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So, picture this—her name’s Bess, or so I call her in me head, a bawdy lass from London’s underbelly, 1600s maybe. She’s no prim rose, nah, but a wild weed, bloomin’ where she oughtn’t. Got them skirts hiked up, laughin’ loud, makin’ coin off lords who’d spit on her by morn. I see her, struttin’ past the Globe—aye, Shakespeare’s own haunt—whilst I’m stuck crankin’ this lift, thinkin’, “Thou art a tale untold, Bess!” She’s got eyes like stormy seas, drownin’ fools who stare too long. “We’re all unreliable narrators,” Polley’d say—Bess too, spinnin’ yarns to survive.

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But wait, the day’s not over. I decide to grab a bite at my favorite spot on Vasil Levski Street. The place is packed, but I manage to snag a table. I order a kebab, and it’s heavenly. I’m munching away, and this old lady next to me starts chatting. She’s telling me about the history of Ruse, how it used to be a big deal back in the day. I’m nodding, but inside, I’m just thinking about that kebab.

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