“Write about your hard landing,” my husband said, and it took no time at all for me to understand what he meant. Returning to real life after grand adventures has never been my strong suit. In fact, the difficulty I had adjusting after one expansive trip to the desert in 2016 inspired me to change my entire life.
We traveled through Italy this month for conducting competitions, from the heel of the boot to the lakes district, and after deciding that combining exploration with tax write-offs might be the greatest, most brilliant scam of our lives, had an absolute ball. We saw parts of the country that we wouldn’t have chosen on our own, which offered incredible gifts. In Matera, Puglia, Brescia, Milan, and Lake Como, we immersed ourselves in Italian culture and backdrops, meeting every minute with wonder, enthusiasm, and open eyes.
It turns out that two and a half weeks, combined with the permeating Italian spoken in smaller cities, allows me to go further with the language than my usual shorter stay. My Italian is functional, not fluent. Attempting to show the people of a country that I’m grateful to be their guest and eager to make their lives easier through language brings me joy; plus, it’s a fun and constant puzzle, a game I play with myself.
Occasionally, my shortcomings lead to hilarity—think platters with only meat rather than no meat—but no matter. Broken Italian is fine. Smiles work wonders. I was struck repeatedly by the way that grace, kindness, and warmth can transcend the barriers of spoken word.
In villages not yet ravaged by tourism and the demand for English, I noticed how deeply people can connect with other people, regardless of language. In cities that have been flooded by tourists for ages, and are hardened as a result, I saw the difference in people’s eyes when I slowed down, showed interest, and demonstrated gratitude for their time.
The stunning backdrops of the Adriatic Sea, intriguing cliff dwellings of ancient civilization, and glitzy mountains of the north all offered heaps of inspiration in their own right. Colors, sounds, smells, and rhythms. In each city, though, I was reminded of a refrain that’s been circling through my mind, in and out and back and forth, for the past year: It’s the people that make a place.
It takes me a shockingly short amount of time to discover the best focaccia maker in any given city, and in Matera, this led to a friendship of sorts over the course of nine days. No one in the shop spoke English. But by day two, they knew my sunglasses, my order, and how to greet me if they were out of my favorite: focaccia di patate.
Soon, I noticed similar relationships forming in other places — the guys at the record-playing, quasi-hipster cafe we liked for coffee, the server at the artisan apertivo spot near our place, the owner of the juice shop who never forgot I ordered a cappuccino on the very first morning. In little more than a week, these people offered a sense of knowing and belonging that made me feel right at home. I was sad to leave.
Towards the end of our time in the south, we discovered a restaurant we adored. The food — truffle ravioli to die for, people — and the wonderful staff combined in a mesmerizing dance that led to one of our favorite nights of the whole adventure. We wandered down into the sassi, or ancient cave neighborhoods carved into cliffs, under an inky night sky with no idea that we were about to — in another country, in a quiet city — find our people, as they say.
I realized later that it was the owner who set the tone of the space and shaped every person’s experience. As head chef, impresario, manager, and owner, he somehow found time to welcome each guest and ask about their meal. This informed, in a sort of domino effect, the actions of his entire staff. Soon I understood that this was the case in space after space that I loved. In each one I noticed a kind — or hip or enthusiastic or serene or smart — owner orchestrating the entire production.
This reminded me of the incredible ability that we each hold to shape the world around us. Whether it’s an exchange over a cash register or a more elaborate event, our words and behaviors hold power. We choose how to wield it.
To me, it always feels important to attempt grace and kindness while traveling. In tourist-ridden villages, it might be an expression of thanks or an attempt at Italian. In undiscovered places, perhaps it’s acting in a way that demonstrates that I don’t wish to extract or deplete — to simply take. Instead, I’d like to experience with gratitude and care whatever they’re offering.
Each encounter — as we choose to exert our power with kindness or with something else, as we act thoughtfully or don’t — ripples and reverberates in the lives that we touch. It moves into the spaces around us and changes the energetic quality, for better or for worse.
We get to choose.
Returning home, my hard landing was informed by leaving the wonderland of Europe, yes, but also by real life: no sleep, John rushing to work in Asheville, early morning trips for my canine soulmate to undergo surgery in Charlotte. The surgery was serious, and his recovery has been precarious, which shook me back to reality like nothing else. In one sense, though, life is no different than last week; it’s the people that make a place.
The humans who helped me this week — an extraordinary team with us during surgery, friends who checked on my angel, people in town who addressed post-surgical complications, and my partner’s exquisite care — made all the difference.
I realize that each day around me, in every space I enter, people are landing hard. Americans and Italians and pet surgeons and everyone in between. It’s the difficulties of everyday life, like the fathers who don’t speak to us, the fraught friendships, the disappointments at work, and the head colds that can turn a moment on its head.
The Italians reminded me that exquisite beauty is within reach, not just on the coasts of other countries but in everyday exchange.
If I can shape my days — the small encounters and the big, in Europe and in my own neighborhood — with warmth and care, as a soft landing spot for those around me, then I’ll consider my life well-lived.
So to the wine seller in Varenna, the third-generation shop owner named Rosamaria, Mother of Rita in Bellagio, the baker of the gorgeous treats in Brescia, the Save the Duck clerk in Milan, the two families who gave us tickets to a sold-out night at La Scala for free, and the owner of the restaurant where we once again found the salty wine of Cinque Terre despite being nowhere near the coast — thank you.
Thank you for your grace; thank you for softening my landings.
I’ll try to do the same back home.
Between you and me—
As always, thanks for being here. Tu é molto simpatico. Ciao ciao.