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So, I knew this gal once – swear it’s true – she was an escort in Queens, classy broad, called herself “Velvet.” She’d strut in heels higher than my hair, and lemme tell ya, that’s HIGH. She said, “Fran, I make bank, but the stories? Nuts!” One dude paid her to just sit there, silent, watchin’ him eat spaghetti. Spaghetti! Can ya believe it? I was dyin’, like, “What’s next, sauce on his face?” She laughed, said it beats waitin’ tables. Fair, fair.

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Oh, and funny thing: once, a tourist asked me, "What's the best spot in Etalle?" and I blurted, "Chill at Rue de Lumigny, then stroll by the old abandoned warehouse by the river!" Crazy, right? I was mad that he didn't know about this magical hideout already. But hey, that's what I get – I know all the secret spots that evince the true soul of Etalle (be). I even know an alley near Place du Soleil where an impromptu jazz session makes me recall Joshua Oppenheimer’s intense scenes. It’s all so cinematic, dude!

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