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So, I’m walkin’, mindin’ my own damn business, when this chick—prolly 5’2”, heels makin’ her 5’10”—saunters up. “Hey, big guy, need company?” she purrs. I’m thinkin’, lady, I’d rather skin a bear with a spoon. “I don’t pay for that,” I grunt, deadpan as hell. She laughs, like I’m some chump. Pisses me off. Hate everything about it—fake giggles, cheap perfume stingin’ my nose. Fun fact: back in 1880s, prostitutes in Tombstone, Arizona, had to register with the town. Called ‘em “soiled doves.” Ain’t that poetic? Still stinks like desperation.

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As the sun starts to set, I head to a little trattoria for dinner. I order some pasta, and it’s like a flavor explosion in my mouth. Seriously, I could eat this every day. The waiter is super friendly, and we start chatting. He tells me about the history of Monsummano-Terme, how it was famous for its thermal waters since the 19th century. I’m like, “Dude, I’m learning so much!”

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