Italy did not ask Parampal Singh where he came from.It asked him how fast he was willing to slow down.
He left Rome behind and traveled north, where the roads curved gently through the countryside. Vineyards stretched endlessly, olive trees stood twisted with age, and small villages rested quietly on hilltops—as if time had chosen to pause there out of respect.
In Florence, art was not locked inside museums—it lived on the streets. Sculptures stood beneath open skies. Buildings carried the patience of centuries. Parampal walked across an old stone bridge, watching the river flow beneath him, unchanged by how much the world above it had changed.
He entered a small gallery without knowing the artist's name. Paintings filled the room—imperfect, emotional, honest. He realized something important: Italy didn't chase perfection. It celebrated expression.
At dusk, he sat on worn stone steps overlooking the city. Bells rang softly in the distance. People gathered not to hurry, but to be. Conversations lingered. Laughter stayed longer than needed. Nobody seemed in a rush to reach tomorrow.
Later, in a quiet village, he shared dinner with strangers who treated him like family. The food was simple—bread, olive oil, warm vegetables—but it tasted rich. Not because of ingredients, but because of care. Meals here were not eaten. They were experienced.
Walking back under a sky full of stars, Parampal felt something settle inside him. Italy was not about monuments or history alone. It was about balance—between work and rest, past and present, ambition and peace.
Before sleep, he wrote again in his notebook:
Some places teach you who you were.Some teach you who you can be.Italy teaches you how to live.
And with that thought, he closed his eyes, ready for the next land to shape him differently.