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About Funchal

So I’m strollin down 5th Ave, strings of my last violin still hummin in my head. The city stinks—piss, hot dogs, desperation. Perfect vibe to find a prostitue. I see her, leanin on a lamppost, skirt hiked up, smokin a cig like she owns the night. “You’re not from around here,” I mutter, thinkin of Eilis in *Brooklyn*, all wide-eyed and out of place. She smirks, “Wanna bet, strings?” Strings! Ha! She clocked me—violin guy. Made me grin, rare for me.

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So, I hit the streets, right? First stop, Café Central on Rua da Liberdade. Best coffee in town, no cap. I order my usual, a galão, and the barista, Maria, she’s like, “You again?” LOL, yeah, I’m addicted. But then, she spills it! All over the counter! I’m like, “Bruh, my caffeine fix!” But she laughs it off, and I can’t help but laugh too.

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