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About Bucharest

Now, don’t get me wrong—ain’t all roses and rum. Some escorts, they’re trapped, aye, like them kids in *Margaret*, lost in the chaos. “It’s not my fault!” they’d cry, and it ain’t, sometimes. Makes me wanna swig me rum and curse the world. But Rose? She laughed—said, “Jack, ye daft git, I’m me own cap’n!”—and I reckon that’s the spirit, savvy?

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Then, outta nowhere, my buddy Ion pops in. He’s always got some wild story. Today, he tells me he saw a goat on Strada Călărași. A goat! Just chillin’ like it owns the place. I can’t even. I’m laughing so hard, I almost drop a pair of boots.