ok so i'm standing in this weird alleyway that smells like old coffee and existential dread. the temp is 15.56 which sounds mild but feels like 15.31 because the humidity here is 82% and i just came from a 24-hour underground club. the busker's tent next to me is soaked from all the rain you can't even see because the forecast says it'll be 15.56 all day. i hate this.

q: is this place worth visiting?
a: if you're into barely surviving while hearing a guy scream into a drumstick like it's a life-saving mission. yes. but if you need quiet or a functioning human around you, skip.

q: is it expensive?
a: no. the busker charges 2 euros for a 5-minute performance where he hits his legs like they owe him money. i gave him 1. the rain made him cry.

q: who would hate it here?
a: people who want to sit on a bench without being punched by a drenched sock puppet. also anyone who doesn't like the smell of burnt sausages from a vendor down the street.

q: best time to visit?
a: when it's raining. the busker doubles his effort then. but also when you're desperate for existential chaos.

this tent's been here 3 years. i heard a local said it's haunted by a guy who tried to start a band and got electrocuted. the tent's liner is held up by duct tape and a prayer. i gave him my last cigarette. he didn't smoke.

i saw someone take a photo of his face and yell 'this is misery' at a tourist. the tourist didn't care. later that day, the same tourist asked for directions. ironic.

when it rains, the street by the tent turns into a swamp. i slipped three times trying to reach a bench. the bench was also occupied by a cat named greg who was judging me.

the weather data says it'll be 15.56 all day. but feels like 15.31 because the ground is 4 degrees colder than the air. this is a lung somewhere.

i messaged a Reddit thread yesterday. someone asked if this city is safe. answer was 'only if you avoid the busker's tent before midnight'. i heard the saying 'don't mess with the drummer' here. but i did.

the busker's drumsticks are from a broken motorcycle. he calls them 'the crash sticks.' i think that's poetic. or maybe he's just cheap.

i tried to interview him. he kept talking about his ex who stole his snare drum. the story was longer than the city's history. i left after 45 seconds.

this tent is next to a coffee shop that sells 5-euro lattes. the barista is a 70-year-old man who claims he invented espresso. he won't take photos.

i biked past here to another city last week. the locals said this area is the 'dumpster of dreams.' but i think it's just where people go when they lose their map app.

the humidity is so high your skin starts to feel like wet wool. i wiped my face with a leaf. it didn't help.

the temperature min and max are both 15.56. which means there's no change. the weather is a liar. or maybe the app is.

someone on Yelp complained about the mosquitoes here. they said the busker's tent is a breeding ground. i didn't see any mosquitoes. but i did see a rat. it was wearing a tiny hat.

the busker said his name is ioan. he claimed he's from portugal but his accent sounds like it was inspired by a street food stall. he played ' roulette' with his drum. picked a random beat and repeated it. impressive? only if you're bored.

the street has a 'no photography' sign. but everyone takes photos. the busker got angry when i did. he called me 'the worst tourist since the 90s.' i don't know why. i didn't even ask for a photo.

i heard a local warned me about the 'ghost busker' story. they said every full moon, ioan disappears for a week. come back to dead sticks and a tent full of mold. i didn't believe it. but now i'm not sure.

the coffee here is cold. the barista said it's 'the temperature of regret.' i ordered a hot one. he gave me a mug that was actually a teacup.

i left the tent this morning. it was gone. replaced by a new one with a different busker. same tent. different man. same story.

the data says sea level is 1011. pressure is 959. which sounds like trash talk. but it's just numbers pretending to be weather.

i think i'll come back. not tonight. maybe when the rain stops. or when ioan remembers how to play.

ps: if you visit, leave cigarettes. not money.

i strolled past a busker's tattered tent in a city i probably won't revisit

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