It started as most Roman weekday mornings do: I was in a rush, and I wasn’t sure if I would make it to my destination on time. My friend and I were headed to Florence for the day, to the city of Brunelleschi’s dome, Michelangelo’s David, of red-tiled roofs flanked by mountains just in the foreground, as if to say, “We’ve always been here. Didn’t you know?”

I checked the time, doing the calculus in my mind. If we took the bus, even if it came as scheduled, there was no way we’d make the train. We’d have to take a cab. “Where are we going today, girls?” the taxi driver asked me as we piled into the car. He knew we were headed to Roma Termini, and that meant only one thing: we were actually going someplace else entirely.