ABSTRACT
BIGLIETTO,” he says, and I fish for my ticket. Non ce niente. Sneering, he might have guessed. What do I mean, I can’t find it? Tongue-tied, I grin sheepishly, unable to manage a word. Turning up the volume, he asks me again. In the crowded bus, they are all ears and eyes. Xenophobia looks out of their eyes. I am straniero, a foreigner bilking the state. Like the open-air market or the neighborhood bar, this bus is their theater. Connoisseurs of emotion, they like a good hanging or a quarrel in the streets.
