There was gelato already, that first day we arrived, but that was after we’d put our bags down, after we’d stopped in for pizza to go, after the nun shoved me out of the way while waiting for the light to turn at the ponte Garibaldi. We crossed the bridge and could wait no longer; we perched on the cold stone balustrade under a leaning tree and savoured the thin, crisp slices – porcini and smoked gouda on one, tomatoes and mozzarella and rucola on the other – and I kicked my legs because of pizza, and Rome, and the November sun.



We walked left and right down cobblestoned streets, while the walls were ochre and golden orange and shades of sienna around us. We admired the lemons at Campo dei fiori, the great mounds of colours and spices. Everywhere the wooden crates of lettuces, herbs, romanesco broccoli spiralling into Escher-induced hallucinations.



I didn’t know it, but we were winding our way north to the ice cream parlour of my dreams. At Giolitti, the cannoli and butter biscuits filled the shelves to the left, while the barista took drink orders at the bar on the right. In the back, the cones were stacked to the skies. I don’t remember now what that first day brought. Cioccolata? Probably. Nocciola? Torrone? Lord help us, writing this is like standing in front of the display again. In my mind I went from baci to pera to zuppa inglese and back while the gelato man behind the counter waited with his scoop held high – and all I remember now is that Olive said: “He will say ‘Panna?’ and you will say ‘Sì’.”

We stepped out onto the street and sat on the nearest steps we found. We had four fat smudges of gelati between us, and four days yet to go.