Memories of summer

An old-fashioned slide show of childish sensory memory: the baking heat shimmer rippling the air above a Sydney beach; plunging into the smooth glass-green surface of an ocean wave before it can crest; dusty salt crystals coating our peeling skin in patterns of continental drift whenever we dry out for long enough; the ever-present delicious smell of the coconut tanning oil drifting across the sand; the red and yellow lifesaver flags vivid against the upturned blue bowl of sky.

This is where I start my love affair with the Italian language: cioccolato, bacio, limone, nocciola, stracciatella; all of it gelato.

The ice cream truck lurches up the slope, accompanied by the slightly demented tones of Greensleeves as the van inches along the blistering beachfront road, more enticing than any Pied Piper. The dancing tune causes young heads to fling up like hunters sensing prey, and us kids scurry to wheedle coins from our parents. We race along the beach and up the wooden steps to the road, shouting as if our volume can lend us speed, waving our money at the driver of our favourite ice cream truck.

It’s Marco. An old (to us) man who pushes curly, sweaty hair out of his face and brings his old truck to a grinding halt, waving and shouting. “Ciao! Ciao bambini!” His lopsided welcoming grin glints with gold and charm as he starts to pile gelato in multi coloured snowy strata atop a sweetly fragile cone.

Marco layers the gelato like a master; like da Vinci, like Caravaggio; the palette knife of his trade winking and shining in the sun. His economy of movement underscores the many generosities of flavour, colour and richness. His chuckling Italian banter creates an atmosphere of gilded exotica around the truck, the old fridge generator wheezing in counterpoint.

Cioccolato, bacio, limone, nocciola, stracciatella ….. the words melt in my mind the way the gelato melts on the bubbling tarmac at the feet of a screaming kid, red faced and snot nosed. I glance at Marco to see if he’ll offer a replacement, but he winks at me as he layers gelato for another customer.

“Lezione de vita”.

I translate it slowly in my head: a lesson from life. Profound and irrevocable. Don’t drop your gelato.

The frostiness of the gelato is a stark relief on this summer day, a welcome respite from the hot sun, the smooth creaminess a direct contrast to the grits of sand. This is our oasis of sweet calm amidst the carnival atmosphere of the beach.

I try to eat the individual gelato strata as glistening layer tastes: cioccolato, bacio, limone, nocciola, stracciatella … I always eat this treat slowly in a vain attempt to make it last forever. The smooth chocolate brown, the almost transparent lemon yellow, the nutty hazelnut cream, the improbable pink of strawberries ripening in the sun. Soon the layers mingle and mix into a single rainbow delight. The creamy sweetness of the gelato is seasoned by the salt on our skin when we lick our knuckles.

My brother rushes through his and is crestfallen when faced with the empty cone. Neither of us has any more money. So, we sit on the wall that surrounds the beach like a decayed fortress, swinging our sandy feet, finishing off the crisp cone that still holds hints and traces of sweetness. Replete with gelato memories of Firenze we rest in the shade of the old pines that march alongside the fortress wall.

Behind us we hear Marco’s truck crank into life again as he begins his slow procession to the next beach. We jump to our feet and wave a frantic farewell, hoping he’ll be back tomorrow, our hero of gelato.

“Ciao Marco, ciao!” We are so proud of our bilingual talents. So proud that Marco chose to migrate here, sharing his gifts of gelato.

“Ciao bambini, a domani!” Marco shouts over the wheezing engine as the truck lumbers to its next resting stop, Greensleeves tinkling its enticement to the shimmering air.

We run back down to the beach and straight into the clear waters, replacing the sweetness on our tongues with salt again.