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About Brasov

So, picture this—I’m drivin’, late, lost in thought. Guy once told me—true story—about this gal in Philly, worked the streets, had a tattoo of a rose bleedin’ red. Said she’d sing Sinatra to clients, off-key, made ‘em laugh. Ain’t that somethin’? Made me happy, thinkin’—people out there, livin’, hustlin’, got quirks. But then—bam—anger kicks in. The system, man, it screws ‘em over. No safety net, no way out—pisses me off.

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Later, I take a break outside on Strada Smârdan. The air smells like grilled meat from a nearby food truck. I’m starvin’. I grab a kebab, and it’s like heaven in my mouth. I’m munchin’ away, and this old lady walks by. She looks at me, shakes her head, and says, “You’re too young to be so grumpy.” I’m like, “Lady, you have no idea.”

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