It’s a funny sort of feeling when you walk somewhere and you just know that you were always supposed to find this place in one way or another. It’s as if it’s speaking to you, whispering promises of its potential. I heard it when I stepped into Florence and saw the looming presence of the Duomo, which watches over Florence with a graceful presence.

On my first day in beautiful Florence, I decided I wanted to get lost. I felt the pull to be amongst the Italians, experiencing the city as they do. I simply needed to wander – and what better way to gain my footing in a new city than to lose myself in it?

So off I went with Jenna and Katie along for the ride. It started out so well, seeing the different piazzas and stores I would visit in the next week, always thinking the Duomo was right near us. And then all of a sudden, the Duomo was gone and so were the tourists. I used this opportunity to break out one of the few Italian phrases I learned: Dov’é…? The first couple I asked didn’t speak English at all, but politely told me to go sempre dritto – before scolding me for my incorrect pronunciation of an Italian word. Much like ordering two liters of wine instead of two glasses in Rome, the language barrier was my downfall. Having too much wine is a happier accident than getting lost in a city, although. I asked a nice old woman next. She started speaking very fast. “Non parlo Italiano,” I tell her, but she continues anyways. She grabs my hand and holds it to steady her tired limbs, speaking quick and intricate sentences. I didn’t want to let go because this lady was my physical connection to the culture that I was trying to immerse myself in, but I couldn’t understand her. I was 0 for 2 with directions, but after a few more tries I was finally on my way back to the apartments.

The next day, Chef Marcello and the pasta maker, Doriana, paid us a visit all the way from Bologna. I had the privilege of learning the ins and outs of Italian cooking, but I ended up entranced by Doriana’s technique. It is a wonderfully powerful feeling to watch a person do something that they are practiced in and clearly love. You can see it in their eyes as they do it. Doriana closed hers as she separated the tortelloni filling into the pasta shell, with a small smile playing on her lips as you could see the muscle memory kick in. It’s almost like you can feel her putting part of herself into her pasta. While I could watch forever, I felt like I needed to jump in and try my hand at folding tortelloni. I hesitantly pick one up, feeling very amateur next to the woman who rolls pasta with her grandmother’s rolling pin. I fold it. She nods. I roll it around the bottom of my finger.

“No no no.”

I try again, and this time I get a shrug and a “si!” I feel like I can do better, so I fold up the pasta with extra care, showing Doriana my self-professed masterpiece. I manage to get an “ehhh” from Doriana, but I laugh when I realize my pasta is not pretty in the slightest.

While my tortelloni folding is no va bene, my experience is definitely va bene.

I can’t exactly put into words how much Florence has affected me, but I know I was supposed to be here. I feel so comfortable and so myself that I want to experience everything the city has to offer. Firenze to me, and I whispered back.