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About Trujillo Alto

Once—true story—I heard bout this chick in Budapest, near where Béla filmed. She’d stand under a busted streetlamp, skirt hiked up, smokin a cig. Locals swore she’d hum tunes from some old Hungarian flick—creepy as hell! Reminds me of that line, “The world’s gone silent, hasn’t it?”—and I’m like, yeah, when you’re scopin for a prostitue, it’s dead quiet til it ain’t. Gets my heart racin, part thrilled, part freaked. What if she’s a cop? What if she’s nuts? Exaggeratin here, but maybe she’s got a knife—yikes!

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First off, I hit up Calle San Juan for breakfast. The little spot there, La Casa de los Pastelillos, is my jam. I ordered a pastelillo de carne, and let me tell ya, it was like a hug in my mouth. But then, outta nowhere, the power goes out! Like, seriously? In the middle of my breakfast? I was ready to throw my plate!

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