No Piazza, No Problem – Notes from a Village Without a Center

I live in one of those places that are hard to explain unless you’ve experienced them.

No main square, no piazza, no bar with an espresso machine clattering at 7 a.m.

Just a few houses, spread across three inner courtyards – cortili – and small narrow paths that lead both somewhere and nowhere.

That’s the village. Nothing more. And somehow everything.

At first, it feels quiet.

You assume no one’s watching.

No one looks at you, no one says much.But after a few weeks, everyone knows your name.

They know where you live, which dog is yours, whether you really bought the old house – and when you painted the shutters.

No one says it out loud, but somehow everything is known.

Information moves slowly. But it moves.

The village works like a quiet network.It doesn’t say much, but it remembers everything.

If you looked down at it from above, it would feel like a slow-motion video game.

An old lady walks slowly across the courtyard with a shopping bag.

Then a chicken wanders through.

A cat slips past.A dog barks – once – then silence.A man comes out of his workshop, walks a few metres, stops to talk to someone, then disappears again.A car rolls in, stops briefly, then drives away.A few minutes later: same thing, opposite direction.

What’s so special about it? Everything.

And nothing.It’s just there.

Life doesn’t move faster or more dramatically – it just moves.

Slower, yes. But not boring.

And surprisingly practical.

When your lightbulb goes out, someone shows up and fixes it.

You hand them a few tomatoes or a jar of preserved zucchini.

Someone watches your dog, you water their courgettes.

People lend each other things, help each other out.

Not much is said, but nothing is forgotten.

Now....

100 Years ago...

And maybe the most surprising thing: everything is open.

Truly open.

No one locks their door. Not during the day, not at night, not even when they’re away for a few days.

You just walk in – not everywhere, of course. Just where it’s understood you can.

My neighbour, for example, has a big garage filled with every useful thing imaginable.

If I need something, I go in, grab it, and put it back later.

He knows. I know. That’s enough.

At midday, the whole village feels frozen.

Between twelve and three, almost nothing happens.

Shutters closed, no sound, no movement.

In the evening, it comes back to life.

People sit on benches outside their houses, someone sweeps the courtyard, there’s watering, kids ride their bikes.

And then, around ten or half past – total silence again.Like someone muted the world.

And then there are those little things, like when the summer storm hits.

You hear shutters creak closed all around.

Later, they creak open again.

You learn the sounds.

You know exactly which neighbour always reacts first.

I live in a village that doesn’t try to be anything special.

It just exists.

And so do I.

Not exactly new anymore, but not fully arrived either.

Maybe that’s the point.You don’t have to “integrate”.

You just have to stay.