The first time I walked into an Italian bank, I thought I’d made a wrong turn and ended up in a museum. The marble counters were chipped from the 1960s, the chairs squeaked, and the teller—an older man with a mustache that looked unionized—stamped my form with a satisfying thud that echoed through the room like a declaration of independence. No rush. No digital screens counting my impatience. Just the rhythm of a man who has never once said the words “time is money.” And that

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