It’s taken me nearly a month to write this, so technically I’m telling you about my Christmas in Italy while January is already well underway. Always better late than never!
For Christmas, I was lucky enough to spend two weeks in northern Italy, staying with my partner and her family. It didn’t feel like a holiday trip in the usual sense. I wasn’t moving between hotels or ticking off tourist spots. Instead, I stayed in one home, shared most meals at the same table, and slowly learned what everyday life looks like for another family.
Staying with my partner’s family meant stepping into rhythms that had existed long before I arrived. Long conversations unfolded around me, sometimes only partly understandable. We savoured meals slowly, letting everything move at its own pace. On Christmas Eve, family and friends filled the table, and Christmas Day stayed wonderfully quiet: food, games, and simply being together without any strict agenda.
It felt less like an event and more like ordinary life, just a little fuller.
Other days were quieter. Hiking near Lake Garda, walking along the water, or simply sitting at home doing very little. Aperitifs before dinner, trips into the city centre for window shopping, a bakery visit that felt far more exciting than it probably should have. None of these moments were dramatic, but together they created a rhythm very different from my usual pace of life.
One moment that stayed with me most happened at church. During the second hour, my partner was not there, and I found myself in a lesson entirely in Italian. I can follow the gist, catch familiar phrases, and respond in simple ways, but I miss a lot. At one point, someone turned to me and started a conversation, all because I said I don’t speak Italian well. My first proper, solo conversation in Italian.
It was not perfect. I searched for words and misunderstood things, but it was kind, patient, and human. It reminded me what it feels like to be on the edge of understanding, relying on tone, context, and goodwill rather than precision. As a teacher, I spend so much time thinking about how children learn, about being new to something, and about the vulnerability that comes with it. Sitting there reminded me how learning grows through our connection with others. Understanding grows not because everything is clear, but because people make space for you to try.
What struck me most during these two weeks was how much of life happens in ordinary moments we often rush past. Meals, walks, conversations that go nowhere in particular. Being somewhere unfamiliar made those moments more visible. Without my usual routines and the endless to do lists and business, I had to pay attention differently. I noticed how much time was given to being together, how rarely phones interrupted conversation, how natural it felt to let the day unfold rather than structure it tightly.
I don’t want to romanticise it. There were moments of tiredness, of feeling out of place, of wanting to understand more than I could. But even those moments were part of the gift. They slowed me down and reminded me that being slightly uncomfortable is often where learning happens.
Back home, life fills itself quickly again. The familiar routines, the pace, the pull of responsibility. Yet I am conscious of what I brought back. A gentler relationship with time, a willingness to sit with not knowing, and the quiet reassurance that life does not need to be optimised to be meaningful.
Italy didn’t hand me dramatic revelations. It offered me space and that, for now, is enough
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