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I’m picturin’ it now—shady streets, neon buzzin’. You’re dodgin’ creeps, thinkin’, “Is this chick for real?” Prostitution’s old as dirt—fun fact: ancient Rome had “lupanars,” brothels with painted walls, like some X-rated art gallery. Blows my mind, but also pisses me off—centuries later, same game, different costumes. Everybody lies, though—client, hooker, even the damn pimp. “You’re my prince,” she purrs. Yeah, right, and I’m freakin’ Santa Claus.

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But here’s the kicker. The rain actually brings people together. Everyone’s huddled under the awning of the café on Storgatan, laughing and sharing umbrellas. I’m standing there, drenched, but I can’t help but smile. It’s like, “Wow, this town knows how to turn a mess into a party.”