Caffetteria Mariani- Roma

This journal is a living archive — a collection of places, people, rituals, and quiet moments that shape my work at the bench. Not everything here is about jewellery. Everything here is about making.

Some places don’t introduce themselves — they simply take you in.

 

When I moved to Italy, I didn’t know that home would find me so quickly.

 Downstairs from my apartment was a café.  Not the kind you find on lists or guides. Not a place people line up for photos.

But the kind of café that smells like butter at 5am — where stainless-steel benches are dusted with flour, pastry sheets are rolled fresh each morning, and people know your face long before they know your name.

 

 

                                 

(Some Photos of the amazing cafe and Italian pastries) 

 

My Morning started with- Diana calling out, “Ciao, buongiorno, amore!” the moment I walked into the cafe.  

Matteo and Salvatore already knowing — “Ciao, Maria. Caffè latte, con ghiaccio.”
I never had to ask.
I was already expected. 

Communicating wasn’t always easy. My Italian was — and still is — a work in progress. But Salvatore, the café manager, helped without ever making it feel like a lesson. He spoke to me in Italian, I replied in Italian, and he gently corrected my pronunciation and grammar as we went. 

 

    

                                       

(Some of the most beautiful souls — Aji, Salvatora, Claudio, Matteo, and Fabio) 

Slowly, it started to feel natural.

Not fluent — but familiar.
Not perfect — but understood.

In many ways, it mirrored the work at the bench. Where gold, too, learns through heat and repetition, shaped patiently until the hands know what the mind once struggled to say.

                                       

I had the opportunity of a lifetime — stepping behind the counter, into the baker’s kitchen, where I made a full batch of cornetti by hand.

Call me a baker, Or a woman who loves learning with her hands.  

                             

An apron tied around my waist.  A place at the bench. No fuss. No performance.           Just trust. The italian locals LOVED my cornetti

       

I made cornetti by hand — folding, rolling, shaping each one slowly, carefully. The dough was soft and alive, responding to touch. It reminded me so much of working with metal — how timing matters, how pressure matters, how your hands learn faster than your head ever will.

I realised something in that kitchen.

This is why I love working with my hands.
Because hands remember.
Because they hold stories.
Because they connect you to people without needing many words.

         

The next day, I came back and saw them baked.
Golden. Real. Mine.

My Italian cornetti.

Not perfect. Not professional.
But made with care, and made because someone believed I could.

These people gave me more than an experience. They gave me a feeling of being seen, welcomed, and trusted. And that kind of kindness stays with you. 

Some places feed you.
Some places teach you.
And some quietly feel like home.