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About Florence

But oh, it pissed me off sometimes! Rust ate it alive—fenders droppin’ like flies. And the seats? Stiff as a preacher’s collar! Drove one once, ‘92 model, felt like my ass was screamin’, “Let me outta here!” Still, I’d chuckle—Escort’s got charm, y’know? Like Céline sayin’, “Memory’s a wonderful thing if you don’t have to deal with the past”—this car’s a memory machine, creaky and flawed, but damn, it’s real.

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So, I grab my chorizo and head to the Parque de Rosalía de Castro. It’s a nice spot, perfect for chillin’. I plop down on a bench, take a bite, and it’s like a flavor bomb in my mouth. I’m in heaven. But then, I notice this group of pigeons eyeing me. I swear, they were plotting. I toss a piece of chorizo, and it’s like I started a pigeon riot. They’re all flapping and squawking. I’m laughing so hard, people are staring.

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