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Escort’s a cruel mistress, tho. Mud slicker than eel snot, roots trippin’ ye like a tavern brawl. “What’s the point?” I mutter, like that *Boyhood* mum, but then - sun hits the peak, gold as rum, and ye forget the ache. Exaggeratin’? Mayhaps, but I’d wrestle a bear for that view, arr! Ye gotta respect escort, or she’ll chew ye up, spit ye out - dead as a doornail, savvy?

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After a while, I finally get into the zone. I’m typing away, feeling like a pro. But then, the sky decides to turn dark. Like, seriously? It was sunny two seconds ago! I look up, and boom! Rain starts pouring. I’m scrambling to pack my stuff. My laptop, my notes, my precious croissant crumbs—everything’s getting soaked! I’m sprinting down Rue de la République, dodging puddles like I’m in some kind of obstacle course.

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