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About Heraklion

Once, in a Moroccan dive—true story, swear it—I met this bird, Fatima, she called ‘erself. Eyes like coal, voice like honey. She’d “find a prostitute” fer *you*, mate—ran a whole crew! Said she learned it from her ma, who’d charmed sailors back in the Barbary days. Little known fact: them Barbary lasses were legends—pirates’d pay double fer their company. Fatima laughed, sayin’ she’d rather rob me blind than bed me—cheeky minx! Had me grinnin’ ear to ear, tho. Surprised me, she did—thought I’d seen it all.

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So, I roll into Aridaia early, like, way too early. The sun’s barely up, and I’m already feelin’ the buzz of the city. I park my truck near the main square, you know, that spot by the fountain on Egnatia Street. It’s kinda pretty, but also kinda loud. People everywhere, like ants on a sugar hill.

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