by: Nicole Karlis
I live on a hill in Florence, Italy. It’s not an ideal setup for me, a mom with a baby and a 3-year-old, without a car. Every day, people pass me on their scooters and Topolinos as I use all my strength to push both kids up it in a stroller. And almost every day, someone asks me the Italian phrase that has become nearly synonymous with Ciao at this point: “Vuoi una mano,” which means literally “Do you need a hand?”
I’ve never said yes. Not because I don’t want the help, but because my warped American mindset thinks that if I accept it, I’ll be a burden. So I smile, wave a hand, insist I’ve got it, and keep pushing.
When people ask me what has surprised me most since moving to Italy, I tell them it hasn’t been the gelato, the pasta, or how hard it is to learn the language. It’s honestly been how nice strangers have been to me.
The first night I landed in Florence, my landlord waited for us with a big bag of treats: pasta, jarred ragu sauce, yogurt, eggs, plum cakes, and a bit of fruit. After traveling overnight with my husband and toddler, the gesture felt worthy of a Nobel Peace Prize. It wouldn’t be the last time.
Over the next few weeks, he’d randomly clean my kitchen for me and bring my daughter toys. When I’m out in public, juggling both kids alone, there’s always someone to offer a hand, whether that’s distracting my daughter to coax her out of a tantrum or holding my son as I dig through the diaper bag.
Each month, I’ll try to make sense of moments like these. To examine what it means to navigate Italian culture from the outside, the complexities, the cultural differences, and always, the awkward moments. This one starting with one simple question: Why are people so nice here?
As the author of Your Brain on Altruism: The Power of Connection and Community During Times of Crisis, I’m deeply familiar with the health benefits and scientific literature on kindness and connection. I also know there are psychological barriers when it comes to giving and receiving, and that it’s not always easy.
Psychologist Amit Kumar once ran an experiment on a cold Chicago day, offering people a choice: give away a cup of hot chocolate or keep it. Most gave theirs away, and both givers and receivers reported a mood boost, but the givers consistently underestimated how much their gesture meant to the strangers who received it.
People get in their own way when it comes to helping others; we underestimate our own impact. Strangely, that doesn’t seem to be a problem here in Italy.
I don’t know if it’s the extroversion of Italians or the stronger emphasis on community, but kindness feels different here. As a health journalist, I suspect Italy’s vuoi-una-mano vibe is one reason this country has a growing population of centenarians. Research shows that greater perceived social support in a society is associated with increased life satisfaction and lower levels of loneliness, which we know is just as bad for you as smoking.
But I think there’s more to it than doing good for good health.
I was reminded of this when my husband came home from an errand the other day. A neighbor’s bike had broken; he’d stopped to help her fix it. They exchanged numbers, and the next day, they invited us over for an aperitivo. We’ve yet to get together, but the invitation alone is more evidence that my theory is right: in Italy, kindness is a way for people to connect more deeply with each other. It’s a way to move beyond being acquaintances. It’s a way to build community.
Maybe that’s the real lesson of the hill. Not that I need to accept help, though I probably should. It’s that every “vuoi una mano” is a small door left open, and somewhere in Italy, someone is always walking through it.
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