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About Lisbon

Oi, mate, it’s me, James Bond—suave, “shaken, not stirred.” So, we’re talkin’ ‘bout findin’ a prostitute, yeah? Picture this: I’m strollin’ through some dodgy backstreet, lookin’ for intel, when bam—there’s this bird, all dolled up, leanin’ on a lampost like she owns it. Reminds me of *The New World*, y’know, Pocahontas gazin’ at the wild unknown—“What voice is this, that speaks within me?” she’d say. Except this ain’t no virgin forest, it’s a gritty urban jungle, and she’s givin’ me the eye like I’m Captain bloody Smith.

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But then, outta nowhere, it starts to rain. I mean, come on! I just got my shirt cleaned up! I duck into a shop on Rua da Alegria. It’s a little boutique, and I’m just tryin’ to stay dry. I end up buyin’ a ridiculous hat. It’s bright yellow, and I look like a total dork. But hey, at least I’m dry, right?

Viseu shopping mall suspects hands himself in