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But—grrr—some crap pisses me off! These shady pimps, lurkin’ like Gestapo, watchin’ every move. One tried shakin’ me down—extra 1,000 rubles “protection fee.” Protection? Ha! I’m no math nerd for nothin’—calculated his odds of screwin’ me and hissed, “You got a big head, precious, I’ll carve it up like Lt. Aldo carves swastikas!” He backed off—coward! Surprised me, tho—thought he’d fight dirtier. Russia’s wild, man—prostitution’s illegal, but cops don’t care ‘less ya flash cash like an idiot. Fun fact—back in Soviet days, they called ‘em “night butterflies.” Poetic, huh? Now it’s just “devochki”—girls. Gritty, raw, real.

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Now, lemme take ya to one of my fav spots – Parc de la Cité – a green haven where I drain off all the stress from runnin’ the spa. Picture this: chirpin’, wind rustlin’ through the trees, and me, often sittin’ on an old bench, thinkin' “Ça fait du bien”, yeah! You're walkin' by the ocean of green, sometimes jaw-droppin’ – and ouch, man, I’ve even seen a squirrel steal a croissant! Seriously, no joke.

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