I’m sitting at the deserted end of an Italian island in the north Adriatic at sunset as I write this, eating fresh seafood at a wooden plank table under the shade of tightly woven fishnets strung from poles. And the little beachside trattoria is rocking out to Credence Clearwater Revival on the stereo. Disconcerting? Does a blast of seventies Southern rock ruin the banter of Italian dialects around me? There’s a view of a centuries-old lighthouse to my right, and to the left there’s a tall flagpole bristling with signs pointing in every direction (like typical Italian directions): Melbourne, 1,651 km; Honolulu, 12,936 km; Istanbul, 1,300 km. Does that somehow mar this “perfect” scene of la bella vita? Not for me.