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About Florence

Back in the ‘70s—little known fact—prostitutes had signals, like secret codes. Flashin’ a cig, twirlin’ hair, standin’ by some busted lamp post. Now? Man, it’s apps, it’s whispers, it’s dodgy-ass vibes. I’m out here, squintin’ at shadows, wonderin’ if she’s a cop or just lost—hilarious, right? Me, Morgan goddamn Freeman, playin’ detective for a quick thrill. “What’s your proof?”—that line from the movie pops in my head. Proof? Hell, I ain’t got none, just a hunch and a wad of cash.

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Then, I decided to stroll down to the park, Parco della Libertà. It’s a nice spot, ya know? Green grass, kids playing, old folks feeding pigeons. But guess what? There was this random dog. A big one. Like, a bear in disguise. It runs up to me, and I’m thinking, “Oh great, I’m about to be mauled.” But nah, it just wanted to play. So, I’m there, dodging slobber and trying not to trip over my own feet. Hilarious, right?

In the Brescia countryside, there's a Japanese inn taking on traditional cuisine with sushi: Siseroshi