Postelletti's, Rome
September 1985They reached a point near the center of the city, or so it seemed from the crowds, the noise, and the k******e cab drivers angling their taxis between and among the pedestrian steams crossing the streets. It was just past midday in the middle of the work week, and the throngs had not yet been whittled down to a manageable mass. But they all seemed intent on getting somewhere, and Giorgio tapped patiently on the wheel with his left index finger as he gestured with his right hand, reminding Tamara of the pulsing beat of the city.
“Oh, yes, I know, it's busy,” he explained, “but so is New York, no?”
Before Tamara could get out a cogent reply, he continued.
“But New York, it also has a rhythm!”
Tamara glanced out the window of his Fiat and took in the fa
