The warm, summer sun beats down on the backs of my eyelids. It kisses my cheeks and bounces off cobblestones and brick buildings. A slight breeze whisks away the beads of sweat that crown on my forehead and ruffles the fabric of my dress around my knees. The sweet smell of cream and sugar tickles my nose. A little chime goes off in my head.
Shortly cut grass guarded the little cement pillars and a low chain spread out at the base of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Bicycles scoot between yellow taxis. Horns honk around the bustling square. Tourists check their watches in line for a slice of pizza. Men hide behind sunglasses underneath a shaded awning, sipping apertivi and picking apart green olives. Ash-trays slowly grow, lumpy and heavy, with each raised finger.
Outside of the awnings stand workers waving brochures, menus, and discount cards. Their polo shirts have sweat stains around the neck, but there is not a single hair out of place. Their smiles are dazzlingly white, and their skin is toasted and tanned; kissed by the same sun that I am.
A church bell chimes. It’s two o’clock.
“Maresy! Getting hungry? I know that flight wasn’t too long, but…” My sister pauses, shrugging her shoulders. Her body is angled toward a small hole in the side of a building. I squint into the shade, my hand blocking out the blinding light. Poking out of the maroon bricks is a white sign, paint chipped and faded. Il gelateria. “I don’t know about you, but I could use some stracciatella.”
“Stratchiatella?”
“Gelato. Trust me on this one.” My eyes narrow skeptically.
“Mm, I’m not really a fan of ice cream.”
“Did I say anything about ice cream? This is gelato. And not just any gelato, but Italian gelato, in Italy. You have to.”
“In the shade of Pisa,” my brother-in-law chimes in. His hands are already full of Margherita pizza slices wrapped in wax paper. “Can’t get much better than that. Hey, hold this for a sec.” A slice of pizza lands in my palms and I stand patiently as he rummages around in his pockets. A few gold coins wink out at me. “These should do. Grab me a ciocciolato nero on a cone, will you?”
Chocolate-something got it, I thought. My sister and I step up to the glass ordering window. In front of us is a panel of smooth colors, all smoothed into a flat rectangle. Some are bright red, icy yellow, black, blue, or light green speckled with chocolate flakes. My mouth begins to water, the sugary cones beckoning me to them.
The first lick of gelato – real gelato – hooks me for life. Mint chip. In Pisa. A combination of fresh sprigs of mint, creamed into a dense, but airy tasting scoop. I turn back to the square where the white, marbled structure tilts dangerously to the left. People hold their hands up while their friends and family guide their arms so that the photo will be comically iconic. A small horse-drawn carriage patters by, red velvet drapery hanging off the seat.
Yes, I thought. This will do.