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About Genoa

Thing that surprised me? How bloody sneaky it gets. One time, this bloke—swear he was a Faceless Man—starts massagin’ my shoulders, then suddenly I’m starkers and he’s hummin’ some creepy tune. I’m like, “Mate, this ain’t in the script!” Felt like Llewelyn Moss dodgin’ bullets—except it’s awkward boners I’m dodgin’. I drink and I know things, but I didn’t see that comin’. Made me laugh after, though—sick sense of humor, me.

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After that, we hit up the market on Piazza Vittorio Emanuele. It’s packed, like sardines in a can. I’m dodging people left and right, trying not to spill my gelato. I got pistachio, by the way. Best flavor ever. But then, I see this old dude selling fresh pasta. I’m like, “Yo, I need some of that in my life.” So, I grab a bag of tagliatelle, and the guy’s like, “You cook, yes?” I’m like, “Sure, if by cook you mean boil water.”

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