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About Turin

Here’s the kicker: she’s tellin’ me ‘bout this client—some weirdo wanted her to hum jazz while he cried. I’m dyin’ laughin’—what the hell? Surprised me, man, these stories are gold. I’m thinkin’, shit, maybe I’ll write a movie—*In the Mood for Hookers*. Wong Kar-wai’d hate it, but I’d watch it twice. Anyway, we seal the deal—cash swapped, vibes set. She’s got this walk, slow and sultry, like *“the past whispered back.”* I’m hooked, mate—angry it’s so quick, happy it’s so raw.

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Villa Pace Park Hotel Bolognese: Hotel good, but money missing from our safe! staff??? and prostitutes on the street!

Then, outta nowhere, I hear this loud crash. I turn around, and some guy just knocked over a whole stand of oranges. It’s like a citrus massacre! Oranges rolling everywhere! I can’t help but laugh. The vendor’s face is priceless. He’s yelling in Italian, and I’m just standing there, trying not to lose it.

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