The most consequential object on our trip to Rome last summer was a paper fan bought from a street vendor for three euros. My youngest child had reached that particular shade of pinkish red that suggests imminent structural failure—the sort no amount of gelato can fix—and the fan, small, folding, entirely without pretension, became the hardest-working item we had in Europe. More useful than my suitcase. More appreciated than the hotel. A piece of paper accomplishing what centuries of Roman engineering, Pantheon included, somehow could not: moving the air. I, meanwhile, had packed three pairs of sunglasses and nothing capable of producing a breeze. I’ve thought about that fan ever since.
Americans have developed an odd relationship with preparedness. Having exactly the thing you need, exactly when you need it, can somehow read as overthinking. As though anticipating ordinary inconveniences were evidence of anxiety rather than experience.
