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About Brussels

Oi, mate, I’m Tyrion Lannister, y’know, the witty dwarf— “I drink and I know things.” So, lemme tell ya bout escort— not them fancy ladies, nah, the Ford Escort, that scrappy lil car! Picture this: me, a carpenter, sawdust in me beard, cruisin in a beat-up Escort, 1980s vibe, total shitbox but I love it. Reminds me of WALL-E, that lil trash-bot— “Directive?”— chuggin along, loyal as hell. Built me a custom shelf in the back once, for me tools, hammered it drunk— worked fine, wobbly like me after wine.

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Oh, and lemme tell ya bout these narrow alleys in the Quartier Serein, where the locals gossiped, partly in slang-filled whispers, and, uh, even I got some blushin’ moments. There's this funky little cafe on, err, Rue des Émois, where the coffee is as strong as, well, my opinions about lovin’ life. Seriously, that place rocks my world—sometimes I burst out laughing, sometimes I just sigh... just like that Magnet, huh?

In Belgium’s Borinage, where Van Gogh the pastor became a painter