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About Genoa

See, I love *Lost in Translation*, right? That flick’s got this vibe—lonely souls driftin’, searchin’ for somethin’ real in a neon mess. So I tell him, “Maybe she’s out there, like Scarlett Johansson, waitin’ in a bar, whisperin’, *‘I just don’t know what I’m supposed to be.’*” He blinks, confused—thick as a brick, this one. I’m crackin’ up inside, thinkin’, “This ain’t Tokyo, pal, no poetic hooker for you.” Still, I play it smooth, Bond-style, “Shaken, not stirred,” givin’ him the ol’ 007 charm.

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But then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring. I mean, like, monsoon-level rain. I’m soaked in seconds. I duck into a nearby café on Via Dante, and it’s packed. I’m standing there, dripping wet, and this guy offers me his seat. I’m like, “Wow, chivalry isn’t dead!” But then I realize he’s just trying to hit on me. Ugh, no thanks, buddy.

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