August 28, 2011
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So after obliging me with a mini photo-shoot, the signore in the pink cap takes off. I walk up and down hills to another part of town.
Note the wrist and waist decor.
I find a house dripping with flowers–some real, some plastic. I start poking around, trying to separate reality from illusion. It’s still early morning; the light is gold.
Out steps a man from a doorway. That man. Still in his pink cap.
Ciao, he says. Do you like this building? Yes? Wanna have a look inside?
I hesitate for a split second then follow him in.
The first room is dark, lit only by an enormous psychedelic fish tank–a swirl of purple lights and brilliant tropical creatures. A few chairs line one wall.
Salla d’attesa, he says. Waiting room.
Waiting for what, in God’s name?
We enter another room. It is festooned with masses of plastic red roses, vines dangling from the vaulted ceiling and curling over the walls.
In the center of the room stands an examination table.
A stethoscope hangs from a hook.
“Are you a doctor?”
“Sí, internal medicine.”
I try to hide my surprise. ”You’re an interesting man!” is about all I can muster.
Then I’m back on the street, regretting that I haven’t even asked his name.
***
The only fashion faux-pas committed by the lass in purple is her nasty plastic bag. But this is about to change, as 
