I made it about 75 feet from my hotel before someone offered me cocaine.
“Italian food, fresh Italian food,” a bald man yelled at me from a storefront along Calle Larga. “You hungry? See the menu.” He pushed the menu in my face in case I was confused what Italian food was.
“I’m good,” I said politely as I tried to hurry past.
“You want coke?” he asked, like this was the obvious follow-up question to turning down questionable steak pizzaiola. “I got the good shit man, 97%. Puro!”