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About Genoa

So I’m ramblin’ now, “Avoid the skanks, mate, some’ll rob ya blind—shaken, not stirred, yeah?” He’s edgin’ to the door, clutchin’ his wallet like it’s gold. I yell after him, “Don’t be a wanker, wrap it up!” Total Bond move, savin’ his arse. Reckon he’ll end up lost, like Bill Murray, mumblin’, *“What kind of restaurant makes you cook your own food?”*—but with hookers instead of teppanyaki. What a plonker. Me? I’m back to beepin’ cans, dreamin’ of Tokyo nights.

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So, I’m rollin’ outta bed, right? The sun’s shining, birds are chirping, and I’m like, “Cool, let’s do this.” I grab my coffee from that little café on Via Roma. You know the one? The one with the weirdly shaped pastries? Yeah, that place. I swear, their cornetti are like little clouds of happiness.

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