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About Rome

I saunter up, tip my hat, all cool-like. “Evenin’, miss,” I say, voice smooth as whiskey. She smirks, like, “What’s a bailiff want with me?” I’m thinkin’, *“Maybe we’re just pretending to live,”*—another *Yi Yi* gem. Ain’t that the truth? We’re all playin’ parts down here. I ask her rate—straight up, no bullshit. She says, “Ten bucks, mister, take it or scram.” I laugh, loud and deep—ten bucks in 1800s coin? That’s a damn fortune! Surprised me, her guts did. Gotta respect the hustle.

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Finally, I escape and head to Via Cavour. There’s this massive fig tree that needs some serious TLC. I’m climbing up, feeling like a monkey, and then I see it. A beehive! I’m not allergic, but man, those bees were not happy. I’m up there, trying to trim branches, and they’re buzzing around me like they own the place. I’m like, “Chill, bees! I’m just here for the figs!”

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