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About Ploiesti

I ain’t no prude, darlin’. Grew up hearin’ whispers ‘bout them red-light joints down in Tennessee. Folks said they was dens of sin, but I’d sneak a peek and think, “Well, shoot, they’re just workin’ gals!” Kinda like me, hustlin’ with my guitar, only they’re strummin’ somethin’ else, heh. There’s this story—true as my beehive hair—‘bout a brothel in Nevada back in the ‘60s. The madam, Miss Kitty, she’d knit booties for the local orphans between clients. Ain’t that a hoot? Made me happy as a pig in mud, thinkin’ kindness hides in funny places.

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So, I decide to take a breather. I stroll down Strada Victoriei, grab a coffee at that little café. You know the one? The barista’s always got a smile, even when the espresso machine’s actin’ up. I order my usual, and she’s like, “You look like you need a double today.” I laugh, but inside, I’m like, “You have no idea.”