How to Italy

“Let’s go to Italy today”, I said to the friend I was on vacation with earlier last month in the South of France.

Without any preparation, we left our hotel in Monaco, stepped into our rental car and started to make our way.

My phone was on airplane mode. A self-imposed experiment to travel without the crutch of modern technology, to experience the world as it was before the advent of smartphones. I was curious to navigate the winding roads of France and Italy, relying solely on instincts and the occasional road sign.

I had no idea where we were driving though. As we followed the windy streets, navigating around street closures, one-way streets, roundabouts, and more, we unknowingly found ourselves in a beachside town called Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat.

Having said we were going to Italy, we had a choice to make. Do we explore this town or continue on the mission?

It felt like the universe had made the choice for us. Immediately in front of us, a car pulled out and a parking spot appeared. We took it.

As we strolled the beautiful marina, watching the boats sail by, the sound of birds everywhere, the sun shining brightly, we enjoyed one of the most beautiful sights of the coastline and mountains. It felt magical.

Upon getting back into the car, still determined to make it to Italy, we continued driving East, trusting that we’d hit the border at some point.

That point was a mere ten minutes later.

The street signs morphed into Italian, and we couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of our spontaneous road trip. I parked the car next to a dumpster, a makeshift parking spot in the middle of a hot summer day.

The Italian seaside was a tableau from a bygone era. Sunbathers lounged on the rocks, their bodies glistening under the sun, while others dove into the azure sea. There was a palpable sense of connection, not just with each other, but with the sun, the water, the very essence of life. No one was on their phone. An inspiring site.

Feeling my hunger grow, I suggested we find food.

It felt like a hunt, a quest for sustenance in a foreign land. Being vegetarian added an extra layer of challenge to the mission.

As we continued to walk, we came across a beach resort, built on the rocks. The restaurant looked promising, feeling hopeful this might be open, I walked up to the front desk and asked for a table.

“We’re fully booked”, the receptionist said firmly.

After my failed attempt to negotiate a table, I admitted defeat to my friend and we continued walking along the coast. My hunger was growing.

Undeterred, we spotted a building perched high on the cliffs. The climb was arduous, the summer sun relentless, but we persevered. The restaurant at the top appeared closed, its doors locked, chairs upturned.

In these types of moments, I have a choice.

The information presented to me is incomplete. To make the choice, I have to connect to something deeper within me or bigger than me. I need more information.

If I feel hopeful and optimistic, I’ll take the risk and explore further. It can feel like I am trying to will the universe in my favor.

If I feel fearful and pessimistic, I’ll conclude that once again, the universe is against me and shy away from the unknown.

When I look back at the most meaningful moments in my life, many were a result of me taking the risk with incomplete information.

I’ve learned that it’s less important for me to get what I want. As the reality is that I don’t really know what I want, if I am honest.

It’s more important for me to know that I tried. That I made the effort.

Once I know that I’ve made the effort, I am happy to accept whatever the outcome is of that effort. I can trust that the outcome I receive is the outcome I need.

Standing in front of the closed restaurant, baking under the midday sun, I heard the sound of kids playing. They were playing in a pool.

Curious, I followed the sound and around the corner, saw a staircase. By this point, my friend had taken a break and decided to let me explore my curiosity on my own.

With no one in sight, I climbed the stairs and voila, a full outdoor restaurant and pool was sitting right there. The sounds of kids playing in the pool were now mixed with the sounds of Italian adults enjoying lunch on a hot summer day.

I went back down to get my friend, and we enjoyed the perfect spontaneous lunch, overlooking the sea, in Italy. The feeling of hunger made the caprese salad with fresh burrata, the simple pasta with homemade tomato sauce, the perfectly marinated olives and of course, the espresso-drenched tiramisu, that much more delicious.

As we climbed back down the cliff after a long lazy lunch, we again came across the crowds of Italians sunbathing on the rocks and jumping into the sea.

Another choice.

I turned to my friend. No words were needed. We proceeded to take off our clothes and jump into the sea. It was so hot outside and being used to the refreshingly cool Atlantic ocean in the beaches in Portugal, I thought to myself, ‘this water is not cold enough’.

As I climbed out, I noticed a stream of blood on my left shin. Clearly, my inexperience swimming in the rockside coast of Italy was showing. Not feeling any pain, the surface scrapes on my skin looked far worse than it was.

We walked back towards the car, feeling sticky from saltwater, blood coating my left leg, feeling highly satisfied with having done Italy well.

Back in Monaco, having dinner with a few more friends who lived there for the summer, we were at a trendy seaside restaurant, also built on the rocks.

As the sunset painted the sky with hues of orange and pink, I felt a profound sense of contentment. This was a perfect day, not because of the places I visited or the food I ate, but because of the experiences I had, the memories I created, and the presence I felt through all of it.

At some point later in the evening, I heard something unexpected: fireworks.

We got up from our table and walked towards the edge of the rocks. The sky was being painted with not one but two firework shows. The rest of the restaurant gathered around us as we all stood there, in silence, soaking it in.

As I stood there, I realized that this perfect day I had was a reminder about the journey, not the destination. So much of my daily life is filled with striving for a specific outcome.

In contrast, I woke up that morning having no idea or expectation for what would happen. Throughout the day, I embraced the uncertainties, the detours, the unexpected surprises. I was open to new experiences and found joy in the simplest of moments.

A perfect day in Italy, I realized, was not about not about the sights and sounds, but the introspection and self-discovery. It was not about the external, but the internal. It was a day of simple pleasures, of quiet reflection, of realizations. It was a day of being, not doing. It was, in every sense of the word, a perfect day.

And that is how I learned to Italy.