ITALY. JIM IMAGINED PIAZZAS, palazzos, pizzerias—a country all roundness, warmth, and invitation. He imagined café tables set up on ancient tiles, music always filtering in from the next street. Instead, Turin’s soundtrack is the honking of small cars. The pedestrians have a gloomy look, eyes all downcast. It’s colder than he expected, and he has neglected to bring anything heavier than a T-shirt. He’s twenty-one. He’s from California. He doesn’t yet think of these things.
