WHY WE LOVE ITALY

Sneak peek of article soon appearing in print

As a palate cleanser, here’s a short piece that I wrote for Le Corner Kick, a local, print-only magazine that comes out four times a year. In my drafts folder right now, the two psychological obstacles preventing you from just writing the damn book and another instalment of the how to write emotions series.

Understand that for a few weeks following my return to Montreal from Italy, my mood alternates between rage and glassy-eyed disbelief.

Where did the sound of the ocean go? Why are cantaloupes like this? How is it 9AM and no one has flirted with me yet? Why is everyone moving so quickly? Why are these shoes so tight? Is it time for my afternoon riposino yet?

Friends tell me to stop being so dramatic, that yes, Italy is nice, but I’m just feeling this way because I was on vacation and now I’m not, that if I had gone anywhere else, it would be the same thing.

But, respectfully, no.

Genetically, I am only one generation removed from the central Italian region that my parents come from. An argument can be made that on a cellular level, I feel more “at home” in Italy. My skin is clearer, my circulation improves, I can eat dairy, I am less fatigued at the end of the day… Bloating? What bloating? But the truest reason for why I love Italy so much is probably also the same reason why everyone else loves Italy.

It operates at a slower, more andante pace. You are encouraged to linger, watch the world go by, savour the little moments and seek out pleasure in everything—and do it every day, not just on vacation.

There are places and times specifically set out for reflection, rest and conversation, in which you are not required to produce anything or be at anyone’s beck and call. Things will get done in the time that it takes and no sooner, so just cut up a peach for your wine and chill.

Gulf of Naples, as photographed from Vico Equense, September 2022

Coffee is savoured on the spot. A few moments that you carve out of every day for standing still, admiring passerby and arguing about politics. Dinner is late and leisurely, usually followed by a little stroll. Meals are made with the freshest ingredients and are aesthetically plated to encourage appetite and digestion. Time stops when you’re on the beach. You can simply exist, you’re a body lying in the sun, listening to the waves. Nature, the culture and cuisine, even the sound of Italian, seems designed to soothe the nervous system.

Once home, you’re thrust right back into fight or flight every time a Slack notification goes off. Your heart rate is at the mercy of productivity, making more money, strategizing about how much information to share and when, not fucking up, being genuinely happy for other people when envy is eating you from the inside, grabbing dubious meals on the go and competing with friends to see who is the most tired.

My coffee shop life is how I tap back into some of those feelings when in Montréal. Even if my espresso is only two or three sips long, I stop for a few minutes and stare out the window. The time spent there is separate from work, family and other responsibilities. I find myself having spontaneous conversations with kindred folks standing at the marble countertop. I read or write. When I need a new dentist, a replacement lamp shade or a jeweller—I ask one of the other regulars. I am usually welcomed by name and when I’m having a rough day, someone is always there to help me smile. And when I step back out onto the sidewalk, I feel softer, more open, less grouchy than when I walked in. 

Italy represents the soft life that I was made for. That we were all made for. But that isn’t embedded in our culture, our systems, our institutions.

If you loved Italy and want to keep experiencing those moments, sure, you can learn conversational Italian, go to Fumagalli for groceries, take a pizza tour, the usuals. But if you truly want to relive the magic, slow down. Get coffee for here, maybe even put your phone down while you drink it. Take that afternoon nap if you’re feeling off. Prepare a meal for people you love and stick around long after the plates have been cleared. Listen to the sound of your breath, the beating of your heart.

Breathe.