Tuscany's tortured past

“COINS... coins...”

The gypsy is working the tourists in Siena’s crown jewel, the clamshell-shaped Piazza del Campo. With a face as sunbaked and patterned as the herringbone bricks she is walking on, she rattles her tin cup beneath my nose. I have just come out of the gelateria, blood orange gelato in one hand, change in the other.

Her dark eyes lock onto mine and then switch to the coins in my hovering hand. ABBA’s Dancing Queen sounds from her thickly

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