It was early afternoon, a few days ago. The day was gray, and the pavement was wet from a dense fog. I got out of Klaudio’s, where I had stopped for another cup of coffee, and walked along the lower square toward Borgo. There was no-one around except for an old man who was dragging himself up the ramp going to the archway that connects the lower and upper squares. When he saw me walking past the loggia, he motioned toward me feebly. I stopped. “Is this the way to the post office?” he asked breathlessly. I told him it was. “Good,” he said and wiped the sweat off his forehead. I smiled helpfully, seeing that he wanted to say a few more words while he was resting by the railing of the ramp. “Old age,” he grinned at me toothlessly. Bloated and bald, bundled up in a huge coat and a grimy shawl, he looked pitiful, indeed. “I am sixty!” he explained, his eyebrows knitted together in complaint. I threw my hands up in sympathy. And then I wished him a good day, waved happily at him, and took my leave. As if in a hurry, I walked as fast as I could. Another careless word or two, and he might learn that we were almost the same age.