Piadina, liscio, azdore, riviera, ceramics. In a world where everywhere looks like everywhere else, there’s something radical about a place that still tastes, sounds, and feels like itself. This is the place I grew up in, and I never get tired of it. Romagna fits everything into a handful of kilometres. Sacred and profane, elegant and messy — often on the same street, sometimes in the same evening. Hills and sea, sagre and natural wine bars, ceramic masters and concrete brutalism, nonne who roll pasta and chefs who deconstruct it. Tell me what you’re looking for. I’ll know where to send you.