The pursuit of the trash tramp.

October 26, 2010

We travelled from rainy Rome to the western coast, the city of Napoli.  I was looking forward to warmer weather, to gaze at the unending sea, to replace buildings with rock-faced mountains.  But I was caught off-guard by Napoli.

Our hostel, “Hostel of the Sun” (ironic, no?), was a short drive from the train station.  When we first arrived, the taxi driver, silent and swift in unloading our luggage, left us standing there, in the rain.  We had attempted to confirm the address, but in response to every “Italianized” comment, we received a grunted “si” and name of the hostel repeated in our direction. 

The building in front of us was brown.  Not the soft warm tan you would imagine on the quaint streets of Italy, but a dusty, dirty color that reflected the artificial lights, electric and sterile.  We called the hostel.  We were lost.  There was no sign, no arrow pointing “This way.”  And as the rain continued and the darkness persisted, standing out in the cold was our last desire.

Now, finding this hostel was my responsibility.  According to the website, it  had received the highest ratings and the best reviews; it even boasted “award-winning.”  Perhaps I should have researched from where the ratings and reviews originated; maybe I should have inquired as to the nature of said award.  But I didn’t.  And at that point, it was a little late.

Nonetheless, there we were.  My stomach in knots, I just stared at the foreboding structure, unable to meet Jared’s eyes.  When I finally turned to look at him, we had nothing to say to each other.  Yet, I could see it in his face, worry, alarm, and slight amusement (in retrospect, the slight amusement was a little slow in coming).   If the night turned out a disaster, I would never hear the end of it.  So I tried to lighten up the situation, reminding him that we had options; there were plenty of hostels scattered around Napoli.  (Never mind the fact that we had no map, the weather was uncooperative, and it was nearing the late recesses of night.)

We entered the building with instructions to go to the seventh floor.  The receptionist for the hostel was friendly and exuberant, almost strangely so, considering the time.  There was a tiny elevator, and tired from the long day of traveling, we took our chances with the antiquity of Italy (normally, I ignore these suspended cages).

The elevator cost five cents to run.  We had some loose change, a two cent, and two pennies.  Five.  Perfect.  Not to be deterred by something so small, we dropped in our coins and waited.  And nothing happened.

A man walked over to us, silent, and handed us a five cent coin.  We added that to the stash, but the machine and elevator remained silent. Once again, the quiet man returned, mutely opened up the coin collector, pocketed our two and one cent coins and handed the five cent back to us.  Apparently it has a specific diet; it only functions on coins of exactly five cents, and by incorrectly feeding it other amounts, we had condemned the elevator to the first floor.  (We soon discovered that our hostel has a monopoly on the elevator business. Every time when we headed out the door to the next activity, they would hold a wicker basket in our direction and ask, “Do you have a five cent for the elevator?”  So we never actually paid, we borrowed from the source.) 

Hostel of the Sun derives its name from the bright paint applied to its walls, luminous oranges and yellows.  It is, in my opinion, a true hostel.  Barefooted residents lounged on overstuffed couches.  The walls were coated with posters and postcards, ripped, ragged, and dog-eared; no order directed this decorating style.  A kitchen off the main room served a complimentary breakfast of canned fruit cocktail, Wonder bread with nutella, and coffee as thick as maple syrup.  The receptionist chewed and popped her gum, drew scribbles and shorthand directions on maps, and repeated our names, quite emphatically. 

“So JARED, so BRIE, what are your plans for Napoli?”

“You want to climb Mount Vesuvious?! That’s great, JARED.”

“So BRIE, here’s where you want to go for pizza.”

We ventured out into the rainy dark city that night in search of food.  Our destination: L’Antica Pizzeria Da Michele.

The most famous pizzeria in Napoli, home of the first pizza, a restaurant of historical significance that has suspended its fame through the recent movie “Eat, Pray, Love.”  But I was unimpressed.  You can only order two types of pizza: Margherita or Marinara.  Jared ordered the extra-large Marinara, I ordered the small Margherita.  And we sat there, fork and knife in hand (Italians don’t often eat with their hands when it comes to pizza), drinking Fanta, and taking a deep breath, thankful that we arrived in one piece. 

