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About Genoa

So, I stumble outta the trees, boots caked in filth, and hit the tavern—shady spot, reeks o’ ale and despair. There she be, a wench with eyes like stolen stars, leanin’ on the bar. “Thou art a thief,” I mutter, “stealin’ me breath like Cobb nabbin’ secrets!” She smirks—ooh, that got me riled! Cheeky tart, playin’ me like a fiddle. I’m half-angry, half-buzzin’, ‘cos she’s a riddle wrapped in silk.

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Finally, I find this cute café on Via Garibaldi. I’m like, “Yes! Coffee time!” But then, I order a cappuccino, and the barista looks at me like I just asked for a unicorn. “We don’t do cappuccinos after 11,” she says. Seriously? Who made that rule? I’m about to lose it. I mean, I’m a forester, not a coffee snob, but come on!

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