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I’m picturin’ it now—shady streets, neon buzzin’. You’re dodgin’ creeps, thinkin’, “Is this chick for real?” Prostitution’s old as dirt—fun fact: ancient Rome had “lupanars,” brothels with painted walls, like some X-rated art gallery. Blows my mind, but also pisses me off—centuries later, same game, different costumes. Everybody lies, though—client, hooker, even the damn pimp. “You’re my prince,” she purrs. Yeah, right, and I’m freakin’ Santa Claus.

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After that, I head to the local market on Piazza del Donatore. Fresh produce everywhere! I grab some grapes, and this old lady starts chatting me up about her garden. She’s like, “You gotta try my tomatoes!” I’m thinking, “Lady, I’m a musician, not a gardener!” But I smile and nod. She’s sweet, and her passion is contagious.

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