Prosecco and Potato Chips

The snow piled onto the hood of my dad’s station wagon at an astounding rate. We sat, bumper to bumper as the sun set, crawling our way into Cortina d’Ampezzo in search of steep powder skiing. It was clear from the traffic that hundreds of other skiers had gotten wind of the storm, too. My dad’s eyes don’t work as well as they used to, so he had me drive. What better time to learn to drive stick than in stop-start traffic as flakes fell multiple inches per hour? Frustrated and hungry, the minutes turned to hours as we puttered through medieval Italian streets. We were eager for a shortcut.

My dad scanned Google Maps looking for a side street. Finding a lone, winding alley, he urged me to slither around the red snake. I crept up a hill and climbed atop the town, squinting through the raging blizzard. We were soon atop an unplowed, San Francisco-steep cobblestone street. Shifting to a low gear, I tried to crawl downhill but lost traction. Despite frantic countersteering, we plugged into an 8-foot-high snowbank.

Concerned Italians began to poke their noses out of chalet-style doors looking for the source of the commotion. A woman, about 50 years old, approached the car. “State bene?” she asked. I stammered in mediocre Italian that we were unharmed, but needed a tow. Her name was Elena, and she waved me and my dad inside.

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