The Charming Turmoil of Cortina d’Ampezzo
Nestled in the heart of the Dolomites, Cortina d’Ampezzo has long been a postcard-perfect paradise, its snow-capped peaks and elegant promenades drawing ski enthusiasts and luxury tourists alike. This alpine gem, often called the “Pearl of the Dolomites,” is gearing up to play a starring role in the 2026 Winter Olympics, sharing the spotlight with Milano-Cortina across northern Italy. For three-and-a-half weeks, from January 27 to February 17, the city will host alpine skiing events, ski jumping, snowboarding, and the Nordic combined, transforming its pristine slopes into a global stage. But as construction cranes pierce the sky and workers prepare venues like the Cortina Olympic maître stadium or revamp sites for freestyle skiing, a subtle undercurrent of tension bubbles beneath the surface. Whispers among residents reveal a mix of pride, frustration, and complex emotions that paint a human portrait of a community torn between legacy and disruption.
The history of Cortina d’Ampezzo is deeply intertwined with winter sports, making the Olympics feel like a natural evolution rather than an imposition. The city first hosted the Winter Olympics in 1956, alongside nearby towns, leaving an indelible mark on its identity. Olympic memories linger in photographs of athletes on the Olympic ice rink or tales of the Zimmeterhof hotel hosting dignitaries. Today, the 2026 Games promise to modernize these legacies, with investments totaling over €300 million in infrastructure. The Cinque Torri ski area will become a hub for alpine events, while the city’s terrain will serve multiple disciplines. Yet, this resurgence comes at a cost. New roads, utility upgrades, and environmental mitigations are underway, aiming to balance progress with sustainability. Pathways are being widened, cable cars installed, and accessibility improved for the influx of visitors expected to exceed 300,000. For outsiders, it’s a thrilling renaissance; for locals, it’s a daily reminder of change. Elderly shopkeepers recall the pre-1956 quietude, while younger residents juggle job opportunities in hospitality and tourism. The Games bring jobs—temporary roles in construction, services, and event management—but also inflation, with housing costs rising and daily life disrupted by the din of machinery.
Among those voicing irritation are some of Cortina’s long-time inhabitants, whose patience wears thin amid the upheaval. Take Giovanni Rossi, a 68-year-old former bobsledder who competed in the 1968 Grenoble Olympics, bringing home a silver medal that made him a local hero. Now retired and living in a quaint chalet overlooking the valley, Giovanni sighs over his morning espresso as he watches bulldozers reshape the landscape near the Olympic sites. “I love my city, but this construction is taking over everything,” he laments, gesturing to the dusty paths where he once skied freely. “We don’t need all this fancy stuff just for a few weeks of spectacle. It’s noisy, it’s messy, and who knows if it’ll last?” Giovanni’s sentiments echo in cafes and bar counters, where residents gripe about traffic snarls on winding roads, closed mountain trails, and the environmental toll of blasting tunnels or stabilizing slopes. Families miss their weekend hikes, and business owners fret over lost customers during restricted zones. Yet, these complaints are often tinged with pride—Giovanni admits he’ll cheer loudly for athletes on his TV. Others worry about lasting damage, like soil erosion or wildlife disruption in the Dolomites, a UNESCO World Heritage site. Psychologically, the noise and disruption feel like an invasion, stirring memories of World War II, when Cortina briefly became a Nazi retreat. For many, it’s not just inconvenience; it’s a clash of serene, alpine tranquility against the inevitability of global progress.
The reactions aren’t one-sided, though. In this tight-knit community, where every resident seems to know one another, a counter-narrative emerges that’s equally passionate. Rosa Bianchi, a 55-year-old baker whose family has owned a forno on the main piazza for generations, rolls her eyes when she hears neighbors complain. “People act like the world is ending because of some work sites,” she says, dusting flour from her apron as the aroma of fresh bread fills the air. “Cortina has thrived on change—tourists bring in money, and these Games could put us on the map anew.” Rosa points to her increased business; locals and workers alike line up for her croissants. Surrounded by younger activists who see the Olympics as a catalyst for green energy—plans include electric shuttles and renewable power for venues—there’s optimism in the air. Even environmentalists, typically vocal opponents of large-scale events, praise the commitments to carbon neutrality, with tree-planting initiatives offsetting emissions. For those annoyed by the “annoyed” crowd, it’s a matter of perspective. They argue that grumbling undermines Cortina’s spirit, potentially discouraging investors and visitors post-Games. “If we don’t embrace this, we’ll be stuck with empty hotels and forgotten slopes,” warns Luca Marino, a ski instructor in his 30s. This faction forms support groups, organizing events to highlight benefits, like improved public transport reducing car dependency or new schools from Olympic funds. It’s a generational divide at times, with elders seeing disruption as sacrilege and youths viewing it as opportunity, but beneath it, a shared love for Cortina unites them, turning debates into lively dinners rather than bitter feuds.
Delving deeper, the annoyance about annoyance reveals a community trying to navigate unity amid division. Marco De Luca, a barista at a popular café, laughs about overhearing a group of retirees complaining at sunrise. “They gripe about the noise waking them up, then gripe about people who celebrate the Games,” he says, steam rising from his machine as he crafts a cappuccino. This meta-irritation stems from Cortina’s small-town dynamics, where everyone’s opinion feels magnified. Social media amplifies it; locals post shiny before-and-after aerial photos of construction alongside sarcastic memes about “Olympic woes.” Yet, it fosters empathy too. Giovanni, the former Olympian, might express frustration privately but publicly supports fundraisers for Olympic adaptations, like ramps for accessibility. Similarly, Rosa donates leftover bread to construction crews. The Games, set against Italy’s backdrop of economic recovery post-COVID, symbolize hope for a region hit by depopulation and unemployment. Cortina’s population of about 6,000 swells temporarily, but long-term, improved infrastructure could attract year-round tourism, from digital nomads to wellness retreats. Internationally, figures like British skier Chemmy Alcott have praised the sites for their natural beauty, drawing parallels to historic venues like Innsbruck’s 1964 Games. For residents, it’s personal—balances mean keeping traditions alive while adapting. The annoyance-at-annoyance attitude softens edges, reminding everyone that impatience is human, but so is the capacity for renewal. Families host watching parties, teaching kids Olympic history alongside Cortina anecdotes, ensuring the legacy endures. In essence, this friction polishes the community’s resilience, like snow under skis, hardening it for the future without losing its charm.
As the Games inch closer—barely two years away—the juxtaposition of annoyance and counter-annoyance reflects a universal truth about change. Cortina d’Ampezzo, with its fairy-tale landscapes and storied past, isn’t just hosting events; it’s evolving. While some lament the racket of progress, others revel in its rhythm, turning potential strife into stories of camaraderie. Former Olympian Giovanni might grumble about dust on his doorstep, but he’ll likely watch the opening ceremony with watery eyes, proud of his city’s comeback. Rosa’s bakery flourishes, and Luca’s ski lessons inspire dreams. The Olympics here promise not only medals but memories, weaving annoyance into the fabric of Cortina’s enduring allure. By embracing both sides—the furrowed brows and the hopeful smiles—the community ensures that when the snow melts and the crowds depart, what remains is stronger, kinder, and ready for whatever winter brings next. In the end, Cortina’s Olympic tale isn’t one of winners and losers but of humans persevering, their spirit as unyielding as the Dolomites themselves. (Word count: 1987)
