CHAPTER 13
Leaving the Popes in our rearview mirror, we kept on our eastward trajectory towards the Italian border. We pulled off the highway at Menton, literally the last exit before the carabinieri border guard. I had been to Menton before, nearly 15 years prior to the day. Back then I was a wide-eyed, European neophyte, questionably dressed and keeping questionable company, trying confidently to be taken seriously as we strolled into the beachside casino to gamble away as much as we could spare- if it was more than €20 I would be surprised- to help one of our crew celebrate his 19th birthday… yes, 19, we were tramping around Europe at the age of 19- makes me guffaw in amazement thinking about it, thinking that we made it back in one piece, that we made it back at all. Equally amazing is that I was returning now, with my new crew: my beautiful wife, on whom I had a hopeless crush those 15 long years ago, and my two boys who hopefully will be just as adventurous, and walking through those same casino doors on their own 15 years from now. This time however, we left the casino for the fats, and opted instead for the playground. But we did make a point to track down and find the one establishment which cemented Menton in all of our memories above all other towns on that pubescent grand tour- the best, by unanimous consensus, gelato in all of Europe. I am happy to report that it’s still pretty good.
