I didn’t meet the baker until my second morning. She had a small shop tucked into one of the quieter streets in Riomaggiore, the kind of place you wouldn’t notice if you were rushing through with a train schedule in mind.

I walked in looking for breas and some tomatoes. You know, the essentials.

She was thrilled to chat but didn’t have amy bread left to sell. She’d sold out the day beofre. I told her it was no problem, but she told me to wait right I was and then rushed to her home above the shop. Then, gave me a fresh laof from her personal stash, along with totatoes picked from her garden and a generous amount of basil —handing it all over like it was nothing, like adding something fresh to breakfast was just a given. She insisted I didn’t pay. 

It was a small, generous exchange that would’ve been easy to miss entirely if I hadn’t been there long enough to return.

Obviously, I slipped some cash onto the counter while she was distracted, and I heard about it for the rest of my stay because, in a village that small, you keep seeing everyone.

She started calling me stellina, which I later learned means “little star.” So naturally, I kept going back for her baked goods every morning, partly because they were delicious and partly because her cat would weave affectionately between my legs while she packed up whatever I’d pointed at that day.

Then there was the bar owner who lived below my Airbnb. I couldn’t avoid him, even if I tried. It turned out to be a fantastic thing though, he was such a kind gentleman.

His restaurant had music drifting up in the evenings. The low hum of conversation. Glasses clinking. That particular kind of energy that only builds in places where people actually stay long enough to settle in.

One night, he invited me inside and one drink turned into a few. A few drinks turned into conversation. At some point, I found myself dancing with his son, slightly off-balance, definitely a little tipsy, while he kept refilling glasses and intterupting his son to dance with me on the street, his steps much more practiced. 

There was also an artist in Riomaggiore who ran one of the only galleries in the village.

We talked longer than I expected to. About his work, obviously. But also about staying in a place that most people pass through. About what it means to create something in a location that’s constantly being photographed by other people. How lonely it can get to meet others who admire a place, but never really take it in. His home is so often spoken about in veiled terms of travel hotspots, but never actually explored with gratitude and curiosity. I bought one of his paintings, part of my tradition of bringing art home from everywhere I go, but also to remeber the man I met.