We landed in Rome early Friday morning with sleepy eyes, too glad to be able to stay with a local and get to know the historical city on a unique level. Our friend’s friend, Silvia, graciously hosted us for the weekend and let us hang out with her, allowing us to ditch TripAdvisor for the weekend and actually have REAL expert’s advice at our fingertips.

We kicked off the weekend at a giant, local concert in an old abandoned fortress, now inhabited by twenty-something squatters. The Italian government turns the other way to and lets them live there simply because they have better things to do.

We were able to navigate to the major sights the next day without risking the dreaded tourist look. On the rare occasion that we didn’t know where we were, Silvia was able to ask for directions in fluent Italian, eliminating the need for awkward encounters struggling to get by in a language that was not our own.

We ate the best tiramisu in the city at Pompi, a local hotspot, and indulged in massive three euro cones of gelato at one of the oldest, best known gelatorias just blocks away from where Caesar walked two thousand years ago. When we walked into one of those rustic Italian restaurants around the corner from Silvia’s apartment, the waiter greeted us with open arms and a warm smile reserved for family.

Over pizza, close to Silvia’s college campus, we discussed things about America that Silvia and her friends didn’t quite understand. We explained how hunting is a “thing” in the south, and how serious capital punishment was—they were under the false impression that the death sentence was doled out like tacky knickknacks at a garage sale. They were utterly perplexed at the thought of stuffed-crust pizza (I quietly held in my passion for the lactose overload), and even when we tried to explain that American crust is thick so the cheese is held is nice and good, they still met us with disgusted looks.

It was odd to get on a plane and be met with the same language and currency on the other end of the journey, although I really shouldn’t be startled by that as, before this semester, English and the dollar were all I had ever known while traveling. Rome is best for dreamers—the people who can easily imagine Caesar walking the cobblestone paths to the forums and Michelangelo making his way to the Sistine Chapel every morning. A lot of Rome is in ruins now, and without the ability to imagine things like how grand the Coliseum was at its peak, Rome just looks like a bunch of run-down buildings in a lot of areas.

But, that’s how traveling should be approached anyway. Being innovative has saved me from missed flights, expensive hotels, and 12-hour train rides. Who knew imagination would come so in handy way after my Barbie playing days?