The directions had been simple and straightforward, yet the streets were unmarked.  And Jared and I both felt like the city, dangerous and dodgy, could not be trusted.  At one point, I stopped his pursuit, and slowly spelled out the truth, “We need to ask for directions.”  We both had been avoiding this step, afraid that if we admitted confusion to a stranger, we could jeopardize our safety.  But at some point, wandering around at night in a strange city, while sneaking peeks at the map stuffed in Jared’s pocket, spells tourist as loud and clear as asking for directions.

The directions the second time were also very direct, short and to the point.  “200 meters back (we had missed the turn) and take a right on the big street.”  What qualifies as a “big street,” I’m not sure.  But out of luck, when we reached the next road, one that was at least equipped with flickering street lamps (unlike the dark alleys), I looked up to find a glowing sign: “L’Antica Pizzeria” and in small letters “Da Michele.”  Success.

As the night progressed, I began to embrace the truth.  Napoli is not the sweet coastal town I had imagined.  Dark and dreary, even during the day, it is a haphazard collection of city traffic and industrial buildings. 

And, to make matters worse, Napoli was also having a trash strike.  (According to the news, police were alerted to mediate violent riots as the refuse built up over time.  The pope called for peace and a permanent solution, as the excess waste posed dangers to the public health code.)

The 2010 trash strike of Napoli.

A danger to public health.

Upon our arrival, in the heart of the strike, around 2400 tons of rotting garbage poured into the streets, mixing with rain, disintegrating and dissolving and covering everything in a unified stench.  Couches and chairs blocked the sidewalks.  Rotting food poured out from soggy cardboard boxes.  And stray dogs tore through the garbage, in search of food, or perhaps their innate curiosity overwhelming their sense of smell.   

Blocking traffic.

A tramp and trash.

One stray dog, a tramp, most unlike the heroic Disney version, followed us on our way back to the hostel from dinner.  The sky was dark, the city lights played against the puddles that had settled in the cobblestone streets, giving Napoli an eerie “I am Legend” feel.  Jared tried to shoo the dog away, waving his blue umbrella in its direction.  But, without forewarning, the umbrella broke, startling the dog and scaring us. 

The next thing I knew we were running, the dog fast on our trail.  I was so concerned with its pursuit, I started to cross the street to escape, until I heard my name.  “Brie.”  Jared shouted.  And I looked up in time to recognize the headlights.  My heart racing, I backpedaled to the sidewalk.  Jared’s face was pale, the dog at his heels. 

“It’s just a dog.”  He reasoned, berating me for crossing the street without watching for traffic.  But the city, like Gotham in its darkest hours, had transformed the dog into some sort beast, and escaping it had been my only thought.  

Apparently, just as the citizens of Napoli have ignored the trash, so they ignore the pedestrians.  Florence must be the Italian version of Philadelphia, the city of brotherly love, for I have assumed the jaywalking nature of most Florentines, crossing the streets like a game of Frogger.  I learned that night, this attitude must remain solely in Florence.

The dog took a side alley in another direction, leaving Jared and I to finish the journey home.

We had better hopes for the next day, anticipating that the breathtaking view from the top of Mt. Vesuvius would wash away the unsightly impression of Napoli.  And our climb did lessen the impact of Napoli on our trip.  In fact, it was so memorable, it surpassed Napoli and has received a special place in our hearts.  For we were certainly not prepared for our hike to crater, literally breathtaking as it was.

To be a gladiator.

October 26th, 2010.

Persistence paid off.  We arrived at the Coliseum early in the morning.  English guides surrounded the ruins, claiming the wait was over two hours, and with determined voices, coaxed us in closer to consider their offer.  They advertised a guided tour coupled with “skip the line” tickets. 

What is baffling to me is the concept of “skip the line.”  Yes, the normal line is two hours long.  But one must consider that if everyone is grabbing hold of this opportunity, perhaps there is a “skip the line” line.  For the Vatican Museum, we bypassed the four hour wait, replacing it with a mere twenty-five minute delay.  But this imaginary line is the unknown.  It could be twenty-five minutes.  Or it might be one hour (which they could conveniently argue is less than two).  But still.  What exactly are you paying for?

Our tour guide was fantastic, the perfect dose of history and humor.  It was a relief to the previous day.  I found our guide for the tour of the Vatican Museum a bit dry, her desire to impart a wealth of art history drowning out the interesting facts that would keep people in tune with the sights.

