On rushing through things

“The main thing is not to hurry.” — John Steinbeck

During one night of solo dining in Florence, I asked for the bill as the waiter cleared my plate. His response was “no rush.”

It was something I’d heard repeatedly during my travels in Italy. No rush. Here I was trying to indulge in some dolce far niente—the sweetness of doing nothing—only for an ingrained sense of hurry to betray me.

As I waited what felt like an inordinate amount of time for the bill, I sipped what remained in my water glass alongside agitation. In place of sweetness was a restlessness of doing nothing. I wanted to rush along to the next thing—even though the next thing was likely just heading back to my room and pretending to read a book.

I’m reminded of Hurry by Marie Howe, where the poet reflects on the tendency to rush her daughter as they go about errands.

Where do I want her to hurry to? To her grave?
To mine? Where one day she might stand all grown?

Something eventually softened as I waited, and I struck up conversation with the retired couple at the next table. …