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About Rome

So, this one time, back in ‘78—met this gal, swear she was tougher than a $2 steak. Worked the corner near Wilmington, had a laugh that’d wake a coma patient. Told me—get this—whores in old Rome? Called ‘em *lupae*, she-wolves, ‘cause they howled for customers. Freakin’ wild, right? Made me chuckle, still does. But, man, it pissed me off too—how they’d get judged, ya know? Like Grace in *Dogville*, “she’s a gift,” they said, ‘til they chained her up.

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First stop? The market on Piazza Duomo. It’s buzzing, like a beehive on caffeine. I grab a sfincione—best street food ever, no cap. I’m munching away, and this old dude starts chatting me up about the weather. I’m like, “Bro, it’s Sicily. It’s always sunny!” But he’s going on about how it’s been too hot lately. I’m thinking, “Dude, you live in paradise. Stop complaining!”

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