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About Florence

Now, listen up, I ain’t no stranger to this! Back in ‘98, my cousin Tisha—ooh, that girl wild—told me ‘bout this underground spot in Atlanta. Masseuse named Big Rhonda, hands like hams, slidin’ oil everywhere! Tisha said, “Madea, she rubbed me so good, I forgot my name!” I was mad as hell—why she ain’t invite me? But I laughed, ‘cause Tisha swore Rhonda’s fingers was magic. Little known fact, y’all: them old-timey kings in Europe? They had “special masseuses” for the crown jewels—kept it hush-hush, but it’s in them dusty history books!

Cosa Offro?

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Later, I head to the local market on Via Garibaldi. It’s bustling, full of life. Fresh veggies, fruits, and all that good stuff. I’m grabbing some carrots for the pigs when I overhear this guy talking about the best pizza in town. Apparently, it’s at this place called Pizzeria Da Michele. I’m like, “I gotta try that!”

Milan taps Lombardy’s industrial legacy