When the bells strike twelve, you’d be wise to watch your head. In the heart of Naples and other parts of southern Italy, there’s a custom as bold as the people who live here: throwing old belongings out the window. Chairs, dishes, even small appliances have been known to take flight, crashing onto the cobblestones below in a symphony of chaos and renewal. It’s not just a quirky tradition; it’s a deeply symbolic act—a way of physically ridding oneself of the baggage of the past year to make room for the promise of the new one.

The sun dips low over the rooftops of Milan, casting golden light on cobblestone streets slick with the remnants of an afternoon rain. The air hums with life. Men in tailored suits and women in impossibly elegant heels shuffle through the streets, their laughter mingling with the clinking of glasses and the soft strains of a jazz quartet filtering out from a café nearby. This is not just a drink before dinner. This is aperitivo — a tradition that is less about what you consume and more about who you are while consuming it.

Let me take you back, to where it all began.

There’s a special kind of quiet that falls over an Italian dinner table after the plates have been cleared and the last crumbs of dessert savored. It’s not the quiet of exhaustion or an empty room; it’s the quiet of anticipation. A knowing glance from the host signals the arrival of the final act, a liquid punctuation to the feast: the digestivo.