Ciao Amici!

In Sicily, I live in Aci Trezza, a small fishing village on the east coast, with my Sicilian partner, our beautiful Jack Russell called Cali and a chilled kitten called Gino, who between them have claimed most of the sofa. I wouldn’t have it any other way. My life is a lot different now compared to a few years back. I’ve come to believe that when you stop caring what people think and just choose your own lane, life becomes so much simpler. You begin to see the beauty in the most ordinary things. Sicily keeps proving that.

I didn’t expect the island to feel so familiar. But having spent time in the Arab world and studying Arabic at SOAS, I started noticing things. Although Sicily is a part of Italy, it’s such a mixed bag. Even the Sicilian dialect has words that are taken from Arabic. It isn’t simply a European island, it’s been shaped by the Arabs, Romans and Normans. The more I looked, the more I found.

This is what Sentimento Lento is about.

The name means “slow feeling” in Italian. It also just rolls off the tongue nicely. Every piece starts with something ordinary, something you’d walk past without a second glance. A dog walk, lunch, a coffee, a mispronounced word. Then a dish becomes a musical composition. A stretch of coastline becomes the backdrop to a Homeric myth. I want Sentimento Lento to transport you to somewhere else for a moment, almost like a daydream. It’s written for the culturally curious, the people who suspect there might be a different pace of life out there and want to know what it actually looks and feels like, without the filter.

I spent most of my twenties in a hurry, physically and mentally. I felt like time was running out, though I couldn’t have told you where I was rushing to. I used to love being able to pack my life into a suitcase and start fresh. It’s been an incredible way to live, with its fair share of ups and downs. I also spent two years in Cape Verde, a microcosm of an island where everything is amplified. You can be in paradise and the saddest you have ever felt, sometimes on the same day. And it’s not just about beautiful sunsets or delicious food. It’s about who you share those moments with. I hope I can share them with you.

Sicily was the first place that made me stop. Or perhaps it was my partner, but he’s Sicilian, so I think that counts. Instead of feeling like time is slipping away, I try to stay present and find pleasure in the small things. The morning walks with Cali along the sea front. The coffee that actually gets finished whilst it’s still hot. The conversation with my partner or a local that somehow turns into a history lesson about the island we live on. These are the things I used to rush past. Now they are the whole point.

When I’m not daydreaming, I work as an editorial project manager at an investigative journalism organisation, keeping our editorial pipeline moving from pitch to publication. I’m also a trainee yoga teacher, which means the rest of my time is spent thinking about intentional breathwork and movement. I know, it sounds like I’m this very chilled, easy-going, zen person. In reality, most days come with some level of anxiety, and the only thing that settles it is writing a list, getting the chaos out of my head and onto paper. When I’m writing, everything else goes quiet. It’s my own kind of meditation.

Not all the stories here are easy. Some are funny, if you share my particular sense of dry humour. Some are historical or mythological. Others focus on local events, or something I really liked, or didn’t. My writing isn’t going to be perfect, but I hope my voice comes across, and I want it to be unapologetically me. This blog is a chance to improve and express myself. I’ll also be writing about some more personal experiences, some simply to share in case anyone can relate, and some to get things off my chest and, in some ways, set them free.

But all of them start in the same place. Something small. Something ordinary. Something you might not have even noticed.

All we have to do is slow down and take a closer look.

Alla prossima,

Nadia