That’s it: I’m ruined. I can only eat pasta in Italy from here on out and possibly only in Bologna will I find my ultimate pasta nirvana.

Today, my last day in Italy before going home to Israel (yay!), I walked to the Bologna market and into a conglomerate of street food shops that share a building with communal seating. I snooped around, glancing at peoples’ plates for ideas, and spotted a man holding an exceptional plate of pasta.

“I want that”, spake my very soul.

I wandered to the pasta counter where I found fifteen (I counted) beautiful choices of fresh, handmade pasta. I paid for the spinach and ricotta tortelloni (€8.50), took a number, bought and ate an arancino from another counter while they cooked the tortelloni, finally heard my number called, watched them grate parmesan on top, found a seat, took a bite of pasta, and cursed out loud.

I am ruined.

It was painfully delicious.

I almost didn’t go to Bologna. What a relief I stuck with the plan. Every meal I ate here was top quality and relatively cheap, since I stuck around the market buying a little bit of this, a little bit of that, wherever I found a place specializing in this or that. When I first asked a local where to go for eating, she said, “Go to the market. They have everything.” I thought her advice was vague, but after multiple meals (four), I understand.

They have everything.

The Bologna market is where happy tears reside. The divine fire of my soul is stoked to full flame. I am nourished.

I am so full.

I can go home now.