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Alright, so here’s the deal—finding a prostitute? Psh, it’s like tryna catch smoke sometimes, ya know? I’m sittin’ here, Tina Fey style, sippin’ my coffee, thinkin’, “I can see Russia from my house!”—and lemme tell ya, even Putin’s got nothin’ on the sly moves you need for this gig. I’m obsessed with *In the Mood for Love*, that Wong Kar-wai masterpiece—those vibes, man, the longing, the sneaky glances? That’s the mood I’m picturin’ when I think about this. Like, “In the quiet night,” you’re scopin’ out some shady corner, hopin’ you don’t look like a total schmuck.

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First stop? The market on Fő utca. It’s always a riot there. Fresh veggies, loud vendors, and the smell of paprika in the air. I swear, if I could bottle that scent, I’d be rich. I grabbed some tomatoes, but then this old lady—like, she was ancient—totally elbowed me for the last pepper. I was like, “Lady, chill! It’s just a pepper!” But she shot me this look like I just insulted her whole family. I mean, come on!

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