A Weekend That Changed How I See ‘Perfect’

Florence has a way of softening your idea of “perfect.” On our first afternoon near the Duomo, I did the classic tourist loop and ended up gelato-hopping. Some counters showed off neon towers stacked to the ceiling; others kept their flavors under metal lids with wobbly handwritten labels. I tried both. The plain metal tubs—pistachio in that quiet sage green, strawberry a gentle pink—didn’t look flashy, but they tasted like the real thing. No dye, no artificial flavors, just fruit and cream. That quietly set the tone for the whole trip: trust what isn’t trying too hard.

That afternoon we left Florence for Monteriggioni, a small hill town ringed by old stone walls. We pulled in right as the sun began to drop. The sky eased from peach to gold to that thin, end-of-day blue. I kept trying to catch it on my phone and every photo felt flat, so I gave up. We leaned on the wall and watched in silence, letting it be. 

Back in Florence the day after, we took a pasta-making class. The windows looked straight onto the Pointe Veccio, so boats drifted by while we floured the counter. My dough started stiff and dry, but I massaged it until it came together, cut the linguine and set the strands to dry, then tucked little mounds of filling into the ravioli. First bite? Ridiculously good. Not perfectly cut, but better for it. 

All weekend, Florence kept handing me the same note in different fonts: the gelato that looked quiet but tasted bright, a sunset that didn’t need a filter, pasta that wouldn’t pass a ruler test but disappeared from the plate. It made me think about the way I look at ads and brand stories—especially the ones aimed at my generation. We say “authenticity” so much it starts to sound like packaging. But this trip made it simple: imperfection isn’t sloppy; it’s proof.

Proof looks like muted pistachio because real nuts aren’t neon. Proof is a hazy horizon because the air was warm that night. Proof is linguine that’s a little off-size because real people rolled it by hand. The best moments—and the best stories—carry a trace of how they were made. You can taste the process in food, and you can feel it in content. The second you sand down every edge, you also sand down the part I believe.

If a brand asked what to do with that, I’d say: show the seams. Lift the gelato lid and let the camera fog for a second. Keep the clip where someone re-seals a ravioli and laughs. Post the sunset if you want, but admit the photo can’t capture the essence of the moment. Not chaos—just evidence a human is on the other end. That’s what I remember—and what feels real.

Driving out of Florence that last night, cool air slipping through the windows, I kept coming back to the small things: “boring” gelato that tasted like July, the soft blue over old stones, and a plate of linguine and ravioli that wore its homemade edges proudly. Florence didn’t lower my standards; it nudged them. I’m not chasing flawlessness anymore. I’m chasing the truth. And if an edge is a little crooked? Good. That’s how I know I made it.

With Love, Layken