From Cranford to Italy: Coping With Gelato Addiction

I had been worried about not speaking Italian, but we managed to get by. Not by any means artfully, however. Most exchanges I had with people on the street or in stores and restaurants went like this: I'd open with a "Ciao, quando questo?" which is "Hi, how much is this?" or something similar. The shopkeeper would say something in Italian and I, having reached the limit of my meager grasp of the language, would blink a few times, shrug and smile like a lobotomy patient. Then the shopkeeper or whomever I was talking to would smile back and switch to English.

We were the quintessential tourists, wide-eyed and cheerfully befuddled. We divided our attention between the sights and a map, almost getting run down by the ubiquitous Vespas zipping everywhere with little regard for such trivialities as stop signs. We got lost - a lot- and made a mess of the transportation system almost immediately, getting on the wrong city bus with no tickets. The bus driver didn't seem to care, but we were heading in the opposite direction of Termini Station, where we were to pick up Mary Kate and Hannah.

Somehow we made it to Termini, picked up the girls, and got on a hop-on, hop-off audio tour bus, which is a great way to see a new city and get the lay of the land. Don't hold out hope for much of a tour, though; on multiple busses in multiple cities, many audio jacks just didn't work, so all six of us would spend the first few minutes of each tour moving from seat to seat and grumbling.

Later that night, the six of us experienced our first Italian meal. We were practically dragged into a restaurant around the corner from our apartment by a gregarious waiter. The Sullivan clan is generally a "dine-and-dash" type of family: no talking while we're eating and let's get out of here as soon as possible. But "when in Rome," as the saying goes, so we sat outside, ordered some appetizers and wine, and took our time to relax and let it sink in that we were in Italy and all together. Italian food is meant to be enjoyed with lots of laughter and some good-natured ribbing.

Amanda and my mother would go on to state that they weren't particularly impressed with the food in Italy, a statement with which I vehemently disagreed, but that first night remained our favorite meal. I ordered the fettucine bolognese, my favorite dish, and I'd go on to order it at every other restaurant that had it on the menu for the rest of the trip. It was never bad, or even bland, but that first plate at that first restaurant remained my favorite.

After dinner came the most important part: dessert. I'm not much of an ice cream person (it hurts my teeth. So sue me), but I got used to gelato very quickly. It's creamier than regular ice cream, thicker, generally bolder. Every gelateria has a different assortment of flavors, all of which are delicious. I was like a junkie without a fix the first few days I was home, and if anyone knows where to get good gelato in Union County, let me know in the comments.

Of necessity we made it an early night. We had to be up early for the Vatican. This would be a theme of our vacation; up early, hurry to some intellectually edifying activity, then lunch, gelato, more culture, more food, more gelato until we finally collapsed on our beds only to wake up the next morning and, ready or not, do it again.