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About Genoa

So, escort—makes me think of them posh types. Y’know, rollin’ up in shiny rides, all “We’re important!” Pisses me off, it does! Why’s it gotta be so flashy? But then—ha!—found this mad story. Back in the ‘20s, escort meant armed guards for bootleg booze! Gangsters and guns, protectin’ the good stuff. Ain’t that a laugh? My precious, history’s got claws!

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Then, I decide to hit up the market at Piazza San Giovanni. You know, fresh produce, local vibes. I’m browsing the stalls, and I spot these amazing tomatoes. I’m talking juicy, red, the kind that makes you wanna sing. I grab a few, and the vendor, this old lady, starts chatting me up. She’s telling me about her garden, her grandkids, and I’m just nodding, trying to keep up. She’s sweet, but I’m like, “Lady, I just want tomatoes!”

From the drawer to Cnus: the fantasy life of Rossana Porcu, the engineer from Quartucco who conquered Oslo