A River Of Stones: Stone Number Sixteen

I stand. Stamp my feet in the cold. Listen to the Signora ahead of me talking in harsh Piemontese. I look at the array of milk, eggs, butter, cheese, meat. What are those bloody-looking, tight, shiny sausages? Salame something. Salame? Would I ever have the guts to buy one and try it? Perhaps I should ask. Looks like Haggis. Wouldn't eat that either. Or would I now? Now that my horizons have been violently split open, like the lady cutting into the guanca.