When I give tours of Santa Croce in Florence, I have learned to keep them brief and simple (45 minutes brief, but still short nonetheless), including a few facts transposed over fascinating stories, stories that one might excitingly share with others beyond the walls of the basilica.  They don’t arrive at the church as tourists and leave as students of art history.  They arrive as tourists and leave the same.  My goal is that perhaps their memory of the church is both informative and postcard worthy.  A balance of both is key. 

I find though, as a student of art history, often this balance is difficult to maintain.  I am undoubtedly fascinated by art history.  It is amazing to me how visual we are, that we create beautiful, and sometimes fearsome, works to convey emotion, to express political feats, to show wealth, to preserve the past.  So this blog has become the catch-all for those instances when I found myself spouting forth facts, dates and names.  For those mundane moments of this monologue, I give you permission to skim or just skip them.  But I do try to maintain the balance, including some of my feelings and thoughts, the crazy stories, the lessons learned since I have arrived here in Florence.  Perhaps through those you will smile or nod your head in agreement (or shake your head is disagreement).  And this monologue will have transformed into a sort of dialogue, though silent. 

And when I return to the states, the set-up will be more of the same—a mixture of my educational pursuits and the intricacies of life.

I have been captured by the concept of “blogging.”  While new and slightly awkward at first, I now find that my mind is at a constant writing pace, and sometimes I fear I have too much to say and not enough time to record it all.  So now that I am also a student of conversation as well as art,  I’ll let this dialogue continue.

But I digress, again.

The Coliseum is magnificent.  Standing within its walls, I was made so much more aware of the architectural feat that it represents.  The first, the largest of its kind.  Seating over five thousand people, based on status.  And they climbed the steep steps in the middle ages, to witness marvelous feats of strength, the era of gladiators.

We romanticize this idea, the blood and gore equivalent to a symbol of power, as it was then.  And perhaps we forget that lives ended here, fathers, brothers, sons, died.  So in a way, it was sobering.  I almost expected a new age Enya song to start playing as I entered the amphitheatre, walking out of the shadows into the startling and unfettered sunlight.  In some small way, I would have preferred if the sky had been dark and grave to match the mood and purpose of the structure.  The brilliant blue in my photos contrasts so severely with the spartan Coliseum, that at times I am tempted to artificially reduce the vibrance and saturation in photoshop, and restore to the building its rightful foreboding appearance. 

Shadow of a brilliant sun.

Within the arena.

Crowded with tourists.

Almost too beautiful.

But really, a perfect end to Rome.

Jared was captivated by the Coliseum, adding his own side commentary to the tour guide’s spiel.  He admired, with sparkling eyes, the dress-up gladiator costumes.  But to his great dismay, they were sized for children.  He touched every sword and helmet at the gift shop, asking me repeatedly, “Would you be okay if I got one of these?”  To which I replied, simply, “Yes.”  But the weaponry, shields, and armor remained on the shelves.  For now, a dream still a dream.

With regret, we left Rome as simple folk, but Jared eagerly made plans to return for Gladiator school.  The Coliseum’s past is apparently,  both infective and inspiring.

We look like gladiators, I'm sure.

Rome, rain, and relics.

October 25th, 2010.

“Meet us at the fountain by the green kiosk across from the Coliseum.”

Unfortunately they failed to remember—the cityscape of Rome is littered with green kiosks and old Roman drinking fountains (part of the aqueducts).  And the Coliseum is a large circular structure.  What does one mean by “across?”  

Our tour guide for the Coliseum and Forum appeared ten minutes late.  And in response, the rain only increased, forcing us to buy five euro umbrellas from a street vendor.  Blue for Jared; green for me.

Green-- brightens up the rainiest of days.

But as we huddled together and approached the entrance of the ruins, good fortune joined the rain.  Our guide turned, a slight grimace on her face.  In softly accented English, she began to explain. 

“Unfortunately, they are having a meeting.  A meeting about having a strike.  The Coliseum and Roman Forum are closed.”

Locked out of the Coliseum.

And we were crushed, smiling slightly at the incredible timing, but truly baffled for the same reason.  Jared placed the lens of the camera through the gate, that perhaps even if we wouldn’t make it inside, at least our pictures would tell otherwise. 

Because of the unfortunate closure, we had several hours to explore on our own before the Vatican City tour that afternoon.  The sky began to clear.  We walked alongside the forum and made our way through the historical center of Rome to visit the Pantheon, getting lost in the city, the ruins and history completing surrounding us. 

The Roman Forum

After the rain.

