The Music of Life: Writing in Italy

The Music of Life: Writing in Italy

The pop of a cork from a Prosecco bottle. Soft, murmuring Italian voices. Cucina. Mangiare. Si Grazie. Bene. Words, food, sharing, friendship in a bookshop café in Florence.

My friend and I sit and write. An iced café, served in an Italian wine glass, invites us to sip and be refreshed. It’s sweet almond mixed with espresso. It’s a taste I’ve never thought to combine. I want to sip, not gulp, so the flavours soak into my tongue and imprint into my brain. This is a drink to remember. To savour.

The voices murmur and flow and fly with the fluidity of a piece of classical music. Verdi or Puccini perhaps.

We’re deep in our heads. We work. We write. The staff and other customers glance at us and frown. They wonder why we’re working. It’s lunchtime after all. Tables are set around us and people wander in to eat. A glass of wine, a glass of water, a salad, a pasta. This is no Subway/McDonalds affair. This is LUNCH. With proper cutlery. Proper glasses.

‘Troppo fredda?’ The bookshop manager asks, concerned. The air conditioning is set to its lowest setting. (at our request)

‘Tutto bene,’ we say. ‘Please don’t turn it off, it’s so good!’

It’s over thirty degrees outside and the streets are filling with tourists. We don’t put ourselves in that category, of course. We are travelers, regular visitors, invited guests, but please don’t call us tourists!

Italy sings its song around us. The song of amoré. It’s amoré della vita. Love of life.

I know that life here isn’t all about Prosecco and cheese and olives and sunflowers and passion. If you live here, there’s still work, responsibilities and cares—like anywhere. But there is something beautiful about life here.

The pace is slower. People stop to eat. Stop to talk. Work gets done, but family and the heart of life is key.

This bookstore is a cocoon. An oasis. The smell of books, the rough-hewn tables that resemble school desks, the touches of design that let you know that you’re in Italy create a microcosm.

‘Why is there a chair between you?’ The manager says as he serves a plate of zucchini salad to a woman sitting across the table. If you’re friends, you sit close. You’re in each other’s personal space. You touch. You look into each other’s eyes and make sure that you’re being heard and understood.

‘We’re working,’ is our weak excuse.

We write. We drink. We get hungry. We walk. We eat. We sleep. We walk some more. We eat again. The song of Italy is also a dance. The pace is somewhere between a tango and a waltz.

In this moment, in this place, I am happy. I got something to take home today that didn’t cost a cent. Something in my soul is dancing to the music. Musica della vita. The music of life.