My father rode already in the sixties on his motor bike to Italy. His striking black and white photo of a road sign  announcing “Lago di Garda” is still creating a lot of emotions in me. My parents spent their first holidays in the beautiful wine village of Lana in Alto Adige. Consequently they graced me with an Italian first name. As a family with my little sister in tow we went many more times to Alto Adige. We hiked on the gentle alpine meadows of Alpe di Siusi and stood in awe in front of the Dolomites, a mountain range by far not as high but at least as spectacular as the Himalayas.

Eating delicious Italian ice cream in a parlor in Sand in Taufers, Campo Tures in Italian, is a  dear childhood memory of me. For most of my compatriots, Italians are what Germans would like to be but only rarely dare to be: Cool with or without sunglasses, romantic, sensuous, and, quite unfortunately always beating us in football world cups. Italians did not need to invent “work-life-balance” – they easily seem to keep it by nature. I very much admire that younger Italians rather share home and table with their elders than parking them in elderly homes.

Travelling from my home in Southern Germany to Italy, on a roadtrip in particular, has been and still is, always special. Upon crossing the Brenner, you immediately feel that the light is brighter and the air softer, deliciously fragrant with lemon and thyme. My love for Italy is not just about sights. Of course there are cities like Napoli which is driven crazy by its location below Mount Vesuvius. Or think of the sturdy eternity of Rome. There are the immaculate cypress avenues of Tuscany, the frivolous beaches of Apulia and Sardinia and the oriental markets of Palermo. But for me, above all, there is the supreme greatness of Italian food which is only tested by my passion for Chinese food.

In Eataly eating well is a mission. I visited my friend Tammi and his wife Eva in an undisclosed place in a former caldera where Tammy had just bought country house from the money he got from selling his Berlin club. You have to be a versed gold digger to find this beautiful place which for me in some aspects even trumps Umbria or Tuscany. With at least two advantages: It’s just an hour north of Rome but with almost no tourist in sight. In just one day I had the pleasure of meeting Francesca who makes by hand the freshest pasta on earth (my favorite pasta are Pici), I met Fabio and Federico, two butchers who do delicious cinghale salami and who invited my friend Tammy for a wild boar hunt. We went shopping in a cozy but fantastically stocked no—brand super market from which I thought those would no longer exist (think fresh octopus, think self made hot porcetta to take away as a snack). I love how Italians celebrate their meals as well-organised feasts but always manage to never overeat. They start with pickled antipasti, then pasta with either pesce or carne as primi piatti. To secure perfect culinary harmony the secondi piatti would need to be either pesce or carne each time corresponding with your primo piatto. Side dishes are forgone, olive oil, salad and salt just do it. To close a meal Italians have “Dolce“, for me the most beautiful word for things like Tiramisu or Ricotta trifle with salted  Amaretto.

Dolce vita!