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About Genoa

So, picture this—I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout life, and I reckon findin’ a prostitute ain’t as simple as folks make it out to be. Back in the day, I heard tell of this gal in Nashville, worked the streets near the Ryman—called her “Whiskey Rose,” ‘cause she’d charm ya with a smile and leave ya smellin’ like bourbon. Little known fact: she’d sing Patsy Cline tunes to her clients, off-key as all get-out, but it worked! Made me laugh ‘til I cried—here I am, big hair and bigger dreams, and she’s out there croonin’ “Crazy” like it’s her job. Well, I guess it kinda was!

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First off, I grab my coffee at that little café on Via di Porta all'Arco. You know the one? The barista, Marco, he’s always got a joke up his sleeve. I’m like, “Hey, Marco, gimme the usual.” He winks and says, “You mean the ‘I need caffeine or I’ll bite someone’ special?” Classic Marco. I laugh, but inside, I’m like, “Dude, you have NO idea.”

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