Terracotta.

Surviving the rain.

Silhouette.

Climbing.

The Pantheon

Corinthian Column of the Pantheon

The Vatican Museum was spectacular, a maze of rooms, boasting famous frescos and marble statues.  After studying art history from a classroom, a dark room with over-exposed slides summing up the timeline of art history, I was surprised to see these pieces true to life, colors untouched, size unaltered, the pieces unobstructed. 

Statue of young Apollo 

Painted sculpture.

Tag of marble sarcophagus.

Hall of statues.

Ceiling fresco-- the power of Christ destroys a pagan statue.
(in Raphael room of the Vatican Museum)

Detail of Raphael's "School of Athens"

Laocoon and His Sons

Concerning the sculpture titled "Laocoon and His Sons."  Laocoon was preparing to reveal the deception of the Trojan Horse to his people by striking it with a spear, when Athena sent snakes to strangle him and his two sons to prevent the unveiling.  The Trojans interpreted the appearance of the snakes as an act of mystical powers and viewed the horse as an even greater sacred object.  Athena's purpose was complete, giving the Greeks access to the city and their foes.

Yet sometimes these surprises weren’t, and aren’t, always positive.  The Sistine Chapel was greatly different than my expectations.  A dark room (to preserve Michelangelo’s work) and high ceiling obscures the magnitude of these pieces.  It took me a moment to even find the “Creation of Adam,” one of the most well-known of Michelangelo’s collection.  In art history books, photographs are enlarged, lightened, details illuminated one at a time.  Yet, in the Sistine Chapel, the vast number of figures that span the ceiling and walls are overwhelming.  It is nearly impossible focus on one at a time, and as a whole, staring up so avidly at the ceiling, it is quite dizzying.  However, the “Last Judgment” scene, on the wall at the front of the chapel, is spectacular, the bright blue and white surrounding Christ contrasting with the dark recesses of Hell.

"Creation of Adam"

"The Last Judgment"- influenced by Dante's Divine Comedy.

The muscular Christ of "The Last Judgment"

(Side-note: I did not take the above pictures.)  You are not allowed to take pictures within the Sistine Chapel.  Guards stand at points around the sanctuary, reminding people, of this rule.   And a recording, in four or five languages, repeats every couple minutes to the same effect.  However, in a crowed of nearly five hundred within the chapel, people, bold and brave, blatantly raised their cameras in the air, flashes of light piercing the shadowed room.  And with the flashes, more booming voices, repeating the same words, “No pictures allowed.”  I have never seen such disrespect for authority and such disregard for the preservation of history.  The same reason for the low lighting in the room is the same reason that photos are not allowed.  Flash can slowly bleach color from frescos, destroying the works of Michelangelo for future generations.

Following our tour through the Vatican Museum and the Sistine Chapel, we were given free time to explore St. Peter’s Basilica.  Inside the entrance on the right is Michelangelo’s first “Pieta,” depicting the crucified Christ in the arms of his mother Mary, a very young and beautiful woman.  It is said that her youth symbolizes her “incorruptible purity,” illuminating Mary as a virgin who carried the son of God.  In 1972, Laszio Toth, a geologist, attacked the sculpture with a hammer, proclaiming, “I am Jesus Christ.”  Witnesses of the assault gathered the broken pieces of marble, taking them home as free souvenirs.  And sadly, not all of these pieces were returned.  In the process of restoration, Mary’s nose had to be reconstructed from a block of marble cut from her back.  Today, the “Pieta” is protected by a wall of bulletproof glass.

Michelangelo's restored "Pieta"

Michelangelo’s second “Pieta” (commonly called the “Florentine Pieta”, but more formally referred to as the “Deposition”) is in Florence at the Museo dell’Opera del Duomo.  This piece was not commissioned; it is a personal expression of Michelangelo’s faith meant to decorate his tomb in Rome.  (However, a group of Florentines stole his body; he is currently buried in Florence, in the basilica of Santa Croce, his body housed in a tomb designed by his nephew).

In this “second Pieta”, a self-portrait of Michelangelo replaces the face of Nicodemus, the man holding the crucified body of Christ as he is retrieved from the cross.  Michelangelo never finished this sculpture.  After eight years of work, he smashed the sculpture to pieces in frustration, announcing that the marble was impure. (Michelangelo believed that he did not carve figures from the marble; instead, he freed the figures from within the marble.)  Another artist, Tiberio Calcagni, was asked to restore and finish the sculpture.  However, after he finished the female figure on the left, they prohibited him from continuing, believing that his artistic abilities, in comparison to the great Michelangelo, were destroying the piece.  The piece was better left undone, as it is today. 

