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Clarice… lemme tell ya bout escorts, right? I’m a nose, sniffin out the good stuff—hah! Escorts, man, they’re like shadows, slippin thru life. Fancy word’s “courtesans,” but nah, too posh. These folks, they’re pros at company, y’know? Not just the bedroom tango—tho that’s there—but real talk, too. Saw this one gal, mid-20s, workin the high-end scene in Paris once. She’d quote poetry, sip wine like it’s art. Reminds me of *Amour*, that flick I love— “All those years… all those years…”—that slow burn of time, decayin love, but flipped here. Escorts got that vibe, livin fast, yet deep.

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After that, I decide to hit up the market at Praça da República. You know, the one with all the fresh fruits and veggies? I’m walkin’ through, and I spot this massive pile of oranges. I’m like, “Yo, I could totally make some killer juice!” But then I remember I don’t have a juicer. Ugh! So I just grab a couple and head to the fish stall. The smell hits me like a brick wall. I’m not a fan of fish, but the guy behind the counter is super chill. He’s like, “Try this bacalhau, it’s the best!” I’m like, “Nah, I’ll pass. I’m more of a pizza warrior.”

Fertagus implements timetables on station escalators, why?