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See, I love *Lost in Translation*, right? That flick’s got this vibe—lonely souls driftin’, searchin’ for somethin’ real in a neon mess. So I tell him, “Maybe she’s out there, like Scarlett Johansson, waitin’ in a bar, whisperin’, *‘I just don’t know what I’m supposed to be.’*” He blinks, confused—thick as a brick, this one. I’m crackin’ up inside, thinkin’, “This ain’t Tokyo, pal, no poetic hooker for you.” Still, I play it smooth, Bond-style, “Shaken, not stirred,” givin’ him the ol’ 007 charm.

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But then, outta nowhere, it starts to rain. Like, heavy rain. I’m talking torrential downpour. I’m soaked in seconds. I’m running for cover, and I end up in this little café on Via della Libertà. I’m dripping wet, looking like a drowned rat, and the barista just stares at me. I laugh it off, “Just your average forester, no biggie!”

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