The unfinished "Florentine Pieta"

The other main site in St. Peter’s Basilica is one of the few incorruptible bodies and of the most powerful relics in Italy, the body of Pope Saint Pius X.  An incorruptible body is, according to the Catholic Church, a body that is not embalmed, yet miraculously opposes the natural decay of time and does not decompose.  This incorruptibility is a sign of sainthood, a criterion for canonization (while not required).  One of the most unnerving cases of incorruptibility is St. Bernadette (1844-1879), who body, exhumed thirty years after her death, is still in excellent condition. 

Pope Saint Pius X.

St. Bernadette

We left St. Peter’s Basilica just as the sky started to gray, heavy with rain and shadowed with night.  I would argue that a trip to Rome isn’t complete without actually standing inside the Coliseum, if not for the touristic purposes of getting a single picture and leaving.  So we made plans to visit the Coliseum the next morning before our afternoon train to Napoli.

Rome, at night.

Swiss guards.

St. Peter's Basilica.

Obelisk through the gates of the St. Peter's Basilica.

Entrance to the Vatican Museum.

Vatican City columns.

Vatican City.

Inside Vatican Museum.

Metro back to the hostel.

Crypts and catacombs.

October 24th, 2010.

I don’t mind trains.  In a hectic travel itinerary, they can be a welcome change of pace.  Once you validate your ticket and find your seat, the worry and the concern is lifted from your shoulders.  That is, if you can find a seat.

When Jared and I boarded our train for Rome on Sunday morning, we were alarmed to find every seat occupied, not necessarily by a person, but some body part here or there, legs stretched out in comfort, heads laid down to rest.  The train had originated in Pisa, and most compartments, lights off, were silenced in sleep.  We found two folding seats in the open aisle just as the train lurched to life. 

At this point, I was starting to regret the previous late night, clasping my bags to my chest (to protect myself against pick-pocketers) while I dozed, my arms falling forward to rest on my legs.

Jared had a more difficult time, his large frame dwarfing the folding seat.  Every time someone travelled down the aisle to reach the W.C., he was forced to torque his body against the window to let them past.  And this made sleep almost impossible.

Dozing is disastrous; the entire first half of the trip is incredibly hazy, a mix of napping and wakefulness to such a degree that I cannot quite discern between the two. 

After a while, Jared suggested we move to the floor and place our bags between us, a makeshift back rest.  This lasted a slight while, before I began to realize how much our weight was counteracting each other.  If I relaxed too much, the entire backpack would fall into me. 

Thankfully, we secured two seats for the last hour of the train ride.  By this time, the sun had risen completely, the passing landscape illuminated by another day.  Sleep was pushed aside momentarily as we partook in our surroundings and the company in the compartment, a couple from India traveling in Italy for his work (professor).  I love this part about travelling the most.  You meet amazing and interesting people, those you may never see again, but for a moment, as your paths cross, you can share in a conversation or even just a smile. 

Once we arrived in Rome, we sat down, a block from the train station, at a café, enjoying our first of many cappuccinos and croissants (and fresh squeezed orange juice for Jared) together.  And before our first tour, we explored Rome, by metro, an attempt at the bus system, and of course the back-up plan, taxis.

Our first cappuccinos together.

It's the thought that counts ;)

"Make sure I'm centered!"

Preparation.

Success!

Heavy.

Still heavy?

Later that afternoon was our “Crypts and Catacombs” tour.  Unfortunately pictures were not allowed in order to respect the sacred ground (but I’ve stolen some from “Dark Rome,” our tour company’s, site).  We made three stops.

San Callisto Catacombs

The first, the San Callisto Catacombs, is an ancient Christian burial ground, excavated by Giovanni Battisti de Rossi, the father of Christian Archaeology.  During and following the years of persecution, these hidden tunnels offered Christians a safehouse and a place of worship.  Unfortunately, when the barbarians invaded Italy, many tombs at this site were destroyed in their search for precious metals and jewels.  However, this was not the practice of Christians, to bury their dead with worldly possessions, stemming from their belief in the promise of an afterlife, a heavenly paradise.  Yet, persistent nonetheless, the barbarians continued to ransack the catacombs, stealing decaying bodies and marble, selling “false” bones as holy relics.  The Pope, in some ways powerless against the attacks, eventually ordered to have all the relics of martyrs and saints removed from the catacombs to prevent future deception.

