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About Katowice

Picture this: me, Austin Powers, rollin’ in an escort—red, natch—blarin’ tunes, birds winkin’. “Every gesture’s a copy,” Kiarostami’d say. Escort’s copyin’ cool, but it’s *itself*, dig? Once saw one—mate’s dad’s, dented fender—still sexy! Smelled like petrol and freedom, baby! Surprised me—thought it’d be knackered, but nah, tough lil’ bugger.

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So, I’m walking down ul. Wrzosowa, and I see this cute dog. Like, the fluffiest little thing ever. I’m talking major cuteness overload. I stop to pet it, and the owner starts chatting me up. Turns out, he’s a local artist. We talk about everything—art, life, and how Wilkowice is the best-kept secret in Poland. I’m like, “Dude, you’re right! This place is a gem!” But then, outta nowhere, this kid on a bike zooms past and knocks over my coffee. I’m standing there, mouth agape, coffee splattered everywhere. I’m like, “Seriously?!”

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