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About Porto

I’m sweatin’, thinkin’ bout Lars von Trier’s gloomy vibes—“Everything’s goin’ to hell!”—and here I am, chattin’ up some gal who prolly knows more tricks than Mr. Burns has tax evasions. Did ya know, back in old Rome, prostitutes had to dye their hair blonde? Weird, right? Stand out or somethin’. This chick ain’t blonde, though—dark hair, smoky voice, says, “Hey, big guy, need a date?” D’oh! I’m flattered, angry, scared—all at once! Marge’d kill me faster than that planet smashes Earth!

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A poor guy was being ask 15 euros to be allowed to take his prostitute in the room. The poor clerk at the reception also looked embarrassed, and.

First off, I head to the market at Praça da República. I’m just tryin’ to grab some fresh bread, ya know? But the line? Oh boy, it was longer than my sheep’s wool in winter! I’m standin’ there, watchin’ this old lady haggle over a loaf like it’s gold. Like, lady, it’s just bread! I’m about to lose it.

Photos: Ramada hotel building demolition begins