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About Cluj-Napoca

Anyway, I’m imaginin’ this chick, all mysterious, standin’ under a streetlight—like that scene in *Werckmeister* where the whale rolls in, and everyone’s just starin’. “What is this creature?” I’m mutterin’ to myself, half-excited, half-freaked. Do I wave? Say hi? Toss cash like a gangster? I’m overthinkin’ it, obvi—my brain’s a mess, like, “Tina, chill, it’s not a date!” But I’m hyped too—somethin’ about the grit, the realness, gets me goin’. Prostitution’s old as dirt—did ya know ancient Rome had “lupanars”? Brothels with freaky murals—talk about decor goals!

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Finally find it, but I’m already late for my next appointment. I dash out, and guess what? It starts raining. Of course! Just my luck. I’m sprinting down Strada Batiștei, dodging puddles like I’m in some kinda obstacle course. I’m soaked, but I can’t help but laugh. “This is just great,” I think. “A watchmaker who’s late and wet. Perfect combo!”

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