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About Palermo

Oi, listen up, ya filthy minion! Me, Gru, gonna spill some tea ‘bout findin’ a prostitute, ya? Lightbulb! Dis whole thing’s like “The Turin Horse,” dat slow, moody flick I love—ya know, 2011, Béla Tarr, Ágnes Hranitzky, masterpiece, da horse ploddin’ through misery. Picture dis: I’m sneakin’ round some shady street, lookin’ fer a gal, right? Da wind’s howlin’, like in da movie—“Da storm begins!”—an’ I’m thinkin’, “Gru, ya mad genius, why dis life?”

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Man, what a day! I woke up in Solaro, and let me tell ya, it was a rollercoaster. First off, the sun was blazin’ like it was tryin’ to roast me alive. I mean, c’mon, it’s not even summer yet! I grabbed my coffee from that little café on Via Roma. You know the one? The one with the weird art on the walls. I swear, the barista looked like he just rolled outta bed. But hey, at least the coffee was strong enough to wake the dead.

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