Don’t touch my gelato

I’ve come to realized that living in Paris has made me become a more paranoid person.

It gets pretty bad on the metro if you’re not watching your stuff, and I’m usually asked to sign/buy/join something several times a week.
Bruce and I had crossed Ponte Vecchio in Florence yesterday morning, and after spotting the cute gelateria at the corner, we headed for our first scoops of gelato for the day.

 
We found the perfect place to enjoy them- on the ledge over-looking the river.

 
Bruce attempted to hoist himself up first. He had cut off a nice bit of his finger last week and so his finger is still heavily bandaged. It was a bit of a struggle for him to mount, trying only to use his good hand.

 
I noticed an old Italian woman heading our way. She was probably 80, and stopped and wavered around where we were.

 

 

My gelato was sitting on the ledge as I was prepared to get on myself.

 
I’m not proud…but I moved the gelato over, so it could be closer to Bruce.

 
I hopped on easily, and the lady let out a slew of Italian, followed by a gesturing of her arms.

 
“Brava!” She nodded at me after I got on, clearly poking at Bruce’s struggle with getting on the ledge. Shortly after, she left.

Bruce raised an eyebrow toward me: “Why did you move your gelato?”

 
I didn’t look at him, as I dug the little plastic spoon into the cup and examined every creamy bit of panna flavoured gelato before it disappeared into my mouth.

 
“What? I dont know! I thought Nonna was going to take my gelato!”