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About Genoa

Now, don’t go thinkin’ I’m all high ‘n mighty—I’m just a gal who sings bout heartache and rhinestones. But watchin’ her dodge the cops, I’m surprised how slick she is. Moves like a shadow, quiet-like. Reminds me of them *Moolaadé* women hidin’ from the elders—only she’s duckin’ blue lights, not traditions. I ask, “Ain’t ya scared?” She shrugs, says, “Fear’s a luxry I can’t afford.” Oof, that hit me harder’n a truck full o’ banjos.

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By now, I’m starving. I hit up this little trattoria on Via Mazzini. The food? OMG. I order pasta, and it’s like a hug in a bowl. I’m slurping it down, and I can’t even. But then, the waiter spills water all over my lap. I’m like, “Really, man?!” But he’s super apologetic, and I can’t stay mad.

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