What we lose when we stop talking |
In the small towns of southern Italy, there is a daily routine so ordinary no one questions it, yet so powerful that it quietly shapes the life of the community: “la passeggiata.” Every evening, as the sun softens and daily hustle settles, people step out of their homes and walk to the piazza. Not for shopping or exercising, nor for any practical purpose. They go out simply to meet people. To exchange news. To argue, to laugh, to gossip, to watch and listen. The piazza becomes an open-air living room, a democratic space where all generations meet without appointment. The elderly sit on benches or chairs they themselves brought out from home. Teenagers lean on their scooters and bikes. Parents walk with strollers and toddlers in tow and shop owners stand at their doors, chatting with whoever passes by. Information is spread out not through screens but through voices. Problems are solved, rumors are corrected and ideas are shared.
In those piazzas, the act of walking is secondary. The true purpose of la passeggiata is seeing and being seen, talking and being heard. Social life still happens face to face, spontaneously, without the need for strict coordination. The piazza is not simply a place, it’s a social ecosystem.
Coming back to Korea, the contrast is striking. The country has perfected speed, efficiency and digital connection, but at the cost of spontaneous human interaction. Face to face conversations are often avoided and meeting someone in person requires scheduling, alignment of calendars, confirmation and usually a specific purpose.
On the streets, people walk in a rush, earbuds in and eyes fixed on their phone. In cafes or restaurants, places usually known to be associated with socializing, people sit across from one another scrolling through their feeds, occasionally sharing something on the screen but rarely engaging in deeper dialogue. Ordering coffee can be done without speaking a single word through kiosks or delivery apps, while taxi rides have also become a silent activity.
Technology has put the country on the map, but it also provides an escape from awkwardness and unpredictability, two crucial elements of real conversation. Korea is surely heading toward an online, artificial intelligence-driven lifestyle, one that comes with a risk of disconnection, indifference and ignorance.
But it wasn’t always like this. There were school events where everyone would get together and mingle, eat lunch and play sports, or times when air conditioning was scarce and the entire neighborhood would emerge from their stuffy homes and share watermelon on the streets, listening to the radio and counting stars.
The piazza in Italy works as a natural social safety net. People notice if someone has not appeared for several days. They check on one another, and stay aware of changes. Loneliness exists, but it has fewer places to hide. In Korea, tragic news reports of elderly people or tenants found dead in their homes only after neighbors detected a strange odor appear far too often, showing how isolation and loneliness deepens silently in our daily lives.
Digital connection creates an illusion of closeness, thanks to its accessibility and efficiency, but in reality, it pushes people further apart, sometimes even to the edge. Some might argue that people connect differently now, through social media and messaging apps. But a “like” or “heart” on screen cannot replace a laugh shared on the street with a friend, nor can a digital comment under a post offer the comfort of a knowing glance from a neighbor. If reading emotional cues on someone’s face, the spontaneity of greeting someone and the comfort of being physically present start to feel unfamiliar or even unnecessary, it should be taught, learned and practiced again.
The concept of la passeggiata cannot simply be recreated in Korean society, obviously, but it points to the fact that meaningful social life requires intentional spaces — and intentions. Korea already has cafes, parks, community centers and excellent river paths like Cheonggye Stream. What is missing is not the infrastructure, but the habit. Spontaneous interaction needs practice and permission. It also needs examples. Screens and hagwons (cram schools) have their purposes, but they cannot build the constructive habits of conversation that communities depend on. The obsession with efficiency, personal optimization and solitude has erased the possibility of spontaneous connection from our lives. Unstructured time, the base upon which organic friendships and relationships grow, are seen as unproductive and a waste of time.
La passeggiata will never be a daily routine for Koreans, but it can serve as a reminder that real human voices mean much more than those seen and sent on screens. It wouldn’t be a completely new concept; community spirit is already embedded in Korean society. It seems as if the whirlwind of modern technology has started to bury the necessary voices, but it’s crucial for us to try to bring them back. Because once the voice of humanity is lost, the meaning of community goes along with it.
Han Sang-hee is a former staff reporter at The Korea Times and former editor at CNN Travel. She is based in Stuttgart, Germany, but now lives in Seoul with her Italian husband and two daughters and shares stories on her instagram @rachelsanghee.