Leonardo Moretti

I come from a small fishing town in southern Italy, Acciaroli. My family has lived here for generations, just like the olive trees that stand rooted in the soil outside my house. The sea, the mountains, and the fields have always been part of my life. Recently, my family threw a big celebration for my 100th birthday, though I don't feel much different than I did when I was 80. Here, reaching 100 is no rare event. This town has over 300 centenarians. A while back, researchers from California arrived, curious about our lives, our habits, and why so many of us live so long. They seemed surprised when they saw how simple our lives are.

I still work in my olive grove, though my children help me more these days. They say I should rest more, but I've always believed that fresh air and hard work keep a man going. I grow most of what I eat—tomatoes, zucchini, beans—and I only use the olive oil I press myself. I’ve long since given up meat, though I was never much for it even when I was young. My secret? Maybe it’s rosemary. It grows wild in my garden, and I put it in almost everything—sometimes even brew it as tea. My wife, she’s 95, and still strong, though she scolds me when I climb ladders to prune the trees.

Most of my old friends have passed, but I still walk to the café every morning. I play cards with the younger men, though they’re mostly in their sixties and seventies. They ask me for advice, but I always tell them the same thing—live simply, eat well, and don’t stress about dying.

The scientists told me there’s a trend in the world now, something called the "longevity industry," where people pay big money for treatments to live longer. I laughed. It’s not treatments that make us live longer here. It’s being close to the land, to the sea, to each other. Life is not meant to be stretched beyond its natural length. An end, after all, is only another beginning.