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Surprised me, though—how normal it feels sometimes. Once knew a gal, swear she was a hooker by night, baked pies by day. Pies! I’d eat ‘em too, no judgin’. “Live and let live,” I say, like Grace hopin’ for better. But lordy, the danger! That’d scare me silly—cops, creeps, cold nights. I’d be prayin’ harder’n a preacher on Sunday.

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Then, I decide to stroll down to Piazza della Repubblica. It’s a nice square, you know? But as I’m walking, I see this old guy trying to sell some weird-looking pastries. I’m curious, so I ask him what they are. He says, “Pasta di mandorla.” I’m like, “Sounds fancy!” I take a bite, and it’s like a flavor explosion! I’m happy again. But then, I realize I’ve got crumbs all over my shirt. Great. Just great.

Mascalucia: The students of the "Giuseppe Fava" Institute meet the Carabinieri