Click here to view the published article: The Italian Art of Doing Nothing
Clad in sweatpants, binge watching documentaries on Netflix, and scarfing down Lay’s potato chips one Saturday afternoon, I looked out the window and realized I hadn’t breathed fresh air in in about 24 hours. My lungs were taken back to a time, just a couple years ago, when I took in the warm, sweet scent of Italian air.
It was also a Saturday, and I was sitting on the terrace of the house I was renting in Dazio, a quintessential Italian village high up in the mountains. I was eating prosciutto, looking out at pine trees and memorizing that kind of blue sky that takes you back to childhood summers where all you cared about was where your next ice cream would come from and when your dad would be done grilling the steaks for dinner.