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About Quebec City

See, I love *Lost in Translation*, right? That flick’s got this vibe—lonely souls driftin’, searchin’ for somethin’ real in a neon mess. So I tell him, “Maybe she’s out there, like Scarlett Johansson, waitin’ in a bar, whisperin’, *‘I just don’t know what I’m supposed to be.’*” He blinks, confused—thick as a brick, this one. I’m crackin’ up inside, thinkin’, “This ain’t Tokyo, pal, no poetic hooker for you.” Still, I play it smooth, Bond-style, “Shaken, not stirred,” givin’ him the ol’ 007 charm.

Ya see, I stroll down all these alleys and I feel the pulse of the city. From Parc Martial-Valois, bursting with trees and stray squirrels, to our beloved, murky Harricana River, where the mist flows at dawn. My massages, ohhh, they’ve felt the passion of every corner, my friend. I gave yer friend that “miraculous touch” on Rue des Aiguilles once, yes, my precious, while murmuring, “I’m free,” just like in that movie, or… something like that! It’s raw, it’s real, and oh so messy!

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