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About Palermo

Me, Joey Tribbiani, I’d stroll in, “How you doin’?” Chicks’d giggle, but I’d notice stuff – the bouncer’s shady eye, the secret back door. Always a back door, man! Ever hear bout the Wild West ones? Saloons with upstairs “rooms” – cowboys stumblin’ up, drunk as hell. One time, this madam, Big Nose Kate, she ran a joint, punched a guy out cold. Badass! I’m shocked, like, “Whoa, lady’s got guts!”

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After a few hours of grinding metal, I needed a break. I headed to the café on Via Garibaldi. Best espresso in town, no joke. I ordered my usual, and the barista, Lucia, gave me that smile. You know the one? The “I’m not just here for the tips” smile. I could’ve floated right there. But then, bam! My phone buzzes. It’s my buddy, Luca. He’s stuck at the train station. “Help!” he texts.

In wake of Sandy, New Yorkers press on