Food and related disasters

Today as I was sitting by a gelateria with some classmates, an old, old man came up to us and started to talk to us. We couldn't understand him, so he switched tactics. "Quanti anni hai?" he asked, smiling toothlessly at us. After exchanging looks that said "ummmm, this guy is nuts," we told him (stupid in retrospect, but I doubt he was going to kill us). Then he pointed at himself and said "ottantasette," 87. We made appreciative noises and exchanged more glances, when he started poking himself in the stomach. Through his gestures he managed to convey that he wanted one of us to feel his abs. Cautiously, one classmate poked his stomach, and he happily walked away. I'm still thinking that one over. My conclusion is that he isn't let out of the house much. Maybe he'd only just escaped. I'll bet that all he does at home is sit ups, but no one ever properly appreciates how strong he is. He just needed a little validation. Or else he's that famous 87-year old mass murderer I heard about the other day, picking out his next victims...

Never rely on one good source of food. They will do something horrible to it. What was good once is no more. Every morning for the first week, my breakfast consisted of different and weird combinations of Nutella, cornflakes, and café americana (all of which, apparently, are foods -and drinks- that are worthy of an American here. Hey, speaking of American food, can we talk abut the McDonald's Viterbo here? That's it's name. McDonald's Viterbo. Aaah, the worldwide greatness of America. Makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside). Finally Armida got some kind of bread, which was, quite thankfully, not the weird, tasteless anti-French bread stuff at meals, but instead more like a croissant with berries and sugar on it. At last! Real, edible breakfast food! After I had gone through about five bags in a week (though that in part may have been due to a tad bit of snacking between meals by anonymous parties...) Armida evidently realized that not all Americans eat Cornflakes dipped in Nutella (which, by the way, you should never, ever try. Ever) and started just giving me the croissants for breakfast. Though I was still drinking the coffee, no easy feat as she pours a full mug with only a little sugar and no milk, this was definitely an improvement. And then came disaster. I should have known it was too good to be true! My sweet, wonderful croissants, breakfast food of my life! Gone! Snatched away, ripped from my arms by cruel fate! Do you know what she did to them? Do you KNOW what she DID? Actually, don't answer that. It's too horrible. I am still trying to figure out why anyone would do this to an undeserving pastry. As far as I can tell, she stuffed them. But with what? "Crema," she says. By my definition, cream is sugary goodness. Right? However, this - this cream, as she calls it - it has a thick, rubbery consistency, practically chewy, and an oddly bland flavor. Strangely like chicken, in fact... Perhaps this is some sinister plot to make me eat chicken. I knew they were up to something...