Il Dolce Far Niente

“Travel is more than the seeing of sights; it is a change that goes on, deep and permanent, in the ideas of living.” – Miriam Beard

It’s easy to see Paris. It’s harder to feel it — but if you can, it will change you.

It’s my next-to-last night in the city, and I’m sitting at a small table outside the Rarita restaurant on rue Saint-Honoré, just a few blocks from my apartment. I am making a determined effort to look Parisian: leaning back in my chair, legs crossed, wearing that subtle, ever-present café smile. I even consider how much more Parisian I’d appear with a cigarette in one hand and a dog curled at my feet.

The waiter arrives with my sparkling Badoit, uncaps it, and pours it into a glass.

“Merci,” I say, and he disappears inside.

There are six outdoor tables. It’s still early by Parisian dinner standards, so I’m the only one here. Rarita was one of the best restaurants I visited, and I’ve returned for their penne all’Arrabbiata — still one of the finest meals I have had throughout this trip.

As I wait, I reflect. Was this trip worth my time and expense? I know that constantly evaluating experiences can diminish them, but the thought keeps returning. Taking a clarifying sip of the sparkling water, I realize it’s too soon to judge. It’s better to sit with each thought, each place, each person — and let them simmer. Later, I’ll skim away what’s just froth, and what remains — cooled and clarified — will nourish me. These memories, like so many before, will feed my future in ways I cannot yet understand.

But at this moment, I feel content. I follow dinner with an espresso and mousse au chocolat, a quiet celebration of the life I have enjoyed here.

Everyone is so beautiful in Paris. Fashion isn’t just worn—it’s felt. There is a vibrancy here I didn’t sense in New York. People enjoy life more. There’s less rushing, more savoring. The café isn’t just a place to eat — it’s a philosophy. It’s il dolce far niente — the sweetness of doing nothing. A lifestyle built on the freedom to do what one wants, and equally, not do what one doesn’t want to. It is the enviable ability to say both yes and no to what life offers.

At the café, there’s no need to smile, explain, or hurry. One can sit alone for hours with nothing more than an espresso and a croissant. Free to think — or not. To reminisce about a former lover or imagine one who never was. No one asks what I do for a living. No one wonders where I’ve come from. No one inquires, “Are you okay?” or “Why are you by yourself?” Such questions would be a trespass. I can sit there, like a soft blur, and be accepted as part of the scene. I’m allowed to simply exist, just to be.

A French café is also a place of serendipitous encounters. I met remarkable people here — fortunately and not surprisingly, all English-speaking. Roy, an artist from New York, now living in Paris with his son. Callum, a writer from Scotland, with whom I shared long, delightful conversations that had me leaning in to catch his brogue. Ava, a beauty from England, with whom I have made plans to meet again in New York later this summer. And elegant dame Ella, with her ever-wandering dog, “Buddy,” dressed in a bright red dog coat but never on a leash and always returning faithfully to our table. These café encounters mean more to me than all the “had to see” sights ever could.

When it comes to sightseeing, I prefer what moves me over what impresses. I remember standing on a quiet street in Louveciennes, four miles from Versailles, looking at the house where Anaïs Nin once lived. I considered extending my trip to visit the palace but ultimately chose not to. I worried briefly about how I might respond when asked if I had seen Versailles by saying, “No, I didn’t see Versailles—but I was close.”

Paris may be the city most burdened with “must-sees”: the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, the Louvre, Versailles, the Musée d’Orsay. But this phenomenon isn’t unique to Paris. It haunts every traveler — a kind of unspoken pressure to follow the script, collect sights like souvenirs, and garner “likes” on Facebook.

And yes, sometimes I yield to those recommendations with wonderful results. However, far too often, we mistake the marvelous for the meaningful — choosing the bright and beautiful over the interesting and engaging. The marvelous dazzles in the moment, but fades. The interesting lingers. It stirs curiosity. It starts conversations.

The “must-see” mindset flattens a place into a checklist. It becomes about ticking off experiences rather than living them. When I follow the scent of what genuinely draws me — to a quiet bookstore, a hidden alley café, a conversation with a stranger — I find a deeper connection to place. Skipping the postcard, I instead drop two euros into a beggar’s cup, ask his name, and shake his hand. Same price. Different memory. Offered a moment that feels small but true, I chase it. Time and again, my curiosity rewards me more richly than any website guidebook ever could. And my curiosity has me always morphing into a new man, shaped by what I consume physically, mentally, and spiritually.

If one is fortunate, as I am, to be anchored to a piece of land, one can travel all the world and never be without a safe place to return or call to mind. And coming home, I know this trip has worked its magic: Paris has changed me. I have not returned to Two Fish Farm the same fellow who left it. Something has shifted within me and although I am not entirely sure what that shift entails, I can sense it.

A café — its shape, its chatter — can transform how we perceive the world. For me, it became a quiet place to retreat from the sense of estrangement that grips you in a city where everyone seems half a step ahead and you struggle with the language. Sitting there with my espresso, an invisible sadness would sometimes sweep across the back of my neck, and I would feel alone. But sadness, like joy, is a gift and a necessary nutrient for the soul. Our palate, both physically and spiritually, needs both the sweet and the bitter to fully appreciate the offered repast. I feasted on the cuisine of Paris, nourishing both body and soul.

There’s no grand climax to this travel tale, only moments — images and conversations — that glow quietly like charcoal embers. When I tend to them and gently stir the ash, I feel their warmth again. Subtle but enduring, these memories sustain me — cherished in ways that still surprise me.

Back home, faced with my farm chores—planting tomatoes, onions, and beans; tending to the bees and trees — I feel the dirt under my fingernails and know I’ve returned changed. Something in me deepened in Paris. I don’t yet know what it means, only that it’s there, gently reshaping how I move through the world.

As I work, I need only recall a Paris café to remember that the world always holds a quiet corner where I am allowed to simply be. No explanations. No questions. Just being.

And in that memory — espresso in hand, strangers nearby, time slowing — I feel it again: il dolce far niente, the sweetness of doing nothing. A moment with no goal, no urgency, and no performance. Just presence.

Resting in that thought, I am pierced by a sudden, painful joy. The kind that leaves everything a little brighter, and me a little more awake.