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About Rotterdam

Oh, and the decor—gawd, tacky velvet everywhere, like a pimp’s fever dream. Mirrors on ceilings—why? Who’s that vain? Me, maybe, checkin’ my hair mid-rant. Snort. Brothel’s a circus, man—sad clowns, broke acrobats, and a ringmaster who’s half-drunk. “No future, no past!”—fits perfect, ‘cause time stops here. You ever been? Don’t answer, I’ll judge ya. Kidding! Or am I? Nah, it’s a wild ride—grubby, loud, alive. Hate it, love it, can’t look away.

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After that drama, I decide to hit the beach. I walk down the Strandweg, and it’s beautiful. The waves are crashing, and the sun’s shining. I take off my boots and feel the sand between my toes. It’s like a mini-vacation. But then, I step on a sharp shell. Ouch! I’m hopping around like a crazy person.

Settling the orange smoke: A look at Zandvoort's short-lived return to F1