Realization
November at Eirene Cafe
In November, a deeply felt yet little-known phenomenon is our food for thought. This letter is part of The Interlude and is the only installment for the month.
When you think about Milan, you likely picture the Duomo—its marble towers reaching towards the sky, anchored at the very heart of the city. Until recently, this majestic structure wasn’t part of my daily routine, but as life shifted, my commute began bringing me to its steps every morning. Emerging from the subway, I’d slow down, sometimes even stop, savoring the moment and allowing myself to marvel at the Duomo’s carved marble walls—a reminder of times when architecture aimed to immortalize the essence of a place, the genius loci.
That word—savor—captures something elusive about our connection to the spaces around us. In a world of instant consumption, savoring is rare. It requires surrendering control and letting go of expectations. To savor means allowing ourselves to experience that childlike awe, a sensation of time expanding and intensifying.
Milan is not a city that makes savoring easy
The coffee shop around the corner, the sidewalks we traverse daily, and even familiar waiting spots like train platforms—all these become parts of what Marc Augé calls non-places. These spaces, where individuals remain anonymous, are encountered only fleetingly as we pass. Non-places represent an odd paradox: their purpose is to facilitate daily life, yet they dilute the potential for meaningful human interaction and savoring. They’re familiar yet strangely empty, discouraging any real engagement. These are spaces to pass through, not places to connect within. Sadly, in recent years, many venues—even cafes and restaurants—have fallen into the trap of non-place status.
Initially, my journey through Milan’s streets and subways was a small ritual of rediscovery. Each day, I noticed the texture of the buildings, the people, the interplay of lights and shadows. But after a few weeks, that ritual transformed, shifting toward an indifferent rush. I became just another commuter, shielding myself from the noise, the crush of strangers, and the relentless ads. My enthusiasm was replaced by a kind of opaque hostility; I wanted to see as little as possible. Without realizing it, I had begun shutting out the world I’d initially savored.
It wasn’t until a recent lab session on environmental psychology that I understood why. As we discussed the stressors that make urban life so taxing, the professor’s words struck me: “Environmental stress desensitizes us to beauty,” she said. “To protect itself from sensory overload, the brain filters out most inputs, leaving only what’s vital to survival. The result? We stop perceiving beauty. Tragically, this desensitization also shuts down our empathy.”
As I listened, I felt a pang of recognition. Back when life was confined to our quiet neighborhood, I couldn’t pass by a hand extended in need without offering something small—some token of hope or comfort. But now, city life—with its subways, ads, noise, and crowds pressing against me—had gradually dulled that instinct. My compassion shrank alongside my attention to the world around me.
I learned that this phenomenon has a name: the blasé attitude
Sociologist Georg Simmel described this over a century ago, writing extensively about how the urban environment overwhelms us with stimuli, leading to what he called a "protective organ." Simmel’s insights remain strikingly relevant today. In cities saturated with artificial light, noise, and relentless movement, the blasé attitude can numb us to beauty, empathy, and even the motivation to engage with our surroundings. As urban life constantly demands more of our attention, we find ourselves shrinking back, distancing ourselves emotionally from our environment and the people within it. In this withdrawal, our capacity for empathy and genuine connection quietly diminishes.
Simmel once wrote, “To the blasé person, all things appear matted with a grey hue; none is preferable to the other.” This greyness in our perception of the world, though a defense against overstimulation, cloaks us in a loneliness that permeates urban life. Freedom in the city, Simmel argued, is a paradox. While the sheer size of the metropolis allows each person to carve out their individuality, the price is an emotional isolation that few of us anticipate. We become indifferent, constantly bombarded with stimuli that drain our emotional reserves, leaving little energy for genuine encounters.
The irony of the city is that while it offers freedom from the constraints of small-town life, it also makes us more isolated. The city fosters a unique type of loneliness where physical closeness does not equate to emotional connection. The person next to you on the subway might as well be worlds away. This protective detachment, while enabling us to function in such densely populated environments, also makes empathy and genuine community-building rare.
As this urban detachment grows, we pay the price in our social and emotional lives. Apathy becomes the norm. Even when our surroundings offer opportunities for connection, we’re physiologically inclined to withdraw because engagement feels exhausting. In this state of emotional numbness, there’s no marketing tactic, social initiative, or call to action that can stir us from indifference. Last year, I witnessed this apathy up close, encountering a collective indifference that dulled enthusiasm and hope.
While we’re living in a time that cries out for participation, collaboration, and empathy, our urban physiology—the numbness induced by overstimulation—stifles our instincts for connection. The question is: in cities that prioritize anonymity and efficiency, can we still find ways to savor, to empathize, and to be fully alive?
While cities like Milan draw us with promises of culture and connection, the very fabric of urban design may need a rethinking. We need spaces that encourage us to savor life and allow us to feel. Without them, the blasé attitude will continue to numb us, leaving us more isolated in a world that seems to press in on us ever closer.
November Conversations
If you are in the mood for some self-discovery time and inspiring exchange, head to November Conversations. You can keep the answers for your introspective self or share them with others looking for solace in relating.
November Gatherings
If you’re in the mood for good company and a journaling practice from the comfort of your armchair, join us for this month’s Clarity Pages. Paid subscribers will receive the meeting link the day before.