Taste of Italy

In a daze, I descended the stairs with my full-to-the-brim rolling suitcase in tow, not sure what I wanted to do first: eat, sleep, or explore. The streets were bustling with activity, people chatting with their counterparts or through their phones. I took a minute to survey my surroundings, with the colosseum in the distance, I formed a plan: get to my hotel, drop my bags, and enjoy my first dinner in Rome.

I put my suitcase on the bed, changed into comfortable, lightweight pants, and a colorful blouse. I was off, my friend had suggested a pizza place by the Spanish Steps. As I snaked my way through the city, I wanted to stop and take in all the landmarks and attractions, but my stomach had other plans. I had many days here to appreciate the sights.

With my broken Italian, I got a table for one, ice-cold water, and began to peruse the menu. My first meal in Italy, what should I get? The advice given to me was pizza for this place, a pasta dinner can be another night. As a creature of habit, I found a margarita pizza with handmade mozzarella. I knew what I had to get. The waitress ventured over, and I pointed out my request on the menu; she smiled and walked away.

As I waited, half asleep, I observed the people around me. Most of the tables had pizzas and wine on them. As I heard a mix of languages, half the people must have been locals and the other tourists. Out the window, a picturesque view of the Spanish Steps. Further into the restaurant, I could see a chef putting a pizza into the stone, wood-burning oven. I could smell fresh tomato sauce and herbs.

I watched as the chef took a pizza out of the oven, and my waitress grabbed it and made her way towards me. Luck would have it that I was able to watch my dinner cook. My mouth was watering when she set it down in front of me. The mozzarella was swimming in vibrant red tomato sauce with thin green strips sprinkled on top. The crust a perfect golden brown. The skewed circle looked almost too good to eat.

As I sat there staring, my stomach interrupted me. “Take a bite,” it said. I picked up a slice and set it back down on the bright white plate. I had to recut the stringy cheese that began pulling up as I lifted a piece. Every bite had to be perfect, not too much cheese but most of all I didn’t want a bite to not have a sliver of cheese. I delicately replaced the green stands of basil on top of the slice.

The slice flopped down, requiring two hands to reach my mouth. The thin crust had some black soot on the bottom. The hot dough grazed my tongue with the burning red sauce to follow. I plopped the pizza down and grabbed my ice water. Now I know to let it cool off a bit.

Finally, a bite that was a decent temperature. The tomato sauce tasted sweet, as if the tomatoes were perfectly ripe when picked. The mozzarella added a salty note to the sauce, along with the basil's slightly spicy sensation. I would say it was the perfect bite. Halfway through the pizza, I got a box to put the rest in to save for a future meal. My mouth and stomach were satisfied from the beautiful blend of flavors I just provided. My first meal was not over yet.

Across the street was a gelato store. I paid the waitress, took one last sip of refreshing water, and was on my way. Outside, I carefully placed the pizza in my backpack and found a safe way to cross the cobblestone street, looking in both directions. I opened the door, and a cool rush of air hit my face, with aromas of sweet, nuts, and fruit.

Greeted by a smiling face, I took note of all the flavors. There were so many that I could eat gelato every few hours and still not taste all the flavors. My plan was the same as the pizza: pick a flavor I know well so I can compare the difference between fresh gelato in Italy and my home. After looking over all the flavors, my sights were set on chocolate, simple yet my favorite.

After broken Italian, English, and some pointing, the shiny brown scoop rested in a cup. I thanked the kind server and walked out of the store. As I rounded the corner, the grand Spanish Steps faced me, leading up to a towering monument. I ascended, passing stone planters bursting with vibrant red flowers. At the top, I found a bench, sat down, closed my eyes, and took my first bite of gelato made in Italy. Still cold, the rich, silky chocolate with a hint of nut began to melt in my mouth. Dancing on my tongue, I looked out and enjoyed the view of the city. With every creamy bite, I noticed a new characteristic of Rome: the terracotta roofs, the bell towers, and all the people on their own adventures.

The last of the gelato quickly melted into creamy chocolate soup, and as I savored every last bit of the gelato, my first meal in Italy coming to an end. I stayed on that bench, grasping the empty cup that had housed my delicious dessert not so long ago, looking over the city, I was about to explore for the next week, and trying to burn into my memory the taste of my first of many meals of pizza and gelato in Italy.

As the sun began to set and my jet lag in full swing, with the help of a full and happy stomach, I made my way back to my hotel. I was slowing down for the night, yet the city seemed to be just starting to wake up. As the square cardboard box sat in the fridge storing my midnight snack, my eyes closed and I dozed off to sleep excited for the days ahead.