Friday evening and the week's work done, our thoughts turned to an aperitivo down in the square; a spritz, on the rocks, no music. A tall order in Venice these days. If the moronic thud of piped rap doesn't get you then the scrape and wail of a wandering gypsy band certainly will. In my book three Bulgarians playing instruments made out of coconut shells and sheep's intestines is marginally better than Tupac Shakur's effing and jeffing, but it really amounts to Hobson's choice.
The only music-free bar in our neighborhood is the one run by a downcast little guy who seems short of get-up-and-go. Maybe he just doesn't have the energy to press Play. Maybe he needs more fiber in his diet.
Anyway, a small boy was kicking a football against Bar Glum's wall, therdunk, therdunk, so it would have been like drinking in the percussion section of Grimethorpe Colliery Band. Also, Signor Glum doesn't always give you potato chips with your drink. He's funny that way.