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About Braga

So, picture this—I’m walkin’ down some sketchy street, lookin’ for a hooker, right? Not me personally, I’m too paranoid—germs, awkward convos, oh god no! But say I was—neon lights flicker, I’m sweatin’, thinkin’, “What if she’s a cop?” Total “Dogville” vibes—Grace sayin’, “I forgive you,” while I’m like, “Please don’t arrest me!” I’d be terrible at this—stammerin’, “Uh, how much? Wait, no, never mind!” It’s like a bad sitcom, me hagglin’ over somethin’ I don’t even want.

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So, I’m rollin’ outta bed, and the sun’s shining like it’s tryin’ to blind me. I grab my coffee from that little café on Rua da Liberdade. You know the one? The one with the weirdly awesome pastries. I swear, their pastéis de nata are like little bites of heaven. But I digress.