Why Italy? I asked.
“I’m from Italy. Actually not from Italy, I’m from Brazil. But my ancestors are from Italy”
At Tutty’s, sovereign behind a cashier he operates, Luciano smiles. Italy just won against England in an unexpectedly entertaining match and Andrea Pirlo, a football genius in the body of priest, or vice versa, is on TV. The largely empty restaurant in a small street behind the church in Porto Alegre is, apart from a dodgy night club offering pleasures of unknown sex, the only facility opened at this time of night. Two fat waiters with enormous quantity of gel in hair dance between empty tables serving unhealthy food to few customers. Naturally, football is on all of many screens mounted on Tutty’s walls.
To make almost poetic picture perfect, Luciano wears a Pirlo shirt. I immediately walk to him and, in…
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