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Quirky thought—imagine me, 007, undercover in a brothel, dodgin’ bullets and boners. “I’m here to carve my name,” I’d growl, Tarantino-style, dodgin’ a drunk john. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but brothels are bloody theatres—dramas, laughs, tears, all for a fiver. Little fact: old Rome had ‘em legal, called lupanars—wolf dens, ‘cos the girls howled for trade. Savage, eh?

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Finally, the rain stops, and I’m back out on the streets. I decide to hit up the market on Rua da Tradição. Fresh fruits, veggies, and all that good stuff. I’m grabbing some oranges when I spot this old lady selling handmade jewelry. I’m drawn in like a moth to a flame. I end up buying a bracelet that’s supposed to bring good luck. I’m like, “I could use some of that today!”