This time in Italy, we drove out to Sperlonga — a beautiful little beach town maybe two hours from Rome. Someone said it looks like the Amalfi Coast, just not as touristy. And yes, the water was beautiful. The cliffs dramatic. But that’s not what stood out the most.

What stood out were the bicycles.

On our way there, and even more so once we arrived, we saw something that didn’t quite match the picture-perfect beach vibe: dozens of Punjabi men — most of them wearing turbans — biking. Some on regular bikes, others on electric ones, quietly going up and down the same stretch of road. Not just one or two. Many. Dozens. Over and over.

At first I thought: maybe a group ride? But no — this was different. These men weren’t out for leisure. They looked like they were working, or commuting, or maybe… just trying to pass the time?

I started asking myself: What are they doing here? Why so many Sikhs, and even Bangladeshis and Pakistanis? On the beach, we came across vendors — selling sunglasses, trinkets. Some spoke Urdu, others Bengali. All had the same sun-beaten look of men who had left home to find work. Not to travel. Not to explore. But to survive.

Later, I learned something: Italy is one of the top destinations for South Asian migrant laborers in Europe. Especially in agriculture. Punjabi Sikhs in particular have been coming here for decades, working in greenhouses, dairy farms, and olive fields. In places like Latina and Lazio — not far from where we were — many of them work long hours for very little pay. Some are undocumented. Many live in rural ghettos. They’re the hands that pick the food, milk the cows, and keep Italy’s agriculture alive — but no one talks about them.

It reminded me of the Gulf. Or parts of North America. But here, it’s hidden behind ruins and gelato.

And then, something else caught my eye.

Women. Standing at bus stops. At odd hours. Dressed in a way that seemed… deliberate. Staged. Early morning. Middle of the day. Near forests and empty roads. No one around — just them, standing still. I’ve never really seen this in Italy before. Was this prostitution? I don’t know. But everything about it felt strange. I later found out this is sadly common in parts of rural Italy, especially near major roads — many of these women are victims of trafficking, often from Nigeria or Eastern Europe, forced into sex work by organized crime groups. And it’s happening in broad daylight.

And still — no one seems to blink.

In the towns we passed through, many felt empty. Like ghost towns. Beautiful old buildings, but no people. Shops closed. Shutters down. It made me wonder: Where is everyone? Are Italians just not having kids anymore? Are they all leaving for America or northern Europe?

Turns out — yes, kind of.

Italy has one of the world’s lowest birthrates. Rural towns have been losing people for years. Young people leave for bigger cities, or countries like Germany and the UK, chasing jobs. Some towns even offer houses for €1, just to get people to move back in. But that hasn’t really worked. So the fields are worked by migrants, the houses sit empty, and the old people remain — watching the world shrink around them.

And then there’s the food. Italian food. The thing we came excited for.

I’ll be honest: the pasta has been underwhelming. Maybe we’ve glamorized it too much back home in Canada and the U.S. Here, it’s much simpler. Just olive oil, some tomatoes, a few herbs. No cream sauces, no “fancy.” Maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be — simple and seasonal. But the pizza? Amazing. And the gelato? Every place has its own style, texture, even philosophy. It’s like a mini art form. And that’s been beautiful.

But Italy — the real Italy — is more than pizza and ruins. It’s bicycles and beach vendors. It’s bus stops with unspoken stories. It’s the quiet contrast between glamour and grit, tourism and toil.

And that’s what I’m trying to understand this time around — the other Italy.