I’m in Philadelphia, alone.
I amuse myself by walking: to the Liberty Bell, to Christ Church. I pass a bookstore besieged by a film crew; they’re making a movie starring Jeff Daniels. He walks out as I pass by: a tall man with long, graying hair and a bald spot.
I have no agenda. Instead, I just allow the city to unfold. Eventually, a sign catches my eye: Bon Bon Artisan Gelato.
Memories of a family trip Florence, Italy, come back to me: Clyde’s mother, Joyce, beaming at me over a plastic cup of coffee-flavored ice cream on a cold, cloudy day.
I miss Joyce. My heart skips a beat. I step inside.
I’m the only customer. A handsome young guy — swarthy, lanky — wipes his hands on a rag, walks up to the counter, and goes straight to, “You have to try some.”
I scan the flavors. I’m partial to chocolate, but I’m lonesome for Clyde, who tends more toward coconut. I point to the tub of glistening white. “Let’s do it.”
He grins at me, grabs a spoon, scoops up some coconut cream, and hands it over.
Oh, wow.
The gelato has the consistency of cake frosting — stiff, but not icy, and smooth as silk. I surprise myself by laughing out loud. “That’s really amazing.”
The young guy shrugs and grins. “I know!” He points to a man in the back — an older fellow, also handsome, sweeping the floor. “He makes it. He makes this flavor just today.”
I fork over three bucks and change for a small plastic cup loaded down with the snowy, frosty confection.
The guy behind the counter points at me. “You have a good evening.”
I nod, but I don’t answer. I’m lost in coconut cream.
On the way back to the hotel, I walk down Market Street. I’m in Philadelphia … and in Florence … and with Clyde … and with Joyce … and alone.
I’m happy, but I want to go home.
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