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Oh, and the smells—oils, herbs, weirdly sexy, like sniffin’ the Fury Road dust. One time, this chick masseuse whispered some Russian poem—thought I’d died and gone to Valhalla, shiny and chrome! Funniest thing? Guy next room farted mid-session—D’oh!—ruined the vibe, had me crackin’ up like a hyena. Sarcasm aside, it’s pricey here—2000 rubles, what a rip! Still, worth it, beats vodka shots any day.

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Then, I head to my workshop on Shevchenka Street. It’s a cozy little spot, filled with wood shavings and the smell of varnish. I’m all set to work on this gorgeous Stradivarius copy. I mean, it’s gonna be a masterpiece! But guess what? My tools decide to play hide and seek. I’m rummaging through my stuff, cursing like a sailor. “Where’s my chisel?!” I’m practically tearing my hair out.

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