Write a question from the passage such that it identifies a character (a person or a thing) in the passage.

Q: Last month we spent a few wonderful days visiting our friends Rosa and Massimo who live just outside of Trento. It was our third visit to the area (on one of them I snapped up this recipe for persimmon cake), so I feel it's about time to share some our favourite things that we've been shown by locals.
Trento is only a four hour drive from Florence — passing Bologna and Verona on the way, which could make very good pit stops if you feel the need to, FYI — yet it feels a world away in terms of the landscape and the food, from the golden, rolling hills of Tuscany. Cue towering mountains harbouring mushrooms and berries, lush valleys and turquoise lakes, vines grown on pergolas, enormous plates of sauerkraut and polenta in abundant portions, delicious wines and rustic cakes with German names.
Trento is the capital of Trentino, an unusual region of Italy because its official languages are Italian and German and it is actually made up of two self-governing provinces and is known as Trentino-Alto Adige or Trentino-Sudtirol. Confused? Since the eighth century, it has been part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire and only a century ago did it become Italian. It is squeezed between Lombardy and the Veneto to the west and southeast and to the north lies Austria and Switzerland. So it is no surprise that many of the food influences come from its neighbours — particularly the northern ones.
Eating in the region means eating heartily, even in the summer sunshine, we enjoyed abundant portions of canederli (large rustic dumplings made of bread, herbs and meat, ham or cheese in broth), masses of soft, creamy polenta with thinly sliced roast pork or sausage ragu and slow-cooked beans or thick venison steaks, sauerkraut and gnocchi (sometimes made of out of polenta). I think one waiter was highly disappointed that we weren't able to finish our gargantuan plates one hot day on a mountain with a view of the Dolomites. Somehow there was always room for dessert, though — adopted from German and Austrian specialties, you can find cakes like black forest, schwarzplententorte (buckwheat cake, the recipe is below), sachertorte and linzertorte, often lathered with homemade, forest-picked berry jam and whipped cream.

A: Who did the author visit last month?
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Q: I don't know how this rates as "shocking", I guess it might depend on the culture in which you live, but, it is at the least "repulsive" or disgusting.
There was a huge corporation in which I had a contract with. I was called in, to help them uncover what they considered "a very serious series of incidents". Their own "in house" attempts were fruitless. It turned out, they had an over-sized engineering department, and that it had been announced that this would be scaled back due to completion of contracts. Someone though, within the engineering department, was sabotaging the continued work, slowing the completion. I was to go undercover, posing as a visiting engineer from a distant plant, and find out who the perpetrator/s were, as they wished to file legal action.
So, this is at the corporate headquarters, in the late 1980's. These people were making 6 figure incomes easily. That being said, you kind of expect a bit more of a dignified behavior here than you would with a construction laborer or dishwasher.
I completed my job in four days, giving them the evidence and name of the lone individual respsonsible for the sabotage. What exactly was he doing? He carried rubber gloves in his back pocket, and he would periodically use the restroom, and remove his feces from the toilet and smear it all over the walls, covering as much surface as he could. He would also visit restrooms in different departments and do the same. This would cause the unionized individuals, who only had that restroom to use in their area, to walk off their work stations. Seriously, a butt-hurt guy fearing a layoff, so he decided to smear his shit all over the place before it even happened. He readily confessed when confronted by HR, further destroying his work record/career.

A: Who completed the job in 4 days?
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Q: If you turned on the TV towards the end of 2002 you could have been forgiven for thinking that Britain had gone absolutely horseshit mental. Every week, it seemed, another pretty young girl from a nice family, who was happy and popular and always did well at school, was being kidnapped or murdered by what the Sun newspaper cheerfully termed 'evil paedo scum'. Naming and shaming was as popular a feature in the Murdoch press as Page Three girls and discounted holidays to Butlin's.
Of course you can't blame parents for wanting to keep their children safe; that's pretty much the job description of a parent. And, on the face of it, the tabloids were doing a public service in warning us about the paedophile menace lurking in our midst. The problem came when it turned out that a huge number of these concerned tabloid-reading parents were also absolute fucking morons. For every story of an actual sex offender being driven from their house by a baying mob there was one like that of Dr Yvette Cloete, a doctor at the Royal Gwent Hospital in Newport, South Wales, who returned home from work to find that a group of 'concerned parents' had daubed the word 'paedo' on her front door in bright red paint.
Dr Cloete was a consultant paediatrician. Easy mistake. If you're an absolute fucking moron.
And so it was that one hung-over morning, after reading yet another story about vigilantes who had threatened to stone Maxine Carr, the girlfriend of Soham killer Ian Huntley, to death during her high-profile trial for perverting the course of justice, I decided to set up a website parodying this collective national madness.
The result of two or three hours of hung-over labour was thinkofthechildren.co.uk, a spoof campaign site which claimed to offer a handy online guide for crazy vigilantes of all stripes to co-ordinate their crazy vigilante efforts. Although there are a few parts of the site I'm still a bit proud of, the majority of it was, I freely admit, satire of the lowest order.

A:
Who had her door vandalized by a group of 'concerned parents'?
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