When There Was No Internet

Memories and reflections on the employment of time

A friend asked what I did to waste time when there was no internet, before social media and youtube. I had to think about it. Our lives are so naturally online that going back to when there was no internet feels like exploring a prehistoric age, with cavemen and dinosaurs and stuff. And I thought that although I’ve lived without internet the portion of my life where one usually does more ”time wasting”, I guess much depends on one’s definition of wasted time. I for one do not believe that time is ever wasted, but maybe lots of people do. So I asked my friend to narrow her question a little. I'm trying to spot what the equivalent of today's unproductive scrolling might have been back then, she said. 

Even though that “back then” really sounded like cavemen and dinosaurs, I said that if she wants to focus on the unproductive I’m not really qualified to answer that question. Some of the things I like best are labeled as “wasted time” or “unproductive”, like being idle, looking out the window or at the sea, thinking purposelessly, staring at the ceiling, unfocusing, napping. But to me they’re not. And so, without getting into the never ending, useless, exhausting, and irritating (I abhor the subject) debate on what productive means, I thought that I’d rephrase the question to something like what did I do when I could do whatever I wanted in the time of no internet or social media or youtube? 

I had a white Vespa. My folks gave it to me when I turned fourteen, after much pushing and lobbying and convincing. Dad was against it, but I was able to bring Mom to my side. A precious ally to get Dad’s green light. And so we ordered it, and after a few weeks we got the call from the dealer saying that it -- she, really -- had arrived and was ready for pickup. It was a beautiful, clear, sunny day when I went to pick her up after school. I was a little nervous as I’d never driven a Vespa before. I’d never driven a motorcycle, for that matter. Home was a few kilometers away and I went very slow, half worried that I’d damage her right off the bat and half worried about being on the road, in traffic, responsible for my own actions for the first time.   

Sometimes, in the afternoon, my friend Pietro and I would drive our Vespas to the top of a hill overlooking our town and, beyond, the sea. Monte Renzo, it was called. What a funny name. It wasn’t easy to get to the very top -- we’d drive up until we’d get to a point where it was too steep to continue. So we’d leave our Vespas there and hike up. On the top, there was a minuscule, uninhabited, crumbling house. We’d sit on the grass, our backs to the house's decrepit wall, and look out at the sea. An immense stretch of blue. And silence. We were fifteen and life was like that body of water: pathless and mysterious, yet open and inviting.

And so every now and then one of us would say something without ever turning toward the other, gaze fixed on the sea below, a sweet, light breeze on our faces. Torn between not wanting to leave that life and wanting to go out and explore the world, we’d let long moments of silence settle in. But I remember conversations about the future, and about the infinite. Occasionally, we’d have a smoke. Our lives knew no stress, no fear of climate change or a nuclear war, no pressure to do and become, no awareness of mortality. We’d let our minds wander, we laughed a lot. And the hours went by like minutes. 

The very days after Dad passed, my friend Marco was very close to me. We were in the midst of covid, but he’d call every day, he’d keep me up. Mostly, though, he’d listen to my stories about Dad. Anyone who went through the loss of a loved one knows that talking about them, remembering their stories, their words, their traits, letting memories about them resurface, helps with coping. One day he told me a simple story about his dad. When we were little, we cherished the simplest things, he said. Like getting in the car and going for a drive. Sometimes, Dad would take us out for a drive and we were so happy and I’d spend the whole time looking out the window. So funny, I said, that’s exactly what we used to do! 

On Sundays, in the afternoon, Dad would get us all in the car and drive around. Mom would sit in the front, and the three of us in the back. And for me this was a happy occurrence, where I could look out the window at the countryside. Millions of colorful frames scrolling by as fast as our car went, making a movie. For some reason that I can’t explain, memories from the seventies always have more saturated colors. Let’s go visit that little village over there, he’d say. The hills around our hometown are beautiful and on top of some of them you can spot these villages, where time stopped so long ago. And Dad knew them all and he would tell us stories about them. And my siblings and I, in the back, were always surprisingly quiet for three kids our age. As if those car tours were emotionally, unconsciously soothing, and we would enter a kind of flow state. Then we would get to a village, get off the car and walk around a little. But, for me, the drive was what I longed for, not the destination. So much so that, to this day, I still love driving the same routes, up and down the hills, on largely deserted roads, where I can think or just be. Or waste time, by some standards.

When I was still a single-digit age, maybe even in my teens, I loved going to the movies, and sitting as close to the big screen as possible. Theaters in my hometown (and perhaps elsewhere, I'm not sure) allowed people to start watching movies at any time. Like, we would arrive at the theater whenever we pleased, purchase tickets, enter the screening room, find a seat, and start watching. And if the movie had already begun, we could stay for the next showing and catch the part we missed. Not an ideal way to watch a movie, I know. But theaters permitted this weird practice. And so at some point Mom would tap us on the shoulder and whisper that’s where we came in; come on, let’s go. 

Reluctantly, we would rise from our seats and slowly make our way to the exit, our gaze fixed on the screen until the very moment we passed through the red velvet curtains and our eyes were flooded with light. A tangible reminder that we were catapulted back into real life. It was a bittersweet sensation, leaving us with contrasting emotions -- a sense of loss for the cinematic world we had to abandon, and a profound gratitude for the experience we had just lived.

Little, simple things. Life was full of those back then. Like getting together with my friends and telling made-up horror stories. We had a large patio at home, with some wicker chairs scattered around. We’d gather them in a circle, each sit on a chair, and someone would start telling their story. Made up on the spot, no preparation. I remember no monsters, no depiction of violence, no yelling. Just lots of subtle, scary stuff. Fantasy was plentiful, and attention-grabbing. These were our scary afternoons, in our early teens. Hours spent talking and listening and giving our undivided attention to something that made us feel good, before going back to do homework. One day someone brought a cassette recorder and we taped our stories. I’d give anything to find and listen to those tapes again.

And I’d go on. I’d continue to write about things that I used to do, that I wanted to do, when there was no internet. Whether I was a child, a teenager, or even later (the internet didn't arrive until my late twenties), there is a common thread that runs through those memories -- a sense of simplicity and mundanity. But also a serene acceptance of life's flow, knowing that much of it was uncontrollable and that, somehow, the universe would make all the pieces magically fall into place. And the lightness. There used to be more lightness, in everything. Not just because I was so young and devoid of responsibilities. Adults would do things with more lightness too.

“Learn to do everything lightly. Yes, feel lightly even though you're feeling deeply. Just lightly let things happen and lightly cope with them.” wrote Aldous Huxley in 1962, the year before passing. This could easily be my life’s manifesto. Internet or not.

The absence of the internet made us approach life with greater ease and a deeper connection to the present moment. There wasn’t the pressure to dominate the unknown that we feel today -- it was okay to surrender to the unfolding of life, to take things as they came. I know this now; I didn’t back then. 

And while I wrap this up, I’m listening to Wasted Time, an old song by The Eagles. It came up in the shuffle on Spotify. This is not on purpose. I swear. 

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