I’m craning my neck to take in the imposing, snow-dusted peaks as we rapidly start climbing through a valley carved by a river blue gray with glacial run-off. Topher, our 60-pound dog, and I are driving from Croatia. Like out of a dream, the peaks I’ve been fantasizing about for years get closer and closer as we eat up the kilometers: the Dolomites. It’s a tense thirty seconds of me unhelpfully squealing, “look, look, look!” before he sees the mountains, too. The gasp I make rattles my husband Topher, who jerks the wheel in concern that we’re about to hit something. ![]() ![]() I’m focused on the true crime podcast coming through the speakers when the low layer of clouds suddenly parts. It’s a Friday afternoon in fall, and the A27 highway is deserted as small Italian villages and dormant farmland pass by the windows of our rental car.
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