photograph by Nadya Spetnitskaya

Many years ago I lived in Italy. A few blocks from my apartment, there was a tunnel closed to everything but foot traffic. The tunnel was short — ten yards from one end to another, and connected a quiet street with a cobblestoned piazza. Little local stores lined the inside of the tunnel. A grocer with expensive water, a neighborhood restaurant, a place that sold stationary. There was also a sandwich shop. It was tiny, only big enough to hold about four people, who could crowd toward the glass-covered counter and see what there was to eat.

A handsome middle-aged man with big brown eyes and a big apron-wrapped belly owned the store and made all the sandwiches. He took one order at a time, which he wrote on a little pad of white paper with a pencil he kept behind his ear. Everything you said, he repeated back to you immediately after. Then he turned his back to the customers and faced his workspace, pulled a baguette from the barrel of bread, sliced and hollowed it, and began filling it with meat, cheese, and whatever else you asked for. He put the sandwich onto a press made of two hot plates that came together, warming the bread and melting the cheese, then turned to take another order. When the new sandwich was ready to go into the press, the first was ready to come out. He carefully wrapped the first in a napkin and handed it to the customer, his smile warm. He then offered something to drink with the question da bere? Whatever the customer ordered he poured gently into a glass. Every order went exactly like this, no matter how crowded the shop became, no matter how long the line was, and he never, ever hurried. When I was seventh or eight in line, I watched frustrated and impatient as he lovingly layered sun-dried tomatoes, gently ground black pepper, slowly drizzled olive oil, tenderly folded the napkin around somebody else’s sandwich. Then, when it was my turn, my frustration evaporated, it was suddenly wonderful to watch, and I felt special.

Sometimes his wife appeared behind the counter, a zaftig Canadian who spoke perfect Italian. While the man spoke Italian to any foreigner who tried, and complimented me continually on my improvements, she insisted on speaking English to me (and anyone else) for whom it was a native language. One afternoon, I told her I admired her because her Italian was so perfect. With a cold smile, she informed me that her parents were Italian, and that I would never speak it perfectly, even if I lived in Italy for twenty years, because it wasn’t in my blood. I considered not going to the sandwich shop anymore, my own private boycott. But that bread, soft as marshmallows. That grassy, glossy olive oil. The slices of turkey and ham cooked in the little shop, their roasting aroma drifting like music into the street. And the relaxed, expert movements of the proprietor as he layered and spread and sliced and poured. I couldn’t stay away.

Pictures of their son hung on the wall behind the cash register, a brown-haired boy with a sweet face who looked like his dad. A few old black and white photographs were tacked up as well, showing two suited men smoking cigarettes in front of the tunnel. Occasionally, a college-aged, dark-haired Italian boy emerged from the kitchen, apron tied snugly around his trim waist, to smoke a cigarette in the fresh air outside. Sometimes, the owner made something special, like pork roasted with red peppers and black olives, and offered a bit on a toothpick, suggesting a cheese to go with it. And eventually, every day, usually in mid-afternoon, he ran out of bread, and the shop was then closed. The name Daniele comes to mind, but I don’t remember if it belongs to the son or to the dad. I do remember that the proprietor called me cara, the Italian equivalent of “dear,” and seemed happy to see me when I returned to Florence after a trip away.

This was 2002. I didn’t have a smartphone (they didn’t exist). I barely had an email address. The flashing imagery of data and news and “content” did not fly at us a thousand miles a minute, unrelenting. And still, I remember my impatience the first few times I visited the shop. I’d tap my foot, glance around for someone to commiserate with. I wonder — if I could drop my current self into that moment, would I even stay in line? Or would I, after a minute or two, say, I can’t deal with this and leave. Even worse — would I spend the wait gazing into the seductive, limitless abyss of my phone and never see all that I remember here?

I miss the mellow, attentive experience of that sandwich shop (to say nothing of the food). It wasn’t long before I understood that its slowness was an offering of love, and very beautiful. That’s why I remember it so vividly. Such thoughtful — even chivalrous — slowness feels rare now (especially in public spaces). And the older I get, the more I miss it. The fast stuff, the times when things pop with brilliant speed into existence or unfold in an exciting instant, those are nice, too. But slow is its own magic. Twelve hours of rising bread. The long walk from first thought to final draft. How my roses and alyssum cannot be forced to bloom, they just have to be cared for with patience and consideration. It’s good medicine. It’s an antidote to the algorithmic insanity of the cultural moment. To know how to wait and stay grounded is, I think, part of living well. To wait with appreciation for the process, and to tend to the process with appreciation. That’s a gift to ourselves, and to others. Let the good times roll, yes, and also let them be still, let them come slowly, the longer we might savor them.