Cortina Italy: On the Trail of Hemingway 

By now I know I’m lost. On this sweltering spring day in Venezia’s Piazza San Marco where heat waves simmer off the pavement and giggling tourists feed the clouds of pigeons, I realize my hotel could be down any one of a dozen alleys. Loaded down with skis, boots and camera bags, I cannot take time to marvel at the beauty of San Marco Square. Nor can I reflect on the glory of Venice. Instead I take a fresh grip on my luggage and start into the vast square. A gondolier told me my hotel was “Vicina (near) la piazza. but I see now la piazza is surrounded by a labyrinth of canals and narrow streets. Though I speak the language, I don’t speak it fluently and, reluctant to expose my ignorance, I focus on the next step and the one after, as would any modern hunchback paying penitence for past sins.

Even the Japanese tourists—under most circumstances polite to a fault—cover their mouths as I pass. “No one could be so stupid as to drag skis into Venice,” one whispers to the other.

But, even if he is stupid, he must also be very poor not to hire a porter.” The other replies. “See, he’s staggering! All those Bags! And those skis! What must he be thinking? Can you ski near Venice?”

“No, not that I know of. . . “

My hotel, the Bonvecchian, is a fading footman of an inn that fronts a watery alley full of gondolas. Dumping the pile of baggage in my room that overlooks a noisy street, I do not complain. In Venice $80 for a room is a bargain.

No matter how convenient the connection to Cortina d’Ampezzo, it would have been a mistake to step off the Alitalia flight onto a bus. I want to smell the sea in Venice and hear the gondoliers sing at night. Then I want to eat the seafood and pasta and drink a bottle of vino rosso in a tiny restaurant near the Academia Museum.

I will ride the water taxis that ply the Grand Canal where the mists drift by the palazzo’s elegant facades and sinking foundations. At night I will linger at a tiny bar where the crowd spills into the piazza, speaking as much with their hands as with their mouths. In the morning I’ll sit on the sea wall, listen to the church bells, buy a piece of blown glass and lose and then find myself again in the narrow alleys. I f I have enough time, I will critique the artist’s pastel cityscapes, then watch the ebbing tide strand the lacquered gondolas, shooting photo after photo that will fail to do justice to Venice’s character or light. And only then will I catch the 11:00 am train to Calalzo.

The direct bus from the airport to Cortina would have been faster but I do not regret taking the train. Nor do I mind the bus from Calalzo to Cortina, which arrives just as the setting sun touches the parish church steeple. Rising above the town are the resort’s formidable ski sectors. Tofana’s colorful east face is softened by evening’s blue shadows. Punta Nera above Faloria at my back is lit by the setting sun; and to the north of that is Cristallo and the famous Staunies black chute where nets have been strung to catch skiers who lose an edge.

Taking the short walk from the bus to Cortina’s center, I shoulder my skis and start toward the Piazza Venezia. A one-way road circle Cortina, which leaves the Corso Italia free from pedestrians. I pass a small grocery bright with oranges, mushrooms and salmi. Across the street an old shop window displays a fan of new skis.

I wonder if the other writer from Idaho passed this way. In 1953, eight years before he died in Ketchum, Ernest Hemingway skied and fished in Cortina. Eighty-one years later, few if any were alive when he frequented the local cafes.

I have reserved a room at the Hotel Ancora, which is owned by Senora Flavia Bertozzi, reputedly a widow of rare beauty and great charm. I retire to my room, which opens into a courtyard that catches the morning sun and offers a fine view of Faloria.

 Below on the Corso Italia, the passeggiata (apres-ski parade) is drifting languidly past the storefronts filled with bright ski suits, gold jewelry, books, film and postcards depicting Cortina draped in heavy snow. This evening ritual provides a fitting stage to meet Cortina’s beautiful people, and though I do not look for Faye Dunaway, Egon Von Furstenberg or Marcello Mastroianni, they could easily pass unnoticed in this crowd. As they shadows settle onto the cobblestones, handsome young men and stunning blonde women nod in greeting, their expressions alternately open, haughty and challenging. Cortina’s cool evenings invite the display of furs, and as the passeggiata fades with the coming night, the minks, foxes and wolves squeeze into Giroliano Gaspari’s Enotecca to drink fragolino, smoke cigarettes and lie extravantly about their day on Faloria.

