I discovered my favorite movie, Eat Pray Love by Elizabeth Gilbert, many years ago. It tells the story of a woman who embarks on a life-changing journey in search of herself. Her first destination is Italy, where she spends months indulging in the culture—from food to relationships and everything in between. Her experiences stirred a deep desire in me to visit Italy myself. In one scene, she learns the phrase Dolce Far Niente, which means "the sweetness of doing nothing." She comes to understand the power of simply being. Years later, I, too, came to experience the sweetness of the present.
I was beyond grateful when I learned I would be traveling to Italy. I knew this trip would create memories that would last a lifetime. However, I did not anticipate that this adventure would do more than create memories; it would change how I view life.
Having grown up in bustling America, where work never ends and life is ever in motion from one task to another, I never understood the value of peace, quietness, and staying in the moment. I felt that I couldn't be at peace, but instead, that peace was marked by my busy life. I struggled with just living without rushing or needing to be productive. If I simply sat and enjoyed my morning coffee without thinking about what needed to be done, I felt like I was failing somehow.
It wasn’t until Italy that my mindset shifted. I had no control over my daily itinerary, when dinner was, or how we got from one place to another. In America, I needed a plan to feel at ease. But in Italy, people embrace tranquility and trust that everything will work out as it should. I was forced to immerse myself in this new lifestyle for two weeks. It was an adjustment, but one I am forever grateful for.
My roots trace back to the southern Italian island of Sicily. My mom's side is entirely Italian; growing up, we spent every holiday and celebration with them. These gatherings were filled with loud conversation and endless pasta. My mom always told me we would go to Sicily one day and meet our extended family. That day finally came on July 6, 2024.
My mom, brother, and I packed one suitcase each for our two-week stay, boarded our plane, and set off on our journey.
One thing about Italians that might surprise Americans is their warmth and hospitality. My Sicilian relatives drove two hours to the airport just to welcome us; they were as excited (if not more) than we were. Though my brother and I had never met them, they embraced us as if we were their children. It was surreal—they did not know me, yet they loved me. That feeling of unconditional love never faded.
During the drive to Marsala from the airport, we took in the breathtaking Sicilian landscape, from its historical structures to its picturesque hills. There was a faint scent that lingered in the air as we drove closer to our destination. My mom explained to me that it was sulfur from the ocean, as Sicily happens to be one of the biggest producers of sulfur. Some say the scent resembles rotten eggs, but it did not matter to me. I was in Sicily.
Our first delicacy on the island was gelato on brioche. I had never had such a combination before, but it was incredible. The creamy gelato paired with the soft, chewy brioche was an unexpectedly perfect match.
We spent the next two weeks lounging on Mediterranean beaches, exploring Marsala and nearby cities, and indulging in the most magnificent Italian cuisine. In the summertime, Sicilians spend their days relaxing by the water and enjoying fresh seafood. I sampled all kinds of seafood dishes, each more delicious than the last. Yet, while the food and sightseeing were magical, it was the people who left the greatest mark on me.
Their warmth, their hospitality, and their simple way of making you feel at home—those were the things that captivated me. Each meal was a celebration, a get-together where time stood still, where nobody was in a rush to finish and hurry along to the next thing. Dinners lasted hours, with laughter, tales, and an unstated understanding that food was meant to be savored, not rushed.
One night, my Sicilian family organized a dinner with all of our relatives. It was a celebration of our visit. Though there was a language barrier, we were connected by love. I went into the night meeting strangers and left, knowing they were my family. As we sat together over pizza and wine, I realized how different this was from my usual dinners back home. In America, meals often feel transactional—something to check off the list between work, school, or social obligations. But here, food was more than just sustenance; it was a love language, a bridge between generations, a way of bringing people together.
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I learned the beauty of slowing down in those two weeks. Sleeping in and drinking strong espresso, spending afternoons lounging on the beach and playing soccer, grabbing a sandwich and eating leisurely with no agenda in mind. We didn’t check the time on our phones; we studied the sky, watching its shifts from bright blue to golden orange, knowing instinctively when it was time to move. I had always viewed stillness as something to avoid, but Sicily taught me that stillness is something to embrace.
Perhaps my favorite moments were our evening dinners on the patio. Tables were pushed together, chairs lined up in rows to seat everyone. The smell of pasta filled the air as we sat and recalled memories. We'd sit and chat for hours, taking our time over each course until we were satisfied. For the first time in years, I felt utterly present—not thinking about what was coming next, not worrying about deadlines or duties, just being in the raw moment.
Dolce far niente.
I had heard the phrase before, but now I truly understand its meaning. The sweetness of doing nothing isn’t about laziness—it’s about presence. It’s about appreciating the little things, immersing yourself in the moment, and finding joy in simplicity. It is about being so content within the present that nothing else matters.
The goodbyes were the hardest. The thing about being present is that one moment you are swimming in the Mediterranean, and the next you are hugging your family, saying farewell. I remember that moment like it was yesterday—the hugs, the tears, not just of sadness but of genuine love and happiness.
As I journeyed back home, I carried more than just photos and memories. I carried with me a new perspective. A newfound appreciation for simplicity. Sicily gave me more than an experience—it gave me the understanding of what it truly means to live.
