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A few miles from the baroque splendors of Vicenza, white stone houses straggle among fields and vineyards. They’re all similar – red tile roofs, wide balconies, and heavy shutters. Young mothers wheel their carriages in the marketplace and gossip away the hot afternoons; this is the land with no word for privacy. There are three bars, a gas station, and a dusty shop that sells cigarettes and single eggs wrapped in the sports pages. Children scale the cemetery wall to steal flowers.
boarding the bus –