This is a true story

Federal Hill, is the “Little Italy” of Providence, Rhode Island.?

It was the weekend, maybe Saturday over twenty years ago and I was sitting down at my usual table at Caffe Dolce Vita’s patio in De Pasquale Plaza, the iconic square with a fountain loved by Italians.

In front of me, my usual, number 10 on the menu, focaccia with prosciutto, mozzarella, and basil. It was heaven between perfectly baked slabs of airy bubbles, a glorious celebration of flour, water, and yeast, a golden tapestry of dough with shallow pools of olive oil in salty craters carved by Mamma Orlandina’s expert hands.

My friend Gian, her son, who later became my business partner and basically a non-biological brother, was inside working. He owned the landmark caffè.?

In the late morning light of a dwindling New England summer, a peculiar individual was walking towards me from across the plaza where the chicken store Antonelli housed live birds. This establishment had been there forever, serving the discriminating palates of patrons who despised supermarket styrofoam trays of de-boned, de-skinned, de-flavored meat in favor of a feathery fowl.

He approached my chair wearing a robe and a gold chain; he had just rolled out of bed. Acting like he knew me asked if I had seen Gian. I pointed at the door of the Caffè and gestured for him to sit at my table. A waitress, one of many beautiful young women working that day, came by with an espresso and placed it in front of him. He politely introduced himself, aware that I was a young surgeon. The conversation, while waiting for Gian, went in various directions but ultimately settled on him telling me his life story. Apparently, he had hit the lottery, not once but twice, and was no longer working. I'm not sure he ever did. He explained that it's not easy to be jobless with a steady income, you must find something to occupy your time.?

I was listening with interest; I was literally working tirelessly at the time, having just completed my residency in general surgery and trying to establish my practice. "You have to wake up late," he said, "don't shower right away; that's an activity you can leave for later. Have an espresso, read the newspaper; little of consequence happens in the morning. It's an art," he said, "living an idle life demands dedication. Evenings are easier; friends are out and about and you can hang out and plan for nights and weekends."

I finished my lunch, expressed gratitude for an education I presumed I would never need, kissed Mamma and Gian—yes, we're Italian, and we kiss—and returned to the office to finish some paperwork.

Later I learned that the lesson was invaluable.?

Fast forward to a couple of years ago. Wanderlust was in Rhode Island; Kristin and I were filming our episode about quahogs. We were walking around Bristol with Yoda on a leash, looking for Andrades, a renowned store selling clams.?

In one of the side streets, an older man was emerging from a driveway, walking with a cane; he looked somewhat familiar and was clearly eager to converse. He inquired about Yoda and commented on the mismatch in looks between me and Kristin, with a not-so-subtle hint that I was on the lower end of the attractiveness scale. I knew it was a compliment aimed at me. We began? talking and laughing; he asked me about my origins, my accent was (and still is) a dead giveaway; when I confirmed that I was Italian, he revealed his last name. He used to live in Federal Hill, and we discovered we had several mutual friends and acquaintances. We said our farewells and walked away, but I was left with a nagging feeling that something was amiss.

Later that day, I met with one of our mutual friends (I will keep his name anonymous to preserve confidentiality) and recounted my event. Suddenly my memory was jogged and remembered who this man was. That morning, over 20 years ago at Caffe Dolce Vita, flashed before my eyes.

The twice lottery winner had run into some trouble, and I believe, that the struggle to remain idle and his strategies for “doing nothing” had not served him well.

I'm sharing this story as I contemplate my life and the lesson I learned from that man.

The art of “doing nothing” is deceptive; it promises freedom but often delivers emptiness. True freedom comes from having a meaningful engagement that provides direction and fulfillment. In the vast openness of the sea, the wind's direction matters; without a course to steer, even the most high-performing catamaran is merely adrift. Purpose is that course, the reason that makes every challenge worth overcoming. It's the invisible hand shaping our days and our choices. Now that I have newfound freedom, I cannot waste it in idleness; I must harness it and live with intent.

Harbors Unknown Kristin Potenti