I spent last week in the city where I was conceived, where Tony Bennett left his heart, where the Birdman of Alcatraz spent his final years, and where Rice-A-Roni was said to be the favorite treat.
Dressed all in black with a shawl draped over her shoulders, her voice is melodic but earthy. By 12:10, emotionally tangled into the music, when everyone gets up to leave the Swede and I stay behind.
Ten minutes later, we make our exit grab a cab arriving at the hostel at 12:35 to closed doors.
My fists hammer at the huge double wooden doors but no answer. The Swede tries a couple of rounds. After 30 minutes it’s useless, they have enforced the curfew and are trying to teach us a lesson.