Valentina Alberobello Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️

About Rome

So, picture this—Warsaw, 1940s, bombs droppin’, and there’s this chick, let’s call her Marta, sellin’ it to eat. Not ‘cause she’s lovin’ it, but ‘cause she’s starvin’. Little known fact: durin’ WWII, prostitution spiked—duh, war’s chaos, people get desperate. Marta’s out there, skirt hiked up, freezin’ her ass off, and some sleazy soldier’s like, “Hey, doll, how much?” Makes me wanna puke, but also—damn, girl, you’re tough. I’m pissed, tho—why’s it always the women takin’ the hit? Men just waltz off, no shame. Ugh, patriarchy, amirite?

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But then, bam! I trip over a cobblestone. Like, seriously? Who thought it was a good idea to make the streets look like a medieval obstacle course? I’m cursing under my breath, but then I see this old dude selling fresh focaccia. I mean, come on! How can you stay mad when there’s focaccia involved? I grab a slice, and it’s like heaven in my mouth. I’m talking crispy on the outside, soft on the inside. I could’ve cried.

Drifting Through Puglia, Italy’s Heel (Published 2019)