Keys and Cat Calls
Gelato is ruining my life.
Gelato. The sweet, sweet joy that is gelato is so grand that it renders me completely useless to think anything other than “goodness gracious, gelato is the most delicious thing on the whole damn planet.”
I was so completely consumed by the impossibly chocolaty scoop of heaven in front of me on Thursday night that I brazenly neglected any and all approximations of being a responsible adult. I was so caught up in the masterpiece of sugar-spiking sublimity in my hands that I lost my keys somewhere around the gelato shop, which is ironic because my key chain game is generally on lock.
Let’s recap: gelato took precedence over my ability to return home for the night. Or to return home ever, for that matter. Gelato essentially holds in its glorious, girth-growing-grasp the power to make me homeless. I’m one more cone away from being an all out junkie, intentionally forgoing my life as I know it in favor of just one more flavor. Who needs a bed to sleep in when there is gelato to eat? Evidently not me. What can I say… I like my sugar levels to be like a white guy at a reggae concert: high.
I feel like this is where I should show you a picture of gelato, but that would require me having enough restraint to take a picture before eating it and if you didn’t gather how I feel about gelato from above… a gelato snapshot just isn’t going to happen. It’s not. Sorry. Here’s a picture of an appetizer plate instead.
The food is pretty here. More often than not I find myself making eyes at pizza pies and falling just a little bit(e) in love. Sometimes I also find myself just falling. I’m not proud to admit it, but staring down this food as I walk by has literally got me trippin. I can’t walk and drool at the same time, apparently.
Yesterday, as I exchanged sweet nothings with the nearest window display of fresh pastries, I had the most unsettling feeling that somebody was looking at me. I have quickly realized that if you feel like somebody is looking at you while you’re in Italy, they probably are. These Italians are not bashful about their stares. Cultural differences? The last time I tried to make flirty eye contact with a boy in America it was my cute waiter at the Macaroni Grill and he spent the rest of the meal making aggressive eye contact with the bottle of water on my table. (Sorry I made you uncomfortable, Waiter Man. I still feel bad about it to this day.)
It’s strange. The UPS driver blew me a kiss from his little brown van the other day. Sorry sir, you do not in fact have a package I would like to sign for, but leave it to the Italians to make something like flagrant objectification seem borderline romantic.
The highlights of this week were a class field trip to a place called Bomazro, which had some lovely little waterfalls, and a day trip to Siena. Life is pretty neat, friends.
