HA1 | A memorable culinary adventure in Florence

In the quiet Japanese town of Minami, where the houses looked like origami folded by the wind and cherry blossoms painted soft shadows on the streets, lived a little girl named Hana. Her eyes sparkled with curiosity, and her smile carried the warmth of spring. Among family and friends, she was known as the little explorer of flavors—every new dish was a secret doorway, every unfamiliar scent a whisper inviting her to travel.

One day, like the beginning of a fairy tale, her parents surprised her with news: a trip to Florence. Hana had always imagined Italy as a land where stories were carved into stone and sky, and now that dream was carrying her forward like a gentle current. The cobbled streets of Florence, with their glowing shop windows and ancient corners, felt like a labyrinth of promises. Every turn hid a mystery, every window seemed to hold a story caught between past and present.

It was on a golden afternoon, with long shadows stretching at the foot of the Duomo, that Hana sensed a scent unlike any other—warm, fragrant, comforting. It called to her. Following the invisible trail, she arrived at a small bakery, where time seemed to pause just to listen to the song of the oven. On the counter, nestled between unfamiliar pastries and oddly shaped loaves of bread, one word caught her eye: "schiaccia." The sound of it was like a riddle, and Hana knew instantly: that was what she had to try.

"One schiaccia with prosciutto and mozzarella, please," she said, her voice trembling slightly, like she was casting a magic spell.

The baker, smiling with the quiet kindness of simple things, handed her the warm schiaccia. Hana studied it—the thin, golden crust, the prosciutto peeking from beneath the melted mozzarella—and felt the entire world shrink into that single, perfect moment.

Her first bite was like stepping through a hidden door: the salty embrace of the prosciutto, the creamy sweetness of the mozzarella, the delicate crisp of the flatbread—all danced together in a secret harmony, like the notes of a melody only she could hear.

“Mmm, this is incredible!” she exclaimed, her voice echoing softly within the cozy bakery like a bell.

From that day on, schiaccia became more than just food for Hana—it became a symbol. Every morning she returned to that little bakery, and every time the schiaccia seemed different: sometimes crispier, sometimes softer, as if it were telling her a new story. She began trying other flavors, new combinations, and every taste was a small adventure, a new chapter in her journey.

But the real discovery was something deeper.

Hana realized that Schiaccia had taught her not to fear simplicity. That happiness often hides in the humblest things—in small gestures, in flavors that appear familiar but always offer something new. Each schiaccia was different because each day she was different. And the world changed with her.

Her adventure had only just begun. The streets of Florence, the scents, the people, the colors—they all became part of a story that was slowly unfolding, like a delicate thread to follow with no need to rush. Florence had become a world to explore, where each day brought something new. The thought of returning home remained a soft whisper, a promise waiting for the right time.

And so, Hana kept walking forward, light as someone who knows that every flavor is a story, and every journey a blank page, waiting to be written with the pen of wonder. In the simplest of things, she learned to find the secret of joy—as only those who see the world with curious, gentle eyes truly can.

Hana's Journey