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The best part? That slow build—hands grazin’ yer spine, tension meltin’, then—bam!—yer floatin’. Reminds me of *Ten*, when the kid yells, “You’re not my mom!”—it’s that shock of realness, like when the masseuse hits that *spot* and yer like, “How’d ya know?!” Once had this chick in Prague—swear she was a witch—found knots I didn’t know existed. Left me happy as a pig in shit, floatin’ out the door. Cost me a fortune, tho—pissed me off, but worth it.

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After the drama, we decide to hit up the local market. It’s packed! I’m weaving through people, trying not to knock over any fruit stalls. I spot some durian, and I’m like, no way! That stuff smells like feet! Rudi dares me to try it, and I’m like, challenge accepted.