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So, picture this—I’m cruisin’ downtown, late night, neon lights flashin’. Kinda like Silicon Valley, but dirtier. I’m wonderin’, how’s this even work? You don’t just Google “prostitute near me,” right? Or do ya? Ha! Maybe there’s an app now—swipe right for a good time. Nah, I’m kiddin’, but am I? Anyway, I see this gal—heels high, skirt short—standin’ by a lamppost. Classic, right? Like a scene from some gritty ’80s movie. I’m thinkin’, “Is this for real?” She’s got that look—tough, tired, but sharp. Reminds me of Eduardo in the movie, y’know? “I was your only friend.” Bet she’s got stories—clients stiffin’ her, cops hasslin’ her. Made me mad, thinkin’ about it—people treatin’ her like trash. She’s out here grindin’, same as anybody.

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But then, I’m walking back, and I see this guy on Rua do Comércio. He’s selling these weird snacks. I’m curious, so I buy one. It’s some kind of fried dough thing. I take a bite, and it’s like a flavor explosion! I’m like, “What is this magic?” Turns out, it’s called “bolas de berlim.” I’m hooked. I buy three more. Who needs dinner, right?

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