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About Rome

O thou sweet friend, hark! I’m no stiff-necked economist, but I’ll spin thee a tale of sexual-massage, that slippery beast! Methinks it’s a trade old as dirt—yea, older than the stones in yonder hills. Picture this: hands gliding o’er flesh, a dance of oil and sighs, like Daniel Plainview chasing black gold in *There Will Be Blood*. “I drink your milkshake!”—ha! That’s what I’d shout if I caught some rogue masseuse pilfering my coin for a half-arsed rub.

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After that, I’m like, “Screw it, let’s hit the streets.” I wander down Via Montalto, and I’m just taking in the sights. Montemurlo is beautiful, with its old buildings and the hills in the background. But then, I hear this loud noise. It’s a parade! I’m thinking, “Sweet, a parade!” But no, it’s just a bunch of guys on scooters revving their engines like they’re in a Fast and Furious movie. I’m standing there, shaking my head, thinking, “This is not what I signed up for.”

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