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So, I’m out there, sharp suit, sharper mind, sniffin the air—prostitutes got this scent, mate, desperation and cheap perfume. Reminds me of dissectin folks—figuratively, ‘course. Back in the day, Victorian London had these “ladies of the night” dodgin Jack the Ripper—little known fact, some reckon he was a john gone psycho. Makes ya wonder who’s huntin who, eh? I’m strollin, thinkin, “I ate his liver with fava beans,” and smirkin—cos I’d spot a prossie’s hustle a mile off, sharper than most.

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I ran into a friend at the café of the Colina hotel. She's no longer “burning her chestnuts”, she only offers her services to clients she's known for years.

Then there's the hidden gem, Jazz Alley Junction. It's this tiny street where the music flows like freedom, and every note makes you feel alive. Cringe? Nah, pure gold. Hey, the locals say it's where you're supposed to meet your destiny. I once met a dude there jamming, and it totally changed my outlook on life. Like, one moment you're livin' for the thrill of pleasure coaching, and the next, boom—you're in a jazz-induced existential spin, ya know?

Marc Girardelli: From Flatlands to Alpine Skiing Legend