What ‘La Dolce Vita’ is really about and how it relates to our innate desire for connection and belonging
Finding my own ‘sweet life’ while traveling through Italy’s 20 regions.
La dolce vita literally means ‘the sweet life’, evoking the notion of living life to its fullest, however that may look for you. The famous 1960 film, La Dolce Vita, directed and co-written by Federico Fellini, was a shocking, satirical play on this theme, and an incongruous title for a film that championed a superficial materialistic lifestyle. The film follows a journalist on a seven-day journey through Rome in a futile search for happiness. It can be seen as a metaphor for life — the notion that what we think will make us happy often is not what does; that our view of the sweet life may in fact be an illusion.
I’m quite sure I had no idea what I was looking for when I started my travels through Italy years ago, or if I even had a set goal. Certainly, there were many wonderful experiences to be had, stunning places to see, amazing meals to be enjoyed, wine to be savoured. But whatever I may have been looking for, I did not find it in anything close to Fellini’s version of ‘the sweet life’. Rather, as time revealed, it was in the relationships I built and the connections I made, sometimes with complete strangers, that impacted me most deeply and ultimately gave me the most joy. I am also convinced that the more we get to know others, the more we will come to know our own truth; our own ‘sweet life’.
As my annual travels wound through the twenty regions of Italy, I noticed that these connections often happened when I was participating in traditional Italian activities, such as aperitivo, evening passeggiata, and sagre (festivals and celebrations), or enjoying dinner around a big Italian table (more about those things in future posts). And looking through the rear-view mirror I recognize the indelible mark these aspects of Italian life left on me. Although they are part of everyday life that an Italian might take for granted, as a straniera making my way through Italy, often with no fixed itinerary, these everyday habits, rituals, and traditions had a profound effect on how I experienced the country. They were where connections were made, lessons were learned and where my truths about the ‘sweet life’ were revealed.
Savouring the Moment
I have long recognised my brother’s innate ability to enjoy life. Whether through food or drink or music or hiking or biking, he always chose to engage with others along the way. I recall getting annoyed at times when we were travelling together because he was lingering too long over his after-dinner drink or chatting up the servers when I was ready to leave. Perhaps his years in Switzerland absorbing the rich European culture enhanced his ability to wring the most out of life. It took me many more years to appreciate how to savour the moment.
To a significant degree, I attribute my growing appreciation for the small pleasures that life has to offer to my time in Italy. Many extended stays (collectively spanning two decades), travelling from the mountains to il mare, and from the mainland to Italy’s largest islands, helped me learn valuable lessons about the fundamentals I believe we all need for happiness — my version of the sweet life. And upon reflection I recognized that many of those lessons came when I was either forced to, or chose to, connect with others.
Words of Wisdom and Lessons Learned
I continue to cycle back to words of wisdom from travel writer and tour guide, Rick Steves. Steves offers the concept of travel as ‘life intensified’, suggesting that it broadens our perspective and teaches us new ways to measure quality of life. True to his word, I can now appreciate that my most meaningful travel experiences have often been the result of unplanned events, unexpected encounters, and by taking the road less travelled. It is a truism that travel changes us; but if we are not prepared to veer off the beaten path, we are unlikely to meet anyone except other tourists and the transformational opportunities will be lost. I have a few regrets in this regard.
One involved my one and only cruise, in this case a short Mediterranean excursion friends had convinced me to join them on. One of the stops was Kusadasi on Turkey’s Aegean coast — the closest port for a visit to the nearby city of Ephesus (the most important city in the Byzantine Empire next to Constantinople, and home to an early Christian community from the middle of the first century AD). On our return from Ephesus, we were dropped off at a large outdoor market near the port. I had initially been excited to do some shopping but after one too many inquiries from vendors trying to entice me to buy their products, I lost interest and opted to head back to the ship.
After moving away from the crowds, I encountered a man who was sitting on a stool, quietly enjoying what I learned was apple tea. He spoke some English and we struck up a conversation of sorts. Then he asked if I would like some tea. I graciously accepted and waited as he went inside a canvas tent. But as I lingered, I managed to talk myself out of it, imagining that somehow things would not end well. I attracted his attention and said I was sorry, but I had to go, and promptly left.
I later recognized that I had left because of my fears; because of the stories I invented about what might happen. It was a regret because I could have stayed and talked to him, even if I didn’t try his tea. It was a regret because it was an opportunity lost. It was also a lesson learned.
An Ode to Anthony Bourdain
Writing this, I can’t help thinking about Anthony Bourdain and his show, Parts Unknown, which I truly loved. He drew people together over simple, traditional food, and would often get them to bare their souls while slurping noodles from plastic bowls. Through his travels to every corner of the globe, and over many conversations across makeshift dinner tables, he highlighted not only the amazing diversity this world has to offer, but also the common elements that connect us all, no matter where we live — our common humanity. There were many lessons to be learned.
Looking through the rear-view mirror, I see the truth behind Bourdain’s legacy and have begun to understand how it encapsulated the essence of what my travels had been revealing to me: lessons about stepping outside our comfort zone to pursue our dreams; about the importance of human connection; about how something as simple as a coffee or an aperitif (or apple tea) can be a facilitator for human interaction; and how simple connections can feed our soul.
Universal Truths
So, what are those universal constants? The ones that Bourdain seemed to discover in his extensive travels, and that I slowly began to understand from mine. The social connections that numerous researchers (such as developmental psychologist Susan Pinker and social psychologist Matthew Lieberman) argue we humans are ‘hard-wired’ for and that meet our most fundamental universal needs.
While I do believe it is through our own journey that we derive the greatest benefit, I am also convinced that these universal needs, or constants, will lead each of us to the same place if we let them. We are all hungry for the same things. To be seen and heard. To be valued for who we are, flaws and all. To matter. To have hope and purpose. To be given space and time to experience life to the fullest. To live our passion. To love and be loved.
Regardless of where the experiences took place, the most memorable for me, and the most impactful, were differing versions of these common themes. They included examples of being welcomed as I am, living in community, bonding over common pleasures and ancient rituals, sharing joy and pride in something bigger than ourselves. Although I didn’t recognise it at the time, they were the examples of ‘living life in the piazza’ as I like to put it, that pulled me back to Italy again and again. My experiences introduced me to a country and its people who worship family, good food, and tradition, who crave connection and a sense of community — some of the universal constants that exist in every corner of the world.
Thanks to the kindness of Italian friends who willingly exposed me to their version of life in Italia, and a little bravery on my part, I now have a family of friends across Italy who are at the real heart of Italy for me. Those relationships revealed Italy to me in a way that would not have otherwise been possible, an Italy I would not have discovered on my own. And they forever changed me in the process. Italy opened its doors to me, and I chose to walk through — and my life is richer for it.
Maybe this is the stuff that la dolce vita is truly all about. Chissà? Who knows? It isn’t that my Italian experiences could not have taken place elsewhere. Of course, they could. But Italy was the vehicle that intensified my life, and ultimately made it much sweeter.
