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But, ugh, the smell—stale beer and desperation? Gross af. I’m, like, “This ain’t glamorous, hunny!” I wanted drama, not stank. Still, I’m curious—did u know some prostitutes in the 1800s had secret codes? They’d wink twice or some shiz to signal clients. I’m dying, that’s so extra! I’m, like, “Teach me, queen!” She’s all, “Nah, u too loud,” and I’m cackling—me, loud? Totes fair.

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Then I hit up the market on Rua da Praia. Man, it’s packed! Everyone’s out, buying fish, bread, you name it. I’m trying to sell my charcoal, but no one’s interested. They’re all about that fresh catch from the river. I get it, but c’mon! My charcoal is the best! I’m standing there, feeling like a ghost. Invisible.

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