Ruminations on my spectacularly lazy week in the south of France.
In the hours you’ve spent scrolling through Instagram or Pinterest, you may have encountered the phrase la dolce far niente–‘the sweetness of doing nothing.’ Perhaps you’ve even seen the famous scene from the 2010 film Eat Pray Love, where a group of Italians teaches the protagonist how to enjoy life as it comes: plain and simple.
While the phrase is Italian, the concept transcends borders. Around the world, different cultures have developed their own unique ways of embracing this stillness. In Spain, the siesta embodies a similar philosophy, while the French refer to l’art de ne rien faire–the art of doing nothing. It is the latter phrase I find most suitable for my own experience, reflecting a week spent in perfect, localized languidity in the south of France.
Within the high walls of our cozy little seaside town, St Andrew’s students are wont to find a routine; I am absolutely no exception. Wrenching our bodies out of sacred sleep, we rush to tutorials only to spend the day skipping lectures in favor of coffee with friends. Evenings are filled with some kind of sport followed by society socials, pub crawls, and perhaps the dreaded Union. The next days’, the next weeks’ schedules show little change.
Even on holiday, I usually find myself planning each day carefully, allocating time for this and that, ultimately creating a new routine–albeit vastly different from the university kind–wherever I may be. But this week, I abandoned all of that.
Here, lying in the sun for hours upon end, barely a book by my side to occupy myself with, I found myself wondering, how often do we need to be reminded to savor the simple pleasures of life?
I had been looking forward to this trip for months; it was meant to be a ‘real’ holiday this time. No looming deadlines, no complex group dynamics to navigate, and–mercifully–no large dinners to haphazardly prepare. It was just one close friend and me, headed to a quiet town in the Occitanie region of southwest France, tucked away in the shadow of the Pyrenees.
A spacious house in the center of the village was to be our sanctuary for the week. Our hosts were friends of my parents, but since this was their second home, we were left entirely alone, that is, aside from the occasional, lovely visits from the grandparents across the lane, who would appear with a freshly baked quiche or the keys to the bicycles.
It wasn’t until we touched down in Toulouse that the reality of my exhaustion hit me. I’d been so consumed by the whirlwind of schoolwork, sports AGMs, and social obligations that I hadn’t spent a single second planning what we would actually do here. For the first time in years, I had a blank itinerary and an open horizon.
And what did we do with all that space? Nothing at all.
Well, not exactly nothing. I managed to secure some kind of daily rhythm: waking up sometime in the hazy mid-morning, wandering out for a short stroll, and returning to a coffee from the little Nespresso machine, which I’m sure every home in Europe has. My friend and I chatted about everything and nothing, perfectly content to passively observe where the day might take us.
By one o’clock, we could no longer ignore our growling stomachs and would find our way to the little kitchen. Generously smearing beurre aux cristaux de sel de mer upon fresh French bread, topped with slices of Comté and ham, we’d lie back on the verdant grass beneath the speckled shadow of an olive tree and beams of Mediterranean sun.
It was almost amusing; we’d bring cards, novels–even schoolwork–keeping up the pretense that we needed something to occupy our time. In truth, we weren’t even sleeping; we were just there. The sun had a miraculous, stupefying effect; it was astonishing how many hours we could spend simply lying in its warmth.
As the afternoon slowly faded into evening, we were shocked at how tired we still were. Hanging around the stovetop, I cooked dinner while she kept my glass of rosé full, sweet as nectar. We spoke for hours, the conversation never once ceasing, fueled by that rare, effortless ease found only in total tranquility.
In the last couple of days of our trip, our host dropped by for a visit. He held shares in the local rugby team, and they had an important match that weekend. After chatting with us for a moment as we expressed our gratitude and love for the area, he was surprised to learn we hadn’t taken his mother’s car out, as had been offered. The town was very small, very old, very French, and, perhaps to the untrained eye, a little dull for two university-aged girls.
‘So, you were here? The entire time?’ Philippe asked us.
My friend and I glanced at each other sheepishly. ‘Well,’ I began, ‘yes. Yes, we were.’ Both of us felt embarrassed; had we wasted the week away?
No, I don’t believe so.
It had been years since I’d felt so relaxed. So at peace. It was true, unadulterated rest. It was the rest we needed, yet too often denied ourselves.
These past six months have been impossibly beautiful, fantastical, whimsical, and totally unforgettable. It has also been utterly exhausting. I’m sure I’m not the only one caught in purgatory between academics, athletics, and the allure of a fulfilling social life.
Negotiating a balance between these aspects of youth is certainly not impossible, yet this alone demands devoted attention and can be equally draining as the acts themselves. Indeed, feeling torn between the library and the halls, lectures and cafes, the pub and the desk can lead to moments of painful stagnation, losing time and productivity on both fronts. Ultimately, the way we support the incessant lifestyle of our youth is through the small moments of rest, a quick nap here, a coffee date there, and we regain just enough energy to stay afloat.
The other kind of rest–the kind I was fortunate enough to experience over this past reading week–is a rare luxury. Perhaps it should remain as such, lest it lose its effectiveness. Just as balance must be learned, I’ve found the French idiom to hold true; finding and embracing total stillness is an art form. Once mastered, it is a sensation that is remarkably sweet, or as the Italians suggest, dolce. Soon, the stillness of Occitanie will feel like a dream. But now I know the secret Philippe didn’t quite grasp: we weren’t just ‘there’ for the week, and we’re not just bringing back memories, souvenirs, and a tan. We return home with the comforting knowledge that ‘doing nothing’–practicing ‘l’art de rien faire’–is not a waste of time, but a reclamation of it. We were coming back to ourselves. And in the frantic pace of our youth, perhaps that is the most productive thing we can ever do. After all, the art of living well isn’t just about how we fill our days, but how we allow ourselves to empty them.