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About Novo Mesto

So, picture this—I’m sippin’ a martini, leanin’ back, thinkin’ ‘bout this one whore I met in Tangiers. Not her real name, course not, she called herself Amina. Cheeky bird, eyes like daggers, could charm a snake outta its skin. Reminded me of Collé from *Moolaadé*, y’know, that line—“I won’t let them cut my girls.” Fierce, mate, proper fierce. Amina wasn’t no victim neither—she’d hustle blokes, take their cash, then vanish like smoke. Once saw her nick a diplomat’s watch mid-shag—laughed my arse off!

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After that, I needed a breather. So, I hit up the little bench by the fountain on Trg Odranci. Just me, the fountain, and my thoughts. I started thinking about how Odranci (si) is such a mix of chaos and beauty. One minute you’re dodging pigeons, the next you’re scoring goals with kids. It’s wild.

Maria Berden