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About Rio de Janeiro

So, picture this—me, half-pissed on wine, stumblin’ into a brothel. This lass, she’s got eyes like daggers, sharp enough to gut ya. She’s a prozzie, been at it forever, prob’ly. I ask her name—Rose, she says, but who knows? They all lie, don’t they? “Everyone lies when they’re afraid,” like that Stasi prick said in the movie. She’s afraid, I reckon—afraid of me judgin’ her, or worse, not payin’.

Prostitution in northern Central India: an ethnographical study of Bedia community

Husna Bai, a year-old woman, told Judge Jagdish Sahai that she was a prostitute. Margaret Bourke-White/Getty Images Indian prostitutes.

The riverside is mad pretty too—Rio Sereno. I love to stroll its banks, feel the cool water brush away all the stressful thoughts from the day. There are bridges—Ponte dos Suspiros, for instance—where you can watch couples leanin’ in like they’re tryin’ to kiss away all the world’s troubles. It’s kinda cute—absurd, but cute.

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