HA2 | Savoring Livorno, exploring Cacciucco and seafood wonders

In Livorno, the sea doesn’t simply brush against the shore—it seeps into the alleys, into the crumbling walls, into steaming dishes, and into the dreams of those who live there. And it was into one of those dreams that Hana stepped, the curious-eyed Japanese girl we last left wandering the stone streets of Florence, enchanted by the golden crackle of schiaccia. Now, a little older and filled with even more wonder, Hana felt the journey was far from over. It had merely changed direction. She followed the invisible compass of flavor to the Tuscan coast, and there, where the air smells of salt and olive oil, she arrived in Livorno.

She found a small apartment near the harbor, where fishermen’s nets dried in the sun and seagulls flew like messengers from forgotten myths. Every morning, the scent of the sea drifted through her open windows like a gentle whisper: Today you’ll discover something new.

Hana didn’t just live in Livorno—she read it like a book written in the ink of wind and salt. The trattorias, the markets, the little fried food stands: each corner was a chapter, each dish a metaphor.

That’s how she first heard of cacciucco. The word itself, with its rumbling double consonants, sounded to her like an incantation. Locals spoke of it with a reverence usually reserved for saints or old family recipes. And Hana knew: she had to meet this dish face-to-face.

One afternoon, she stepped into a trattoria tucked into a narrow street that smelled of tomato sauce and time. Inside, the clock ticked softly, accompanied by the laughter of cooks and the distant hum of conversation. When the cacciucco arrived, it wasn’t just a meal—it was a seascape, a liquid poem written in broth and brine.

Each spoonful told a story: the squid spoke in deep tones, the mussels whispered riddles, the octopus danced between herbs like an ancient acrobat. The crusty bread, soaked in the thick, red broth, floated like a raft from which she could gaze into the depths of flavor.

But it wasn’t just the taste that stayed with her—it was the ritual. The dish was meant to be shared, passed from hand to hand, accompanied by laughter, conversation, and sometimes silence. Hana understood then that cacciucco was a key: it unlocked the doors of memory, community, and earthbound joy.

She returned to that trattoria often, each time discovering new notes in the broth’s symphony. She began learning the recipe, recording the ingredients like rare words worth preserving. The tomatoes had to be sweet but bold, the garlic honest, the fish fresh as a morning thought.

In her small apartment overlooking the port, Hana cooked. She stirred with care, sliced with reverence, tasted with the delight of someone translating a new language. And she realized: food was a language—not made of words, but of silences, of repetition, of tender ritual. Like a fairy tale. Like a handwritten letter.

Livorno, to Hana, was no longer just a city. It had become a narrative dimension, composed of concrete humanity and storytelling aromas. Each day brought a new dish. Each dish, a new encounter. And in every bite, a piece of herself was gently reassembled.

In the evenings, standing by her window as the sun melted into the sea, Hana smiled. In a bowl of fisherman’s stew, she had found the soul of a people—and the heart of her journey.

Hana's Journey