I take artistic license in defining the Italian phrase La Dolce Vita. Mine is more subtle and abstract, less indulgent or indolent than the literal “sweet life”. But what is it really? Is the sweetness man’s natural state; the purpose of life to maintain this equilibrium? Is it a progression to a level of sweetness, only after life’s more base needs have been steadily fulfilled? For me, La Dolce Vita are those rare inexplicable moments that catch us unawares and add just the right amount of sweetness to life.
An Italian plum tree near the driveway. Even after having grown up among papaya, banana, and other tropical fruit trees and surrounded by unending rows of pineapples and fields of sugarcane, I still marvel at the sources of our food and the more unfamiliar, the more captivating. These could be touched and picked, not unwrapped or defrosted; they could sustain life. Maybe it was the primal instinct to know first-hand where our sustenance came from. Here it was in my very hands.
An unexpected invitation to dinner. On our final night in Tuscany, Nicola, who had become a new friend and not just our AirBnb host, and his housemate had invited us to dinner in Montecatini Alto, the hilltop town that had teased us from afar the entire time we were visiting. That night it was like every fantasy of Tuscany come to life. Wonderful food and wine. Intriguing and insightful conversation about life in Tuscany and Italy. Clear skies and warm evening air. Young children playing soccer at the far end of the cozy piazza. The clinking of glasses and forks on plates. Delicious aromas wafting from all around. The muffled melody of a small band playing just around the corner.
A taste of a local’s favorite. There are few things more thrilling to me than being let in on a secret, especially if it is a delicious one. After dinner on our last day, Nic took us for some gelato at a local gem, La Bottega Del Gelato. Would we have found this place ourselves? Probably not. Would we have ended up at some second-rate gelateria where the gelato tasted just like plain old American ice cream? Most likely. We were sincerely touched that he had shared an experience with us we would otherwise not have had.
A night stroll in Pistoia. After the gelatos, while on a passegiata (“stroll”) in the neighboring town of Pistoia, Nicola had pointed out that the old buildings we were slowly passing were built in the early 18th century. 18th century? He was telling us that these stone structures had been erected and inhabited longer than the US had been a nation. The realization was simply breathtaking.
