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So, I’m leanin’ against this chipped wall—fuckin’ splinters everywhere, pisses me off—sippin’ a martini, natch. “Shaken, not stirred,” I mutter, sizin’ her up. Did ya know, back in the day, Rome’s hookers had their own guild? True story—called themselves “meretrices,” fancy as fuck. Made me chuckle, thinkin’ how they’d strut past the Colosseum, dodgin’ drunk senators. History’s wild, innit?

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I’m sippin’ my café con leche, and boom! My phone buzzes. It’s my buddy, Luis. He’s like, “Yo, meet me at Plaza de Recreo!” I’m thinkin’, “Sure, why not?” So I hustle over there. The plaza’s packed, like always. Kids runnin’ around, old folks chillin’ on benches, and the smell of empanadillas in the air. Mmm, heaven!

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