolate from the city, soaked in wonder and the cool drizzle from the sky above.

expand on that ^

the slow descent back towards the town as your thighs burned and your eyes watered and you could almost feel the warmth of a hot shower. steam pouring from underneath the door in the Chateau, the white bathrobes crumpled on the floor in the corner of the room,

her bare feet on the floorboards by the fire. Roberto's pizzeria busy again with the locals sat on the tables inside and the tourists out the back in the cold.

a place to feel something you obviously did, crisp air, hot chocolate in the square across from the church, reading and listening to conversations I didn’t understand. a beautiful girl working at the Hotel, blonde hair pinned back, wide jaw, light eyes. a stillness about the sun as it fell behind the mountains and the temperature dropped below zero. dreams of yesterday running wild in the solace of the night.

how I wrote best here on summer afternoons with the ink cold and my fingers trembling. in the foreground of the Cafe where the breeze blew at the pages and the sky fell into a pink daze. how you could feel a cool love in the Alps in spring before the tourists arrived and the winds blew from the south and you knew it was almost time to return to Paris.