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So, I’m imaginin’ it—me, Joe, in some alley, all nervous-like. “In the mood,” I whisper, tryna be smooth. She’d laugh, prob’ly—say, “Old man, you’re a trip!” And I’d be happy—shoot, just talkin’ to her, hearin’ her story. Maybe she’s got a kid, maybe she’s just tired—dunno, but I’d listen. Surprised me once, hearin’ one gal say she loved jazz—Coltrane, man! Who’d’a thunk?

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First stop, I hit up the Mercato Albinelli. It’s this dope market, full of fresh stuff. I’m talkin’ fruits, cheeses, meats—everything! I’m wandering around, and I see this guy selling prosciutto. I’m like, “Dude, gimme a slice!” He hands me this massive piece, and I’m in heaven. But then, I drop it! Ugh, the horror! I’m standing there, staring at my fallen treasure like it’s a crime scene.

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