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Clarice… escort, huh? What a gig! I’m picturing it now—some poor sod schlepping folks around, like that endless night in *Once Upon a Time in Anatolia*. “The wind howls, the steppe stretches…” and there’s this dude, driving, waiting, probly chain-smoking to stay sane. Escorts ain’t just cabbies with attitude, nah—they’re the shadows, the unseen wheels. I knew this one guy, right? Ex-boxer, face like a busted melon, he’d escort rich pricks to shady deals. Swore he saw a politician cry once—over a lost shoe! Hah! Made me laugh ‘til I choked.

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Anyway, I get to the market by the Danube. Man, the smell of fresh bread hits me like a freight train. I’m starving! I grab a burek from this little stand. Best decision ever. I mean, who doesn’t love flaky pastry stuffed with meat? It’s like a hug in food form. But then, I see this old dude, right? He’s trying to haggle over a cucumber. A cucumber! I’m like, “Dude, it’s not a Ferrari!”

Multicultural school for Croats and Serbs in Vukovar fails to take off