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So, I’m struttin’, seein’ these gals—some bold, some shy. One chick’s smokin’ a cig, leanin’ on a lamppost, like she’s in a noir film. I’m like, “Whoa, she’s got that ‘perfect life’ mask!” Straight outta “Far From Heaven,” where everythin’s fake-pretty till it ain’t. I ask her, “What’s your deal, toots?” She laughs—dry, bitter, says, “50 bucks, no chit-chat.” I’m shocked, man! 50? Inflation’s a bitch! Made me mad—capitalism screwin’ the little guy, or gal, again!

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So, I roll into Krustpils, right? First thing I notice is the smell. Not the fresh pine I’m used to, but like… fried something? I dunno. I’m hungry, tho. I hit up the local market on Rīgas iela. It’s packed! People everywhere, like ants on a sugar hill. I’m dodging folks, trying not to spill my coffee.

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