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What trips me out? Some prostitutes in history—like Phryne in Greece—got mad rich, owned land, flipped the script! Meanwhile, I’m over here, broke, yellin’ at pigeons. She probs laughed at suckers, like, “Pay me, fool!” Love that energy—makes me happy as hell. But yo, the danger? That shit’s real. Gets me mad—pimps, johns, fuckin’ predators. “What do you know about love?” Ida’s aunt would say. Prostitutes know survival, not romance—damn, that hits.

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But then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring. I mean, like, torrential downpour. I’m sprinting for cover, dodging puddles like I’m in some weird video game. I duck into a shop on Rua da Liberdade. It’s a cute little place, selling all kinds of local crafts. I’m browsing, trying to stay dry, when I spot this ridiculous ceramic rooster. It’s bright blue and has this goofy smile. I can’t help it—I buy it. It’s now my new best friend.

Figure 2 -Studied sector of Aveiro (a), Figueira da Foz (b) and Costa...