Illustration by Marley Allen-Ash
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“You want gelato?”
Mum and I approach the Bella Gelateria kiosk at the Metrotown mall in Burnaby, B.C.
“Sure.”
I smile on the inside. I hoped for a “yes,” but don’t let on.
At the counter, Mum orders her standard – dark chocolate sorbetto. I study the menu board, searching for new flavours, wondering if I should order my own gelato. But I’ve never shared Mum’s passion for the dessert. A simple sample – salted caramel – and I’m good. I order an espresso.
Gelato and espresso in hand, Mum and I sit on two of the four barstools set up for customers. We sit, sigh and enjoy.
The setting is entirely unspectacular. We stare out at the mall – a fast-fashion clothing store to our right, a fancy body lotion shop to our left and a popular tech shop wedged in between.
I gaze at a group of what must be university students and think back to myself at that age. Back then, I’d have considered these mall excursions as nothing more than a blip in the day peppered with window shopping and a try-on session at the Gap. The whole experience entirely unremarkable, a reminder of the banality of routine.
Back then, I was under the false impression that I needed artifice and newness for an experience to be worthwhile. Only cooking classes in Tuscany could lead to self discovery. Only waterfront brunches served with fine crystal and free-range eggs could bring me to my “higher self.” Years ago, eating ice cream at a mall kiosk would have earned one notch above “meh,” just an uninspired way to pass the afternoon.
I grew up in the golden age of suburban Christmas parties. Can I recreate it myself?
When I was 38, Mum, Dad and I took a trip to northern Italy, a destination considered cultured and refined, a trip that many would think of as plentiful in meaningful experiences, even transformative. In keeping with the Italian checklist, we dined in an offbeat Venetian osteria, sipped European hot chocolate in a Trieste piazza, stood at the foot of il Duomo in Milan, and gazed at Juliet’s balcony in Verona. A visit to a wealthy family friend even had me “steal” a square of his monogrammed toilet paper in the hopes of acquiring the aura of elegance.
But the part of the trip that I remember and cherish the most was at its end, where Mum, Dad and I sat at a coffee bar at the Venice airport awaiting our flight home. We did nothing more than try (unsuccessfully) to make our single-shot espressos last the three-hour wait.
I remember an altercation between an American traveller and the barista at the coffee bar. She wanted an “americano.” The Venetian barista did not, or maybe, would not, understand. Dad used the opportunity to showcase his colourful vocabulary.
“Quella la puzza di polvora.” She stinks of gunpowder. Indeed, she had a fiery temper.
In that space, sitting, waiting with my parents, and despite the squabble ensuing before us, I felt peaceful and content. And there wasn’t a square of monogrammed toilet paper in sight.
More recently, Mum and I were at Lowe’s waiting for Dad to decide what type of sandpaper would best serve his soon-to-be-painted walls. We sat on a wooden bench, outside the bathrooms, under eye-squintingly bright fluorescent lighting, my eyes itching as particles of sawdust wafted in the air. I could not have felt more unglamorous, less thrilled. And yet, I felt content and at peace – Mum and I, sitting together amidst wood particles, flushing and glowing lights.
I understand why my younger self confused novelty and glitz with meaning and importance. Buried in these moments is at least one ingredient necessary in the pursuit of meaning – an invitation to pause. Whether that pause is built into a four-course dinner at a fancy restaurant, or staring at a world-famous cathedral – we need a lingering moment to register the newness. These pauses – at least for me – allow for connection with ourselves and with those around us. And it’s this connection that brings meaning to life.
At 47, I understand better now that we have access to these moments of pause at any time, at any place, with anyone or with no one. Glitz and novelty are inconsequential. How wonderful it is to know that in every moment we can find meaning and quiet contentment. No Venetian osteria required.
So here we are, mother and daughter amidst strangers, eating gelato in the middle of a suburban mall. We exchange few words, take turns eating from the same gelato cup, fold and refold our paper napkins. It is a noted pause.
“So, what do you want to do now?” I ask, because although I now see the beauty in stillness, I’m still learning.
“Let’s just sit here and enjoy each other’s company,” Mum replies.
And still, we sit.
Tina Tinaburri lives in Vancouver.