I stepped out the front door of my apartment on Via Della
Mattonaia barely able to contain my excitement. It was my first day abroad in
Florence, Italy and I could not wait to explore the city that I was to call
home. As I left my apartment and turned off the main road onto the tiny street
that heads towards the city-center, I suddenly had to change my pace. Surrounded
by Italians on the cobble-stoned road, I simply could not walk at the speed I
had been going at.
I have been told before that I am a quick walker, but it felt
like these people were walking at a snails pace. It was as if none of them had
anywhere to be. The majority of the people were leisurely strolling a long,
stopping at times to talk to a vendor or even an acquaintance they had run into
in the street. I found myself weaving in and out of them at my normal walking
pace, eager to reach one of my many destinations for the day.
I did not think much of this observation until that night at
dinner. It was my first time eating out in Italy and I was enthused, to say the
least. The waiter immediately brought over our drinks, but he didn’t come back
for another 20 minutes to take our dinner orders. Then, after we finished our
meals, we waited another 30 minutes for him to bring over our check. All in all, dinner took us over two hours. I
shrugged it off as bad service and a busy night, yet, as my days continued in
Italy, I noticed the same thing happening wherever we would go. It finally
dawned on me that it wasn’t that these restaurants were understaffed or that
people on the street were fatigued, it was that Italians simply go through life
at a different pace.
After living here for only a month I realize that Americans
are always in a mad dash for the finish line. I am used to running out the door
in the morning without a minute to lose, for fear of being late to my destination.
I am used to immediately leaving the table after finishing a meal, often even
eating it on the go. I am constantly thinking a step ahead, about my next
obligation or a future destination.
I look around me here and nobody is in a rush. Italians
saunter unhurriedly down the street. They sit and let their food digest after
eating, sipping wine and enjoying the company of the people around them. They
live in the moment, buying fresh food at the market and then preparing it for
dinner only hours later. I’m trying hard to break the fast-paced habits that
have been ingrained into me my entire life. I often have to remind myself to
slow down. To look around me when I walk through the street, instead of only
thinking about where I need to be. To actually taste the bread when I put it in
my mouth, instead of mindlessly eating it because it’s the first thing on the
table. As I walk down the street at night and see Italians loosely socializing
in the middle of road, perched on the tiny stoop of the curb enjoying a drink
or casually smoking cigarette on the steps of a piazza, I am reminded of a
quote by the Italian poet Cesare Pavese, who once said, “We do not remember
days, we remember moments. The richness of life lies in memories we have
forgotten.” I realize, of course, that I am going to remember the day I spent
in Venice or the afternoon I climbed the steps of the Duomo, but that, in
reality, it is the small moments in Florence that I am truly going to miss the
most. I realize how important it is to slow down and cherish the little things
in life to love.
