When I was younger I had this weird thing about ice cream…I didn’t like it.
But I loved the cone.
I was constantly trying to think of maneuvers where I could sneakily get rid of the ice cream and lavish in that crispy waffle cone and all it’s glory.
I distinctly remember swiping off a huge portion of my scoop in a trashcan, while walking with my parents, hoping they wouldn’t see (and yell at me for wasting their hard-earned money) and assume I had consumed the bright-colored bubble gum concoction I had ordered. (Which everyone knows is the WORST flavor.)
I am happy to say that I have grown out of my strange, ice cream masochism and now thoroughly enjoy the entirety of my scoop, along with it’s lesser counterpart, the cone.
I am convinced that I still encounter this problem, where I try to bypass the deliciousness of life and go straight for the crap that is merely there to hold it up. One might call it insanity, but I prefer too look at it as unique perspective.
I saw things in that cone, which other people overlooked. I saw potential. I was a regular Michelangelo of dairy by-products.
Italy has this strange juxtaposition between nature and city. My professor says (or perhaps quotes) that the two are constantly on the verge of overtaking the other. Buildings were intricately carved out of mountainsides and yet nature takes revenge, as vines and shrubs weave their paths up the walls of architecture.
This weekend we had a “field trip” of sorts to Roma and all it’s infamy.
Honestly, first impressions…not that great.
I was disappointed that Rome was more of a battle between modern and ancient, than nature and city.
Within ten feet of the Pantheon, one can buy a Cross pen and gigante sized gelato, if they so desire.
Is it strange that the busy traffic is bustling over ancient catacombs?
And that the Spanish steps are littered with “entrepreneurs” trying to sell you cheap roses and those little bags of sand with googly eyes that you can mold into funny shapes and faces?
As our group sat and eagerly ate our pizza bianca (which is a fancy way of saying plain pizza…no cheese…no sauce…just crust) a homeless woman gingerly strode toward us and began cursing at us. In French, no less!
Afterward, this lovely lady began waving her cane around like she was Moses leading the Israelites out of Egypt.
And when we, the Israelites I presume, did not respond to her insanity, she so lovingly spat at us.
And her spit travelled gracefully in the air, until it found it’s landing spot on poor little Emma’s knee, missing her pizza by a mere inch.
She was a saint.
Don’t even get me started on the freaks storming the Vatican to see the Sistine Chapel. I get it. It’s beyond a work of art. But there’s no need for some crazed woman in Crocs to step on the back of my shoes and jam her camera into the back of my head.
No one needs a thousand pictures of ANYTHING. No one wants to see your vacation photos. No one. (That’s why we have Google images.)
Among other things, we were asked to examine the convex and concave shapes so loved by Borromini, so I couldn’t help and appreciate the concave armpit nestled in tightly to the vulnerable convex-ness of my face on the cramped bus.
And let me tell you, Italy might embrace a lot of things...but deodorant is not one of them.
Eventually I discovered that Rome was like ice cream! It was something I almost missed out on, but going straight for the cone and it wasn’t long until I saw the true beauty of Rome. The way the golden light hit the buildings, so intricately carved and masterfully designed. The way the homemade cream seemed to compliment the coolness of my gelato so perfectly.
Rome is marvelous. Truly marvelous. It was unlike any thing I could have even imagined. It has this mysterious nature about it, that you feel like you are in the presence of ghosts.
Ghosts that spit…and don’t wear deodorant.