Meals on Wheels

A little red panel truck drives through the working class neighborhoods by the airport every Monday, honking its horn. Every half block or so, the nonnas come out in housedresses and slippers (a shocking glimpse of informality in this country where it seems every grandmother has a Valentino bag and a pair of Ferragamo shoes). The driver opens the back door, revealing plastic crates of pane Toscano and Ciabatta and sandwich rolls as the smell of yeast drifts out. Coins and bread change hands. Transaction complete, the ladies retreat back to their houses with the staff of life and the truck toots on its way.