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About Palermo

I reckon it’s all ‘bout the vibe. Ya lay there, dim lights, maybe some twangy guitar playin’. “What did I do to deserve this?”—like in *The Pianist*, but ya ain’t hidin’ from Nazis, just stress. Hands slidin’, oil drippin’—lordy, I’m blushin’! I ain’t too proud to say I’d giggle like a fool if some hunk tried that on me. “Play me like a piano, sugar!” I’d holler, then prob’ly fall off the table—clumsy ol’ me.

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Then, I stop at this café on Via dei Fori Imperiali. I order a cappuccino, and the barista—this dude with a mustache that could rival a walrus—totally messes it up. I mean, how do you mess up a cappuccino? I’m like, “Bro, I asked for foam, not a milk tsunami!” He just shrugs. Ugh, whatever. I down it anyway. Caffeine is life.

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