Spilling problems

In addition to the usual tourist destinations, sometimes I like to go out in search of a bakery or a lunch spot in a random part of town, just to see something off the beaten path. It's usually nice to be among regular people, instead of mostly tourists.

I'd asked Simon if he wanted to go with me to Riva Reno, an acclaimed gelateria in a distant part of town, but he opted for more soccer. So, I set off on the tram, and then on foot, to see a new corner of Milan.

Seeking out the best gelato in Milan is kind of ridiculous, because everywhere we tried had terrific gelato flavors and textures. I was also looking for a good neighborhood for us to hang out in that night for the soccer match, so I figured it would be a productive and potentially transcendent excursion. The pictures on the website looked awesome, anyway:



After about 20 minutes on foot in the hot afternoon sun, I was relieved to find Riva Reno. It was popular, as predicted by the internet, and I watched for a while as Italians ordered cone after cone of gelato. I dithered and finally chose two kinds, especially curious about one the flavor of balsamic vinegar and basil.

Now, my Italian is pretty weak, but generally I got by at gelaterias with a few key words: coppa (cup), piccolo (little), and grazie (thank you). The lady at Riva Reno seemed peeved as I ordered, but I proceeded, paid, and then was tapped gently on the shoulder. The lady behind me pointed: the "balsamic" part of my ice cream was a drizzle of balsamic vinegar, and I had dropped a tiny bit on my map, and an even tinier smudge landed on the counter.

Now, if you know me very well, you know that this spill is a minor inconvenience at best in the context of my life. I regularly spilled entire milk cartons in my lap at the school lunch table, I dropped an entire cake into my refrigerator (breaking a glass shelf), and I once tipped an entire mug of beer into my friend Scott's lap. Spilling is a common thing for me to do, and I'm pretty good about shrugging, cleaning it up, and moving on.

Italians apparently do not have an equivalent expression for "no use crying over spilled milk." The sales clerk completely freaked out at me. With one swipe of her napkin she cleaned up the mess, and for the next 90 seconds, she berated me in enraged Italian. I put my head down and scurried out of the shop.

I don't know if it was the embarrassment or the flavors I chose, but the gelato did not live up to the hype. I threw most of it away and took the train back to Peck, the best deli in town, and treated myself to a sure thing, their perfect, refreshing pear gelato. Mmm. Nerves settled, I bought another coppa for Simon and hurried back to our hotel before it melted.