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About Florence

Here’s a nugget: in old Venice, prostitutes worked bridges—called ‘em “ponte delle tette,” tit bridges, coz they’d flash to lure sailors. Wish I’d been there, sippin’ wine, watchin’ the show! Beats skulkin’ round Flea Bottom, dodgin’ rats and cutthroats. Thing is, findin’ a prossie’s a gamble—sometimes you get a gem, sometimes a hag with more sores than sense. “What’s done is done,” like they say in the movie—once you’re in, no backin’ out. Surprised me once, this one gal knew riddles—smart as me, nearly. Kept her an extra hour just to chat. Rare, that.

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Then, outta nowhere, my buddy Luca strolls in. He’s all hyped up, talkin’ about some festival on Via Torino. “Dude, you gotta check it out! Food, music, the whole shebang!” I’m thinkin’, “I can’t leave the shop! I got watches to fix!” But then I remember the last time I missed a festival. Ugh, FOMO hit hard.

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