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About Palermo

I ain’t judgin’, nah—live your truth, boo! But damn, some shit I heard? Gets me heated! Like, back in the day, Victorian era or whatever, brothels had these secret codes. Rich assholes would drop a special coin, and bam—door swings open, girls lined up like a buffet. Wild, right? Makes me holler, “It’s about damn time!”—time for some realness, not this sneaky crap. Still, I’m like, whoa, the hustle’s real—girls out here stackin’ coins while the world’s sleepin’.

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First off, I hit the streets of Ladispoli. You know, the ones like Via Roma and Via Ancona. They’re usually buzzing with life. But today? It was like a ghost town. I’m walkin’ down the Lungomare, the sea’s lookin’ all sparkly, and I’m feelin’ good. Then BAM! I step in a puddle. A big one. My shoes are soaked. Great start, huh?

Refugees like me had to follow the rules to come here — why don’t today’s migrants?