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About Genoa

So, yeh, I’m picturin it—me, stalkin the streets, lookin for that vibe. Not the high-class escort shit, nah, too sterile. I want the raw deal, the real fuckin mess. Like, you ever hear bout them old Romanian prossies in the 80s? Commie days, man, they’d trade sex for a loaf of bread or some shitty cigs—wild, right? Survival, pure n’ simple. Kinda makes ya think—how far’s a gal gotta fall?

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Then I hit up the local café on Via San Giovanni. I order a cappuccino, and the barista, this young guy with wild hair, spills half of it on me. I’m soaked! I’m standing there, looking like a drowned rat, and he’s like, “Sorry, mate!” I’m trying to be cool about it, but inside, I’m fuming. I mean, come on! I just wanted my caffeine fix!

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