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About Graz

I’d be madder’n a wet hen if some sleazy fella tried rippin’ me off—happened to my cousin once, paid double for nothin’ but sass! “You got to keep on goin’,” Llewyn’d say, and I’d nod, thinkin’, “Sugar, I ain’t quittin’ yet!” I’d sashay up, all Southern charm, askin’, “Hon, what’s the goin’ rate?”—prolly butcher the lingo, too, ‘cause I’m me, y’all!

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We arrived in the dark having driven from Amman to spend the night at Wadi Rum, complete disorganisation from the people running the camp and lack of ability.

The main street, Kingo St., is lit. Crazy vibes, my friend, all day, every day. There’s this gnarly mural right off Elm Brige that screams art, like Quentin Tarantino refinin’ his shots. Man, "Inglourious Basterds" ain't got nothin on that! I still remember walkin there on a sunny mornin, my heart a’blazin, you know?

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