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About Semarang

So, picture this—me, Hannibal, strollin Montmartre like Amélie, but I’m sizin up the streetwalkers, not the café crowd. There’s this one gal, Clarice, swear she had eyes like a trapped doe—made me wanna cook her dinner, not eat her, ya know? Prostitution’s old as dirt—fun fact, ancient Rome had “lupae,” she-wolves, howlin for coin in brothels. Wild, right? Gets me all tingly thinkin bout the history mixin with the filth. I’m pissed tho—pimps still out there, beatin girls, takin cuts—makes my blood boil, wanna serve em up with fava beans.

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First off, I hit up Jl. Raya Modisi for breakfast. You know, the usual spot with the best nasi goreng? I’m sittin’ there, scarfing down my food, and this street vendor rolls up. He’s got this crazy-looking fruit. I’m like, “What’s that?” He says, “Salak!” I’m like, “Salak? Sounds like a bad word!” But I try it anyway. OMG, it’s like a sweet, crunchy miracle! I’m in love.

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