She holds a ratty, gray shawl around her shoulders. Her rack-like frame is hunched and crooked from what must be seventy or seventy-five years of living. Her face is pocked and wrinkled, surprisingly not as leathery as faces can become from too many years of working in the piercing Italian sun. A few metallic hairs dance in the breeze, sticking out from under her bonnet.

"Buona sera, Signora," I say, my greeting echoing in the stones of the narrow alley. Her face turns to confusion; she winces as if in pain, muttering a few unintelligible syllables through quivering lips. Italian? English? She shivers. Shakes. Doesn't know what to say to me. It's just as well; I wouldn't understand her anyway.

The world of science says that human facial expressions are universal, but, alas, I don't know what to make of this woman's face. Maybe her expression comes from a hard life. Maybe she is crazy or senile. But I wonder if she is just confused by this stranger lumbering down her quiet street, clumsily attempting to say hello. I can't help but think that I should have minded my own damned business. A few of the cobblestones are loose under my boots. Her eyes follow me all the way to the end of the damp street, and she mumbles something else. I don't look back.