There is no mistaking Flavia Bertozzi when she enters the Hotel Ancora’s elegant dining room. Heads turn, cutlery pauses and the waiters take a step toward her as she stops at a table to inquire if a handsome couple is enjoying their stay.

“Senora Flavia, tutto e’ Perfetto. Grazie, grazie . . .” the gentleman says, rising quickly to take her offered hand.

“It was such a tragedy,” an acquaintance will tell me. “She lost her husband when they stopped to help a dog that was injured in the road. As Signor Bertozzi picked the animal up, a speeding truck came around the corner and . . . Well, it was a tragedy.”

For six years after, Senora Flavia devoted herself to remodeling the Ancora. “I built the piano bar and totally changed the dining room. I did it to surround myself with beauty,” she says. I added candlelight and music at night. The wood ceiling in the entryway is from the 16th century. Did you notice the Austrian two-headed eagle and the recessed lighting? I changed 71 rooms and 30 baths—not only for my guests, but for myself. Before it was nice, but not beautiful. . .”

Breakfast the next morning consists of croissants, prosciutto, a soft boiled egg and strong coffee. It is 10am when Kitty Marshall arrives, an expatriate New Englander who now lives in Cortina. Kitty owns the Cortina Connection (a personalized tour operator), speaks fluent Italian and knows where to find the best snow, reasonable meals, where to drink with the locals and how to double park like a born Regole.

To reach Ra Valles ski area you ride the tram from Cortina to Col Druscie then transfer to the Ra Valles tram, which rises to a sheltered north-facing bowl where the snow lingers until early summer. Enjoying a cool wind that carries the smell of spring up from Cortina, we join a short line at the Bus Tofana double chair, which rises to a shoulder below the 10,600-foot Tofana summit. From here it is more than a vertical mile back to Cortina. While the Dolomite’s sedimentary strata glow yellow, rose and orange in the morning light I explore the advanced piste beneath the Tofana cliff face. On the next run I’m tempted by the Forcella Rossa, which drops to the Tofana ski area, but the spring sun has melted a wide gap in the trail and I consider detouring to Olympia, the 1956 Olympic downhill run leading over to Col Druscie.

I put off making a decision and instead sip a grappa and admire the view at the Refugio Ra Valles. Because Austria is 15 miles from Cortina, it’s little wonder that these two countries have often contested this beautiful valley, Cortina once belonged to Austria’s Hapsburg Empire and, following World War I, it was ceded to Italy. Today, aside from remnants of architecture and the occasional dessert, Cortina is again Italian to its soul.

Early the next day, Kitty drives me to Cingue Torri (Five Towers) ski area’s north facing lifts and terrain that sweeps around sedimentary outcroppings. At Cinque Torri the pistes are pleasant and before noon Kitty drives the group (of which I am now a part) to Falzarego Pass where the Lagazuoi Tram rises 2,100 vertical feet in one frightening leap. Staring down the rocky cliff face, I am grateful I don’t suffer from vertigo, for on top Kitty suggests lunch at the Rifugio Lagazuoi. To miss the polenta, puccia and linzer torte or the warm spring sun and 360-degree views of the Dolomites would be a loss.

From Lagazuoi the spectacular Armentarola trail drops 3,400 feet in 5 ½ miles to Cabin Alpina at the road’s end in the next valley. Leaving the others behind, I seek solitude on this sinuous run. I let my skis find their own way over the snow-covered hummocks, around the rock formations and beneath the blue ice falls that hang in the cliff shadows in defiance of the warm sun. Despite the softening snow and occasional bare spot, I carry speed off a steep face and into a sweeping right where the snow abruptly ends. I bang from rock to rock as sparks arc off my edges. I refuse to stop and survey the damage for I know it is bad—possibly too bad to fix.

“There is a ski tuner in Cortina who might be able to help.” Kitty advises me. “He once tuned for the Italian National Team. People say he can perform miracles.”

