BY: ANDREW CLARK
It’s 1 a.m., early by Roman standards, and outside a club tucked into the side of a 16th-century palazzo, a jazz singer croons Summertime for a small well-dressed audience who all seem to know each other. In an adjacent piazza-turned-parking lot, glassy-eyed patrons smile as they conspire together over the hood of a car.
A tall British man (think: Benedict Cumberbatch wannabe dressed like an overgrown child in designer jean shorts and T-shirt) emerges from the bar and starts yelling, “You don’t talk to my woman! You don’t talk to my woman!” at a bewildered Italian who is reluctant to accept his offer to step onto the cobblestone street and settle the dispute with fists. The crowd casts a sanguine gaze upon the scene.
SOURCE: https://www.theglobeandmail.com
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