Everyday Gelato
The scorching sun parades against my back. Beads of sweat roll down the side of my face, my nose. The straps of my bag leave a trail of crisscrosses imprinted across my skin. A refreshing, cool treat sounds appropriate right now. I can taste the flavors already, dancing on my tongue. Yum! The doorway into the gelateria is narrow, only one or two people can squeeze through at a time. I tactfully slip past the crowd of tourists with red straps around their neck and black earphones framing their head. Inside, the gelateria is brightly lit. I’ve stepped into Heaven. All the flavors lined up in pairs, sitting in shiny silver containers. Glistening. But standing in front of so many different delicious flavors is stressful. Do I want fruity or creamy? What two flavors make the best combination? Customer after customer flood the small space, crying out their flavors of choice. The men behind the counter, dressed like gourmet chefs, run back and forth. Back and forth. Quickly filling each cup with a specific order.
The scorching sun parades against my back. Beads of sweat roll down the side of my face, my nose. The straps of my bag leave a trail of crisscrosses imprinted across my skin. A refreshing, cool treat sounds appropriate right now. I can taste the flavors already, dancing on my tongue. Yum! The doorway into the gelateria is narrow, only one or two people can squeeze through at a time. I tactfully slip past the crowd of tourists with red straps around their neck and black earphones framing their head. Inside, the gelateria is brightly lit. I’ve stepped into Heaven. All the flavors lined up in pairs, sitting in shiny silver containers. Glistening. But standing in front of so many different delicious flavors is stressful. Do I want fruity or creamy? What two flavors make the best combination? Customer after customer flood the small space, crying out their flavors of choice. The men behind the counter, dressed like gourmet chefs, run back and forth. Back and forth. Quickly filling each cup with a specific order.
Oh my, what to choose
I want the flavor riso
white and sweet like home
Grocery Store Woes
I’m standing happily in line with a red basket in hand. It’s full of treasures. I’m anxiously waiting, anticipating the Italian way of “checking-out” in a grocery store. Behind, is a woman with bright yellow heels that are thin as pencils. She wears sunglasses the shape of a fly’s eyes. I guess that’s the normal attire for grocery shopping. I gradually stack my groceries on the short, narrow black conveyor belt, treating them like a fragile pyramid of cards. The clerk scans my items, tossing them to the other side like a rag doll. I frown. She hands over a single plastic bag to put all my groceries in. I’m bewildered -- Has she not seen the amount I’m buying? If I were back home, I would have a truckload of plastic bags at my disposal. She shows me the price for my groceries instead of telling me the price, convinced that I’m just another Japanese tourist with no Italian background. I set out a 50 Euro bill. She takes it and demands for change while I’m digging through my wallet for coins. Excuse me. As soon as I have the coins in my hand, she dives in and snatches what she wants. A hunter pouncing on its prey.
I’m standing happily in line with a red basket in hand. It’s full of treasures. I’m anxiously waiting, anticipating the Italian way of “checking-out” in a grocery store. Behind, is a woman with bright yellow heels that are thin as pencils. She wears sunglasses the shape of a fly’s eyes. I guess that’s the normal attire for grocery shopping. I gradually stack my groceries on the short, narrow black conveyor belt, treating them like a fragile pyramid of cards. The clerk scans my items, tossing them to the other side like a rag doll. I frown. She hands over a single plastic bag to put all my groceries in. I’m bewildered -- Has she not seen the amount I’m buying? If I were back home, I would have a truckload of plastic bags at my disposal. She shows me the price for my groceries instead of telling me the price, convinced that I’m just another Japanese tourist with no Italian background. I set out a 50 Euro bill. She takes it and demands for change while I’m digging through my wallet for coins. Excuse me. As soon as I have the coins in my hand, she dives in and snatches what she wants. A hunter pouncing on its prey.
As We Ride Together
Bodies are pressed up against one another. We all fit in a box. I’m overwhelmed by abrupt stops and jerky accelerations. The loud rattling of nuts and bolts and the windows as we roll across the cobblestones. Will this crumble on top of us? People are losing balance, flying into a stranger’s arms. An elbow is digging into my side. Only a miniscule place to call your own. The windows are covered with a thick sheet of fog. It reminds me of fresh winter frost. I inhale the smoke infused in the man’s shirt. I cough. The lavender perfume of the petite woman standing next to me is dizzying. I’m clutching onto my purse, aware of my surroundings, keeping my eyes moving. I’m on the lookout, like an owl turning its head 360 degrees. We’re in a maze of green bars, smothered with dirty fingerprints and sweat. The doors open and I can breathe once more. My lungs expand. Cool, fresh air! But it only lasts for a second. There’s another wave of shoving and tugging. A newborn child is crying to be nursed, and the sharp pain of a pointy heel digging in my toe. How I love Roman transportation.
Campo de’ Fiori Nightlife
As night falls, the atmosphere transforms. The air is lighter, cooler, and breezy, and inaudible conversations last for hours. Trains of restaurants overflow with people sitting under giant canopy umbrellas. I hear the loud echo of silverware knocking against plates. The Campo is a place for people to gather and enjoy each other’s company. They sit on the steps of the statue. Sitting, waiting, wishing. The sound of giggling from a child drinking from the fountain as water erupts from the spout. I see fake designer purse and sunglasses vendors lay their goods on the uneven cobblestones, and flying helicopter-like toys light up the sky. Glowing neon colors. I dare not forget the sounds of the megaphone – every single night there is someone shouting messages I can never understand. And oh the entertainment. The same performers travel to the Campo de’ Fiori. I hear music from a gentle, soothing saxophone player. And a man singing Italian while playing the violin. And sometimes even the uniqueness of the accordion. It’s so different from Seattle.
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