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Aight, listen up, precious! We swears! Brothels, man, they’re wild, yeah? Like, got this vibe—dark, messy, real human stuff. Kinda like *Son of Saul*, y’know? “We must get out!”—that’s what I think, standin’ there, watchin’ folks stumble in. Place stinks of sweat, cheap perfume, desperation clingin’ like smoke. Gets me mad, seein’ how some strut in, all cocky, thinkin’ they own it. Pisses me off—arrogant pricks! But then, we swears, some girls there? Tough as nails, sharper than you’d guess. Little secret—back in old Vienna, brothels had *codes*, right? Whistles, knocks—sneaky signals for cops or jealous wives. Ain’t that nuts?

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Now, the parks—oh man, Parque da Cidade blows my mind. I sit there sometimes, just breathin', thinkin' about life, our crazy fights, and all that jazz. The green, the noise, all mix together like a crazy shot of espresso on a sleepy day. And the river? The Rio de Itaparica flows near town’s edge. It’s kinda poetic, like that scene in "Shame" when everything just hits you: raw, messy, beautiful chaos.

Figure 1. Brazilian Intertropical Region map (sensu Cartelle 1999), in...