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About Madrid

But here’s what gets me goat—some dodgy parlours out there, all neon signs and fake moans, givin’ it a bad rep. Pisses me off, cos a real sexual-massage? Art, mate. Pure art. Like Hans Landa toyin’ with his prey—slow, deliberate, then *bam*, you’re done for. Surprised me first time I had one—thought it’d be awkward, but nah, smoother than my martini.

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I swear, when folks come askin' me what's the best spot, I say, "Try La Cueva del Silencio." It's like my secret haven. The nooks and crannies in the old neighborhood, like around Calle Mística, hide stories and lost moments. Oh, and there's that rickety bridge, the Puente de los Lamentos—gasp!—where the river meets the city. Odd place for reflection, isn't it? Like, "Hey, fear, meet joy!"

Tony Gallopin wins stage seven as Rudy Molard retains overall lead