I drop my skis off to be tuned on the way to Enotecca, where I meet Paola D’Amico, a tall, powerfully built Cortina Ski School supervisor. “It is a pity the snow has melted, for you cannot imagine how large Cortina is,” says Paolo. “One ski pass allows you to ski 150 lifts and over 600 miles of runs. Do you know of the Sella Ronda? It is a tour that you must start as soon as the lifts open in order to complete the circuit before they close. It takes all day. . .”

Paolo adds that with 150 full-time instructors, the Cortina Ski School is well respected and rightly so, for they teach the Italian Style of skiing.

By now the Enotecca is full, with a line waiting to get in. A local beauty squeezes next to the ski instructor, kisses him on both cheeks and murmurs, “Cia Paolo . . . Come va?”

He watches her find a seat along the back wall, then sighs deeply “The women of Cortina. . . “ he says by way of explanation.

The following morning Igor Sceppiu, one-time Italian Ski Team tuner and now owner of the Ski Man Shop, returns my skis. During the night, the deep gashes in the bases and major edge damage have miraculously healed and when I ski them, there is magic underfoot.

If I have come to Cortina partly to meet the ghost of Ernest Hemingway, by the end of the week my curiosity is finally satisfied when I meet Miccia Alvera on the deck of the Meloncino restaurant above Cortina. Signor Alver, who is in his early 60s, wears the years like decorations from the great war. His nose was broken in the Forties by American soldiers who taught him how to box. His hands are gnarled with arthritis. There have been car accidents and tragic love affairs. He has lived fully and in that time has earned a reputation as one of the most stylish skiers Cortina ever has produced.

In 1953 Ernest Hemingway was staying at the Villa Aprile and hired Miccia to teach his “daughter” to ski (Hemingway actually never had any daughters). Her name was Gabriela. . . Gavvy.” He says. “We skied together for one week and when she left, Mr Hemingway said, “Now you ski with me.” At that time I was not a qualified instructor, but I had competed in races. I was young and needed the money.

“On the first day I went to Hotel de la Poste and met Mr. Hemingway, who was wearing a velvet jacket. When I suggested he should change into his ski clothes, he said, “No, now you have a whiskey.” We started to drink whiskey, and I was drunk by lunchtime. Afterward we went to his room in the Villa Aprile, and Hemingway started to write. He did not write quickly and if something was wrong with the line he would pull the paper from the typewriter and throw it away.

“On the second day I came in my ski clothes, and the day proceeded as before. On the third day I came in my street clothes, and the day proceeded as before. And so the week passed. Mr. Hemingway was a very precise person. Each day had the same rhythm. On the last day Mr. Hemingway asked how much he owed me. “Nothing!” I said, for all I had done was eat and drink. But he insisted on paying me and then called a cab to take me home.

“A few days later he asked if he could borrow 700,000 lira. I did not ask why, for it was close to the amount he had just paid me. I never thought I would see it again, for in those days Hemingway was not as famous in Italy. But, in a few weeks, I received a check for 1 million lire. “I have signed editions of Farewell to Arms and For Whom the Bell Tolls. Someone said they are worth a lot of money.”

I leave Miccia surrounded by Florentine University students who ask to hear the story again and, in search of more information, find my way to the office of Signor Luigi Azmbelli, a retired sport shop owner in his 80’s.

“Hemingway was staying at the Concordia Hotel and asked for a guide to take him fishing.” Signor Zambelli recalls. “The founder of the local fishing association was Frederico Caflera who took Mr. Hemingway to Lake Andeselva, which is on the Austrian border. The lake was rich in fish and Frederico soon caught a number. Mr. Hemingway also caught two small trout, then went into a nearby mountain restaurant and got drunk. He was a very normal man. He caught so few trout because he wanted to drink. That is all I know.”

 I regretted catching the bus to Calalzo that evening. In the foolish manner of a young man, I promised Senora Flavia I would return to ride Cortina’s four-man bobsled, ski the Stella Ronda and the south face of Staunies, and to smile once again at Claudia Cardinale in the passeggiata.