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About Toulouse

So, picture this: Moscow, dark alleys, sketchy vibes. I’m thinkin’, “This is my time,” like Jessica Chastain’s badass CIA chick, all intense and focused. But nah, it’s messier than that. Prostitution’s illegal here, right? But it’s everywhere—cops don’t care unless ya flash cash in their face. Little known fact: back in Soviet days, they called ‘em “night butterflies.” Poetic, huh? Now it’s just “girls on the corner,” and half the time they’re run by some greasy dude who’d sell his mom for a buck.

First off, I hit up Rue de la République. It’s like the main drag, ya know? Grabbed a coffee at this cute little café. The barista? Total legend. He made my cappuccino look like a work of art. I mean, I’m no art critic, but I could’ve stared at that foam all day. But then, bam! My phone buzzed. A message from my buddy, Leo. “Dude, gig tonight at the amphitheater!” I was like, “Heck yeah!” But then I remembered—my strings were shot. Ugh.

The New World of the northern Rhône