So I realized that I've mainly been writing about my weekends, which don't have much to do with Perugia, as I'm traveling the majority of my weekends. Therefore, I'm failing to give you an accurate picture of what my day-to-day routines are here. So this post is my first step in righting this imbalance. Following is an essay I wrote for my Creative Writing class about my neighborhood gelateria, which let me tell you, has a lot to do with my day-to-day routines! Enjoy!

There is a little gelateria that veers off of Perugia’s main Corso Vannucci onto the quieter Via Bonazzi, near my apartment. Its name is Gelateria Gambrinus, although this is of little importance; I only just found out today, as I walked home and made a point of remembering it so I could write about it. But it’s not the name that means something to me, or even just the gelato; it’s something much, much more.

Coming to Perugia, I quickly noticed that the native Perugini tend to walk around with determined, slightly annoyed looks plastered to their otherwise Michelangelo-beautiful faces, and have earned a reputation for having, as my Italian professoressa says, una mentalità chiuso, or a closed mentality. But upon entering this gelateria on one of the first sweltering, sticky days of being here, I shivered in delight as its cold, refreshing chill dissolved the sweat from my brow, and my fingers tingled as I was met with a warm smile and a friendly greeting.

The gelateria itself is not pulsing with gaudy colors or flashy signs to catch the eye of passers-by. It doesn’t have tables brimming with welcoming chairs to lull eager tourists in, and if you do decide to sit on the handful of red plastic stools scattered haphazardly about the tiny space, you risk having other jolly customers brush their bottoms on your arm as they squeeze past to buy their cono piccolo with after-eight e nuttellone. Instead, the focal point of the store is what it should be: the creamy faces of the gelato flavors peering up at you through the frosty glass partition, beckoning in all their delicious delight.

The fatty cheeks of gelato lie lazily in metal pans that have mismatched labels, all written on a different day, it seems, with whatever scrap of paper was handy at the moment. The labels indicate the usual suspects: the cheerful mint-flavored After-eight, which is one of my favorites, there is the sinfully dark Ciocolatto, the sensual pleasure of 300, of course the fresh, cleansing flavor of Limone, and the chunky gooeyness of Kinder. In addition to gelato, in the cooling fall months when frozen gelato doesn’t seem to do the trick, I have seen other dolci surfacing in the store window. My favorite of these new dolci is the crepe con nutella, made right there in front of you, or if you’re feeling especially delicious, un crepe con gelato - you choose any flavor, and he wraps it up in a warm, melted heaven that is enough to make your knees buckle and eyes water with pure love.

The usual routine in my gelateria consists of me going in, being greeted with a Ciao, bella! or Buona sera, bellissima! from one the two male store owners. I believe them to be father and son, judging by their similarities in physical appearance (same goofy smiles, same crinkled eyes), and general sweet-natured way of greeting me. After exchanging ciaos, I then proceed to order: Vorrei un cono piccolo con kinder e amarena, per favore! Grazie! It even took me a while to notice the cash register – it is small and has been painted a dark barn-red, and the tired hand-written price signs attached to it are peeling off in corners where the scotch tape has begun to get worn and dirty. Instead, I usually just hand my 1,50 euro over the counter to the owner, and giggle as we both say grazie at the same time – again! If you decide to stay and devour your messy-gooey crepe in the gelateria, they cry out and passionately insist you sit down and enjoy it first, and pay later. This practice is common among bars and caffès in Italy, but never have I had it been insisted to so vehemently!

The father, who looks to be about 70, works the day shift, and the son, who is about 50, takes over, sometimes with another sulky teenage employee, at about 7:00 pm for the dinner rush. The father is more eager to please, and likes to chat, although they both speak solo italiano! The son prefers to tease, and while his face is more shadowed and a bit more stern-looking, he is quick to stretch into a sloppy smile at his own punchline.

While I have since met many more friendly and charming Perugini in the days and weeks I’ve been here, these two were the first open-armed, welcoming natives that I met here, and they’ve treated me like I was an age-old friend since the day I first walked in. A few weeks ago, I was trudging past on my way home with three bulging grocery bags in tow threatening to spew tomatoes, pasta, risotto and onions all over the sidewalk, and I looked up to see the father standing in the doorway, looking out. Upon seeing me, he quickly chattered in Italian, “I’m so glad to see you buy groceries, too! I was worried!” We share a friendly, knowing laugh, and on I walk, back to my apartment, giddily smiling the whole way, because for the first time, I feel like I know my neighborhood, and that it, the tiniest bit of it, knows me.