North of Italy. One of the towns near Lake Garda, which there are dozens.

I walk around the center, walk, look at pizzerias, gelateries and other local food. The trouble is not tea.

Suddenly from beyond the corner, a young guy in a shirt-uniform jumps out on me, uncovers a folder before me and begins to tell me something and sometimes shows me a thick finger in the folder, accompanied by epithetics such as "solo", "perfect" etc.

Since my knowledge of Italian begins and ends with "Lascha mi cantare", I have to interrupt his flaming speech with my signature "Aim sorri, ma italiano".

Apparently ready for such a development of events, a guy in good English charged me in response "Oh! Don Spike is an Italian. Is it okay, werner ar yuv fraom?“Tell me where I’m from.

and Israel

of Israel?! to

and Israel

In our mini-dialogue decides to intervene, standing a few meters away from us, in the same shirt-uniform, (apparently) a colleague guy (and unexpectedly in Russian):

and max! It is useless! Go here, don’t waste your time.

(Max is in charge)

and Maax!

(Max is out of place):

What is?

Go here and I will tell you until he has sold you something.

“Ah, (turning to me) HEVE E NESS DEI SER, SHALOM!

You don’t have to get sick, sir. – I’m determined to morally get a guy.