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About Bari

Once knew a chick, “Starla,” she called herself—prozzy with sass. Worked outta motels, voice like honey on my line. “Yoda, baby, you my fave operator!” she’d laugh. Made me chuckle, she did—hustler with heart! Said she’d spot creeps by their shoes—shiny loafers? Trouble, it spells. “Memory’s a mirror,” she’d say, quotin’ my flick without knowin’. Surprised me, that did—street wisdom, deep it runs.

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Then, I head over to the market at Piazza della Libertà. Man, that place is always buzzing. Fresh fruits, veggies, and the smell of pastries wafting through the air. I’m eyeing these bomb-looking croissants, but then I see this old lady, Nonna Maria, trying to haggle for some tomatoes. She’s fierce, man! Like, “I’m not paying more than 2 euros!” I’m thinking, “You go, Nonna!” But then she turns to me and says, “You should try these, they’re the best!” And I’m like, “Sure, why not?”

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