I’m too British for la dolce vita

At this time of year, the heat of Naples wakes me up around 7. A five kilometre jog takes me over Monte Echia, from where I can see Vesuvius, Capri and the city below me framed in bright blue. After a cool shower, I go to a café for breakfast: a pastry and puddle of strong coffee paid for out of loose change. I spend the day sweating in front of a pizza oven, before strolling home, stopping to pick up some pungent tomatoes and red wine for dinner. Truly, this is a life I dreamt of, so why do I go to bed each night wracked with anxiety?

La dolce vita, the sweet life, is a term I heard before I even knew Fellini’s 1960 film existed. It was described to me as a slow life, of good food and bright sunshine, of family and male friends you kiss tenderly on the cheeks.