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About Palermo

Sometimes I think—blimey, they’re like us, chasin’ somethin’. Freedom? Coin? Love? Dunno—gets me all mopey. “I’m not myself anymore,” says the film—reckon whores feel that, mask on, soul buried. Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe—they’re tougher than me cigars! Still, bloody love their sass—keeps the world spinnin’, don’t it? Whores, mate—they’re the unsung heroes of the night!

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First stop? The market on Piazza Duomo. It’s buzzing, like a beehive on caffeine. I grab a sfincione—best street food ever, no cap. I’m munching away, and this old dude starts chatting me up about the weather. I’m like, “Bro, it’s Sicily. It’s always sunny!” But he’s going on about how it’s been too hot lately. I’m thinking, “Dude, you live in paradise. Stop complaining!”

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