Little Italy: Round Two

My last day in San Diego was one of my favorites of the entire trip. It was a testament to a) how much I adore Amy and appreciate our friendship, and b) how the smallest things make me perfectly happy. We spent the afternoon in Little Italy. I again found myself charmed by the sunny (literally), pleasant atmosphere. Perhaps it was because I was on vacation and free of daily obligations that I sensed life was taken at a more leisurely pace in Little Italy. But don't get me wrong, people were still hard at work in their shops, on the sidewalk patios and in front of their laptops. Yet everyone's demeanor seemed a bit more relaxed than what I am accustomed to among the stern-faced comings and goings of Seattleites. Here, we always seem to be on a mission every second of our lives.

I had my second gelato of my entire life that day, and I was informed that it was nothing like what is actually eaten in Italy. I didn't mind, and frankly I didn't know the difference. All I cared about in that moment was sunning my face in the hopes of attaining more freckles, while alternating bites between scoops of peanut butter cup and espresso gelato. Satisfaction.

As we walked down India Street, amass with potted lemon and lime trees, I couldn't help being thrilled by what I observed. Each intersection greeted us with a view of glittering ocean, a palm lined marina boulevard and lethargic sailing ships. Along the way I peeped into little markets run by native Italians. I sighed both because of my enchantment by the sights and scents, as well as my disappointment in the 3 ounce liquid rule for the flight home limiting my purchases. There were cured meats, fresh seafood salads, imported cheeses, and carefully ordered shelves of good olive oils, sweets and wines. Glass cases displayed empty chocolate cannoli shells waiting to be pumped full of fresh cream and dipped in pistachios, amaretto cookies and other decadent sweets. Darling little trattorias had sidewalk patios set with white linens and clear shining glass goblets. It was beautiful.

We posted up outside at a small iron table next to a lemon tree at a corner cafe. I sat as the sun warmed my face, while my eyes raced down the pages and my mind filled with the daring adventures of the Scarlet Pimpernel, his comrades and the alluring Marguerite St. Just. The pleasantly strong, sickly-sweet cigar smoke from the gentleman sitting adjacent our table filled my nostrils. Passersby spoke loudly and animatedly in Italian, accompanied by enthusiastic gestures. In need of a late afternoon caffeine pick-me-up, Amy and I moved to Starbucks, chatting about home, our loves, the future, and reminiscing about the past and our families over one of the greatest things to come out of Seattle: fruity, bitter roast.

Alas dinnertime approached and it was time to meet our friends. I was sad to depart, but my soul was full and happy. The wall wishing me "Ciao" as I boarded the trolly sent me off in good spirits with pleasant memories to accompany me forever.