Cesare laughs freely, then takes a big gulp of wine. "Er. Not really. I've only seen expatriate feet, I suppose." He looks down at his. They're good feet. Confidentially, he leans across the bar and whispers, "I have good feet. Long toes. Very nimble. They're virtually little hands." Oops. That's the wine talking. But they are... good feet. He's almost forgotten all those dismal months when they couldn't carry him.
"I bet the good people of Venezia have swimmy toes, too," he speculates good-naturedly, "what with living by and off the sea?"