No. 10, "Fenocchio"

As I have been preparing for my year in Paris, I have also been reflecting on the times I have spent in France in my recent past.  I can go on for hours talking about the architecture of France and the multitude of cathedrals and museums I have visited out of personal interest.  However, for those who are neither francophiles nor architecture enthusiasts, I find it difficult to engage my listener, who often struggles to connect to my passions although he or she certainly acknowledges my enthusiasm.  Can one truly do Notre-Dame de Paris justice when describing the cathedral to one who has never seen its grandeur?  Can one successfully capture the feeling of wandering through the streets of Paris and translate such an experience into something that resembles a "five-minute pitch?"  I say no, especially considering the profusion of books written on just these two subjects.  Yet, I have found that every listener can be easily captivated by a certain subject, one that anyone and everyone can relate to: ice cream.

Aside from those that are lactose intolerant (though I am certain they dream of ice cream just as much--if not more--than everyone else), who doesn't love ice cream?  Looking back on my childhood, many of my fondest memories involve ice cream; all birthdays are honored with an ice-cream cake, and "chinny" (the name I assigned ice cream as a toddler) is used to celebrate successes and awards as well as rectify upsets and misfortunes.  But, of course, ice cream also fills the in-betweens of my life (and that of my mother and sister), giving it a sort of magical power to improve or enhance any and every situation.

I made my first extended journey away from home in the summer of 2007 when I participated in a language immersion program in Nice, France.  It was a big step for me, and made my commitment to French clear to my friends and family-- an allegiance that still holds strong.  While the separation from ice cream for the summer was certainly not a big issue, as a family tradition, it was hard to put in perspective what it would be like to leave everything behind.  All my friends had gone to sleep-away camp from a young age, but I never had such an experience, so as a seventeen year-old girl, it was a strange concept to wrap my brain around.

Shortly after arriving in Nice, I made my first pilgrimage to Fenocchio, a glacier (or, ice cream shop) in the Old City of Nice-- Place Rossetti, to be exact.  This visit was the beginning of a love affair.  From the  59 ice creams and 35 sorbets-- totaling in 94 flavors--I chose Ferrero Rocher and Nutella as my first gift to my taste buds, which were completely and utterly satisfied.  During my five weeks in Nice, I frequented Fenocchio at least once a day and defended my visits by the size of the scoops, or boules, and the opportunity it gave me to practice my French-- so witty, I know.  I am almost positive that I sampled every flavor by the time my séjour in Nice had come to a close (except for banane, chewing-gum, and bière).  If I had to name my top five favorites, I would choose: Ferrero Rocher, Nutella, Noisette, Pistache, and Fruit de Passion... but then I would have to mention Café, Poire, Pèche, Fraise Tagada, and Framboise.  Honestly, you can't go wrong.

When it was time to return to Texas, I was sad to leave my friends, la France, and, bien sûr, Fenocchio, a place that I continue to dream about until this day and often speak about with friends and family-- all of whom are anxious to visit this glacier that I have made out to be some sort of "heaven," which it most certainly is.  Even though I resumed my traditional trips to Baskin Robbins with little hesitation, I always remind myself of the happiness I found in the tiny boules de glace and the moments de bonheur at Fenocchio, and I anxiously await my return to Nice at some point during this coming year where I plan to relive this life-altering experience that ultimately contributed to the richesse de mon monde.