Within the catacombs are “loculi,” rectangular niches carved into the walls (for individuals), and “arcosoliums,” a larger arched niche (for families), that form the labyrinth of San Callisto.  Since the catacombs are beneath the ground, “gravediggers” or “fossores” had a mere twenty minutes of oxygen with which to carve away the soft, compact “tufa” earth, creating a tomb specific in size, height and length, for the deceased.  Decorations were hastily added, frescos and shallow reliefs that provided visual representations of the Christian faith.  A few symbols included: the good shepherd (ljust as Christ saved the lamb, so he shall save your soul), the “ornate” (a praying figure with raised arms and open hands), the fish (a widespread symbol of Christianity, essential during periods of persecution), and the anchor (a symbol of salvation, that this soul has reached his final resting place in eternity). 

Basilica of San Clemente with 4th century altar.

The second stop, my favorite, was the Basilica of San Clemente.  Here, as we journeyed deeper into the ground (up to 57 feet of ruins beneath the cathedral), we dove deeper into history, traveling through an ancient fourth century church to Roman temples beneath.  This lowest layer of Roman temples (although there are most likely several layers beneath of uncovered history) included a mithraeum, a sanctuary dedicated to the followers of Mithraism.  And above it, the older basilica (a fourth century construction) remained hidden for years, until Irish Dominican Father Mullooly inquired as to the sound of running water that could be heard in the present church basilica (built in 1100).  This water has been running through ancient Roman aqueducts (built during the Republican era) since the founding of Rome.  Father Mullooly spent sleepless nights in search of the source of the sound, and once he convinced others of his insight, excavations began, discovering the past below the present.  Since the altarpiece in the present basilica was from the first fourth century church (when they new church was constructed over the old, they salvaged only the altar to decorate the new place of worship), people had simply forgotten that history was hidden beneath them. 

Running water-- the sleepless nights of Father Mullooly.

Temple of Mithraism, inside a 1st century Roman apartment.

The third and final stop was the Cripta dei Cappucini, a series of chapels decorated with the bones of 4,000 Capuchin monks.  The Capuchin order is a branch from the Franciscan order, intent on reviving the monks dedication to poverty that had been lost in the more modern world.  While I could appreciate the care taken to honor the faith of the previous friars through this display, the way in which the bodies were preserved, evidence of skin still clinging to hands and faces, was unsettling.  I’m not sure I could have stayed much longer to admire the intricate works of art, such as chandeliers, made entirely from bone.  The time spent here was adequate.  For me.  Jared's favorite stop was this one.  

The crypt of skulls.

From the crypt of long bones (femurs).

Interesting story though.  Just down the street from the Cappucini crypts is the home of the first cappuccino.  In the early 1900s, Luigi Bezzara was working on a new combination of espresso and steamed milk with foam.  And this invention was still nameless.  One morning, when passing the Cripta dei Cappucini, he spotted a Capucini monk in full entire, a dark brown robe wrapped around a round middle, a tuft of white hair on the top of his head.  And from that moment, the steamed coffee treat of Italian has been known as a "cappuccini."

Can you see the similarities?

Following the tour, we explored more of Rome, walking down the Spanish steps and throwing fifty cent pieces into the Trevi Fountain.

Spanish Steps.

Trevi Fountain.

50 cents.

For love.

We passed a man selling freshly roasted chestnuts.  He wrapped them in a paper cone and handed them to us, their warmth cutting through the cold air, the scent slightly nutty and sweet.  They were dry but delicious.  Jared wasn’t as much of a fan, so I happily hoarded the rest (and ate them all by the time we had walked back to the bus station).  However, not to be alarmed at my greedy appetite, we did make a quick stop for gelato.  And even though it was cold, let’s be honest, it is never too cold for gelato.  

Jared loves gelato.  He insisted on stopping at nearly every gelateria, scanning the flavors for his favorite: amarenata (black cherry).

At one point I questioned him, confused, “If you always get amarenata, how do you know it’s your favorite?”

He gave me this goofy grin.  “Well…I always taste yours, and still like mine the best.”  It might be cheating, but it works.

Together in Rome.