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About Ghent

Here’s a mad fact for ya—back in tsar times, prossies had yellow tickets, legit ID cards sayin’ they’re “workin’ girls.” Imagine that, eh? Handin’ that over at the pub like, “Cheers, I’m legal!” Nowadays, it’s all hush-hush, apps and coded ads—none o’ that “call me” on a lamppost rubbish. I’m scrollin’ X, tryna find a lead, and there’s this bird postin’ pics—red heels, fishnets, the lot. I’m like, “Bingo, darling!” But then—surprise!—turns out she’s a cop sting. Nearly shat meself laughin’—Loki, outsmarted? Never! “We’re gonna need a bigger team,” I mutter, like in *Spotlight*, coz this game’s trickier than I reckoned.

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When I'm not busy doin' my relaxation biz or trying to keep my zen, I hit up the little park near the Scheldt River (yep, the river actual goshdamn flows through town). Saved a load of stress there, just sittin' on some random bench. I once got mad (for real, I was red-eyed, man) because some local cats were making so much noise I nearly lost my chill—like, seriously, even nature has trolls here! And that park? It's got this wild blend of calm n' chaotic energy, sort of reminiscent of that eerie quiet in "The Return", where the silence shouts louder than words.

Photos of Belgium’s Ravaged Landscapes, in the Immediate Aftermath of World War I