© Bressanone Turismo_Fabio De Villa
Six perspectives, one city stirring in the pale winter light.
Some cities withdraw into themselves in winter. Brixen — or Bressanone, as it is known in
Italian — does the opposite. Here in South Tyrol, where German and Italian meet and mingle,
winter carries the echoes of two worlds, two languages, and centuries of cultural crossings.
The result is a place that feels both alpine and Mediterranean, quiet and cosmopolitan,
ancient and vibrantly alive.
And within this weave of identities, small gestures open the door to an entire season.
At dawn, in the woods, among bookshelves, on slopes and in cloisters, six lives shape a
winter that does not need to speak loudly.
This is its day.
5 a.m.: Benjamin Profanter, the bread that awakens before the light
The city still sleeps, but in the bakery the oven already beats like an early heart.
Benjamin, flour on his hands, listens to the dough as if it were a language he knows by
instinct. It is the first warm breath of the day.
Outside, frost glitters; inside, everything smells of anticipation.
Here, bread understands the winter before anyone else.
At daybreak: Maria Fink, brushing the Plose smooth with her snow groomer
The sky hesitates between blue and rose. Maria drives her snowcat across silent ridges, the
only woman piste-groomer on the Plose. Each line she draws is a long, calm stroke across the
snow. For a brief moment, the mountain softens, almost confides in her. Soon it will return to
its wildness, but dawn belongs to them alone.
Late morning in the woods: Max Röck, listening to the snow
The forest does not speak, yet it listens. Max guides his group across paths that seem to have
been born overnight. Snow murmurs softly underfoot, the spruce trees hold their breath,
and the sunlight moves carefully between the branches.
Far from the bustle of winter, silence becomes a companion, one that brings the world a little
closer with every step.
In town: Bruno Kaser, keeper of the gentle winter light
In the Civic Library, the pale light falls like a pencil stroke through the tall window.
Bruno moves between shelves of wood and words, straightens a book, greets an early reader
wrapped against the cold.
Winter slows the sound of the room, making it warm and spacious.
Some places simply hold you. This library is one of them.
Afternoon in Neustift: Dr Hanns-Paul Ties, the echo of centuries
At the Abbey of Neustift, the cold is not an intruder, it is memory. Dr Ties crosses the cloister
with his notes; outside the wind brushes the ancient stone, inside he adjusts a light, checks a
date, studies a manuscript.
Nearly nine centuries walk with him. History is never loud, but it never sleeps.
Under the arcades: an elderly woman who knows the city’s rhythm
The day softens towards evening.
She walks slowly, her breath dissolving into the grey air. She pauses at a shop window, lets
her hand rest on the warm stone beneath the arches.
No urgency. Winter here does not demand, it invites.
A winter lived from within
Six perspectives, six gestures, six breaths of a city that does not merely endure winter: it
lives, works, thinks, keeps, guides and remembers.
Brixen is more than a destination.
It is a winter inhabited by the people who give it life.
www.brixen.org
