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About Montreal

So, picture this—me, sippin’ wine, ponderin’ whores. They’re bloody fascinating, right? Been around forever—fact is, ancient Rome had ‘em registered, taxed, legit as a baker. Called ‘em “lupae,” she-wolves, cos they howled for clients. How’s that for a hustle? Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ of ‘em prowlin’ like, “Very good, sir, step right this way,” all prim ‘n’ proper like Gustave servin’ tea.

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In yonder neighborhood o’ Montcalm, where houses huddle as if for a midnight council, I oft find solace after a long day's toil. At the break of dawn, I stroll along the banks of the Rivière Des Rêves—aye, 'tis the river that singeth softly to thy soul, encircling the town with a mystic calm. How odd it seems, for me! In the massage parlor I find tenderness, art, and secret sighs of weary patrons—but none so gentle as the murmur of that water.

See inside an Amqui Elementary School third-grade class