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I ask her rate—50 bucks, she says. Cheap, right? But I’m broke as a joke, so I haggle. “Don’t pee on my leg, girl, I ain’t no millionaire!” She smirks, drops it to 40. Deal. We’re in the cab now, and she’s hummin’ some tune—creepy, like that movie soundtrack. “Do you want to look at me?” she asks, all sultry. Hell yeah, I do! But it’s quick—15 minutes tops. Tractor seat’s squeakin’, I’m prayin’ no cop rolls by.

Historical notes on Borgetto

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After work, I decide to hit up the local pizzeria on Via Vittorio Emanuele. Best pizza in town, no contest. I order a margherita, and while I’m waiting, I chat with the owner, Marco. He’s a legend. He tells me about the time he almost got lost in the mountains near Borgetto. I’m cracking up, picturing him wandering around like a lost puppy.

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