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Avast ye, mateys! So, prostitutes, eh? Been ponderin’ this one, I have—slurrin’ me wits ‘round it, savvy? Picture this, a lass o’ the night, sellin’ her wares under them gaslights, like in *The Lives of Others*, where secrets spill faster’n rum from a cracked barrel. “We’re not animals, we’re human beings!”—that’s what she’d holler, if she’d seen that flick, aye? Me, I’m Captain Jack Sparrow, I see what them bilge rats miss—how she’s craftier’n a fox in a henhouse.

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After that, I’m feeling kinda bummed, but I push on. I stroll down Corso Canalgrande, and it’s beautiful. The buildings are all colorful, and I’m snapping pics like a tourist. I mean, who wouldn’t? Then I see this street performer, right? He’s juggling and making jokes. I’m laughing so hard, I almost forget about the prosciutto disaster. Almost.

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