As I leave the restaurant where I was eating, I run into some Carabinieri (translator’s note: Italian military police) in uniform. They are cleaning the city streets with carts, pushing them by hand like donkeys. They told me they were captured in Rome. I set a meeting time with them for the next day and give them a bag of apples. They give me a chunk of cheese they brought from Italy. I felt pity for them even if I’m more distraught than they are.