I still remember that feeling of being a child on hot summer days when I heard the faint jingle of the ice cream truck down the street. No matter what I was doing, I'd stop immediately and run to my mother or to my piggy bank (which were often one and the same) and get the few coins needed for my favorite ice cream bar: either a strawberry push-pop or a Mickey Mouse bar with chocolate-covered ears. If I was lucky, the truck would be driving slow that day, or my neighbors will have gotten to it first, and I'd be able to catch the truck before it made the loop out of our street.
The ice cream truck seems to be unique to my memory of America, and in light of it, I still can't decide who loves ice cream more: Americans or Europeans. I suppose it's a comedic difference in that in America the ice cream comes to you, whereas in Europe, you go to the ice cream. Then again, that could also be part of my experience living in a city versus in a spacious suburban neighborhood.
No matter what the explanation, these days I go the ice cream parlor, jingle or not, when the weather is hot and the season demands it...