Cappuccinoeconomics for Nomads
Are we seriously deciding where to live—or even where to travel—based on the price of a cappuccino? Apparently yes.
Like many things in the modern world, it started innocently enough. A cappuccino here, a cappuccino there. A casual comparison between cities. A harmless Numbeo statistic. And then—suddenly—the cappuccino became an international metric of well-being. Housing affordability? Transit quality? Economic opportunity? Forget all that. In 2025, the world decided that the true measure of a city’s soul is how much it charges you for a cup of foamed milk.
And if that sounds absurd, don’t worry: it is.
This year’s example comes straight from Business Insider, which republished yet another global ranking produced by Resonance - a list of the “world’s best cities to live in or visit.”
Population over a million. Check.
Walkability, nightlife, economic indicators. Check.
User-generated data from Google, Instagram, TikTok. Sure, why not.
And then yes, of course: the cappuccino.
Somehow the price of a cappuccino ended up sitting next to average rent, restaurant spending, and overall livability, as if the leap from Rome’s $2 cappuccino to London’s $5.27 one could explain the entire urban experience. It’s a comparison that tells you everything and nothing at the same time: everything about how cities see themselves, nothing about how we actually live in them.
Because here’s the secret: the cappuccino doesn’t measure the cost of living.
It measures cultural distance.
In Italy, the cappuccino is practically a stabilised national right. It exists in that rare category of things that never fully participate in inflation—like the morning newspaper that refuses to rise above one euro, or the existential belief that coffee should never require a mortgage. A cappuccino in Rome is not a commodity: it’s a civic pact. Raising its price would be a political crisis.
In London or New York, a cappuccino is not a ritual: it’s an experience. You pay for the branding, the ambiance, the square footage you temporarily occupy, the oat milk the barista earnestly reminds you is “sustainably sourced.” You pay for the privilege of existing in the urban theatre of the Self. The drink is almost incidental.
Meanwhile, in places like Singapore, Hong Kong or Tokyo, the cappuccino becomes aspirational—part Western cosmopolitanism, part middle-class ritual, part badge of modernity. It’s less about caffeine and more about the choreography of urban life.
So when Resonance folds cappuccino prices into a global ranking, the result is a kind of anthropological comedy.
The variable appears rational—liquid, universal, photogenic—yet it’s entirely cultural. The number looks objective, but the meaning is not. And the idea that we should choose where to live based on the price of milk-foam is delightfully tragic.
Truthfully, I’m not even angry about the absurdity of the metric. I’m fascinated by what it reveals.
Not what a cappuccino costs, but what it means.
Because a cappuccino is a small thing with a big message. It tells you whether a city still belongs to its people or whether it has quietly transitioned into a showroom for global consumers. If you can enjoy your morning cappuccino without hesitation, the city is still yours. If it becomes a luxury, if it feels like a test, if it stings a little—then the city is sending a very clear message: this routine is no longer meant for you.
And that, ultimately, is why the cappuccino is the perfect symbol for our age: not because it reveals who has the highest quality of life, but because it reveals who still has access to a normal one.
For the full cultural deep-dive, the original, more reflective version of this essay (in Italian) is now live on my newsletter Esco Quando Voglio.
This Nomag edition is the global, caffeinated remix.