You can't imagine a kid, squatting with his back against the rear wheel so he can't be seen from the street? Because he's up on the kerb, and the car is parked in close ... frogapplause dabbles in frolicsome explanatory diagrammetry, she may be able to help.
Alessio's car was a SEAT. Our apartment block didn't have its own parking spaces so any residents with cars had to battle for a spot on the street in front. If it helps, the kid was about 15. I used to see him around at a nearby traffic intersection where he was one of those smear-a-rag-across-your-windscreen-and-hold-hand-out-for-money service providers. One day I read in the local paper that he had been deported. After cleaning a woman's windscreen she had declined to pay, so he had helped himself by reaching in and - can you translate palpitare la tetta under your breath - feeling her up. She reported him to the police.
We have a few black walnut trees on our property. If you've ever harvested them, you'll understand why, now, we leave them for the various fauna that frequent the area. They are quite valuable and I've tried to convince my children to make a little business of selling them - to no avail. They just don't want to work that hard for a bit of nutmeat. Can't say that I blame them. Maybe one day...
When I lived in Italy I had a friend with a walnut tree in her yard. The yard was set somewhat below the street behind the property, so much so that the canopy of the tree was at eye level for people up on the footpath. Sitting in the back-garden decadently sipping tea we would often hear voices floating down from the street, "Oh, look, a walnut tree!" (Trees are so scarce in the centre of old Italian mediaeval towns that they require exclamation marks). This particular black walnut was quite prolific and showered the courtyard with nuts in autumn. Every time I visited poor Elena she begged me to take some and we spent hours raking up nuts and leaves. I became pretty good in the end at walnut-everything: walnut slice, walnut bread, walnut pesto, etc. I was back visiting the town earlier this year and passed by Elena's door - she no longer lives there, as far as I know - with still a faint expectation that there might be a bag of winter leftovers still waiting for me. I can't remember having bought walnuts since I left Italy. It just seems ... wrong. Confession that will probably corrupt otherwise-wistful anecdote: I once took a handful of those walnuts and hurled them out of the bathroom window at a kid who was shitting on the tyre of my flatmate's car.