There Is Nothing Humorous Per Se In
Hunger Or Thirst; At Any Rate, Not Until Both Are Appeased.
With the
black coffee and cigar, you can tip your chair at a comfortable angle
against the wall, and
Watching the delicate wreaths of smoke in their
spiral upward course, previous to final disintegration, smile at the
persistent energy with which an hour ago you systematically worked the
town from end to end, anxiously peering in the windows of uninviting
restaurants until you finally found that little "hole in the wall" for
which you were looking, with the bottle of Tipo Chianti, the succulent
chops and the big red tomatoes, in the window. It is always to be found
if you have the necessary perseverance. The genial Italian proprietor,
with the innate politeness of his countrymen, will not bore you with
questions as to where you have come from, whither you are going, or what
you are walking for, anyway, etc., etc. He accepts you just as you are -
haversack, camera, big stick and all, hanging them without comment on
the hook behind your head; while you simply tell him you want a good
dinner, the best he can give you, but to include the chops, tomatoes and
Tipo Chianti. With a smile and that artistic flip of the napkin under
his arm, which only he can achieve, he sets about giving his orders.
Later on, after a hot bath, a shave and the luxury of a clean shirt,
feeling at peace with the world and refreshed in body and soul, you set
out to examine the town in comfort and at your leisure.
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