Panache, Italian Style

“Dying is a part of life,” said every Italian grandma, ever. Italians live passionately and fully; they also seem to know a thing or two about how to do it with panache. They aren’t afraid to die because they truly live.

When I was 25, I quit my job, cashed out my savings, and booked a trip to Italy, like you do. Panache, yes. Common sense, no.

Having majored in art history, I made it my personal mission to see every Titian, every Michelangelo, every architectural wonder I could. Cramming that much in to a few days? Not smart. Especially in Rome, where there is an abundance of heat, traffic, hot people, hot pavement, hot cappuncino -- it’s hot! I needed to do something off-kilter, so I ducked into an internet cafe and did a bit of research. A rudimentary, yet informative website called “Italy Heaven” suggested I visit Sperlonga, a charming little hamlet south of Rome. Sold!

After bronzing my shoulders on the idllyic little beach for a few hours, I needed a nosh. It seemed the only open restaurant in town was across from the church. I thought it was just a touch odd that it seemed deserted; I’d seen dozens of people on the beach. But, I was starving, and there was pizza.

Soon a nun and a gaggle of rowdy children convened in front of the church, feasting on gelato. One little devil scampered off, away from the group, rebelling. A nearby polizia gave a knowing wink to the nun, then blasted the alarm on his Alfa Romeo, knocking me off my chair with laughter and sending the stinker back to the group. I was still a bit perplexed as to why the policeman was on hand, damned if it wasn’t hilarious that he helped keep everyone in check.

Then -- out of nowhere -- I was witnessing a funeral. A Mercedes hearse pulled up, spilling out impeccably dressed attendants. Of course Italians would make going to a funeral look this good. They were chattering, reminiscing, embracing, celebrating a life lived well. Somber church bells announced the ceremony’s start; as fast as they arrived, everyone was sealed inside the church the eery quiet returned.

Grateful, I left the little town of Sperlonga remembering the life celebrated that day. Not necessarily the life of the individual, a person whose story I will never know, but life in funny little moments; shared by a nun and a policeman and a tourist -- an instant community. Italians remember that dying is a part of life, but they also make sure to really live til that last breath.