I played soccer with a small boy in Tuscany recently. He was around eight years old, and the iron-wrought gate he was using as a goalpost was roughly two orders of magnitude older. The game, in a little village near the Rosewood Castiglion del Bosco hotel, where I was staying, started accidentally, a feint that turned into a back and forth. It was evening, just late enough that the pale shale side of the local church was beginning to glow orange and locals were gathering on terraces in the squar...
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