September 2, 2015

Gelato!

Every day we walk. And every day we pass the same four or five different gelato places roughly three times. So, that’s like seventy two opportunities for gelato to come up in conversation (I’m no good at math, but right?) not to mention all the other times when you aren’t passing a gelato place but you’re seeing other lucky people strolling down the Corso with their pretty cones full of gelato and you think, “DammitIwantsome.” Parker’s learned them all by now and has come to expect gelato. Like, “a new day? Soooo when’s our gelato-run, guys?” Steve laughed the other day as Parker asked for some because, really, we don’t go out for ice cream every day when we’re home. But, when in Italy? Also, I think across the board gelato is more delicious. Could this be true? Ice cream is great, but there’s more bad ice cream than there is bad gelato. That or I haven’t honed my discerning taste because gelato’s still new to the ‘ol tastebuds. I’m not sure. Let me get back to this later.

And yes, even Anders looks at us expectantly when we’ve stopped for gelato all, “Guys. Guys. Hello? Down here? See me? Where’s mine?” Until I give him the teensiest bit of strawberry. He clasps the spoon to shove it in his mouth a millisecond faster than the speed it was traveling before. Most often his hands are all willy-nilly but he makes contact with that gelato spoon with surprising accuracy every time a gelato morsel is coming his way.

Pasqualetti gelato! Some in the know would suggest that this is some of the best gelato in all of Italy. Fine, fine, disagree if you must. But we’re still partaking.

Lindsey got raspberry and strawberry and we’re pretty sure that color combination makes for the prettiest, most photographable gelato. Also, William and Lindsey both have me taking pictures with my good camera to text them later for their own Instagram accounts. Bloggers in the making? Oh geez.

As we were going out for our daily gelato, we passed this band singing American tunes. Lynyrd Skynrd! Alanis Morrisette! Adele! Of course we had to stop. Since none of us are fluent Italian speakers, we’ve spent more time talking to each other, and only each other, for the last month. Are we sick of each other? I didn’t say that but I could’ve said that. Needless to say, we stopped and grabbed a drink while listening and singing along. I like to dare William and Lindsey during times like these. Or threaten that I’m going to embarrass them. “What if I started tap-dancing right here in the street? What if I did Mary Katherine Gallagher’s “Superstar!” all the way down the road?” It’s a true fear of theirs that this will come to fruition.

Steve got a Corona (such an American! I say that without disgust since I just got over talking about how none of us are Italian-speakers and nearly threw a party right on the street when we heard some American tunes but before you go losing all faith in me, I also loved this Italian group who were playing a few weeks ago–all intstrumental. They were named Olashinta and despite all my Internet searching I cannot find them again.) and I got an Aperol Spritz. Anders is really gunning for a taste here but I didn’t let him have one. Not today, little buddy! Not today.