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About Puntarenas

Oi mate, me, Mr. Bean, heh, stumbling ‘round like a daft git, yeah? So, findin’ a prostitute, right—blimey, what a palaver! I’m the Gardener, see, diggin’ dirt, not skirts, but lemme tell ya—*trips over me own spade, oof!*—it’s a right murky job, innit? Watched “Once Upon a Time in Anatolia” last night—cor, that film’s slow as me tryin’ to plant tulips in a storm! Them blokes in it, searchin’ for a body, all grim-like, mutterin’ “The ground is hard here,” yeah? Reminds me of this—diggin’ for a prossie in dodgy alleys, eh!

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When you say that drug dealers and prostitutes hang around the circle, where do you mean. I'm looking at my map in the Fodors guidebook and.

I used to walk down Avenida del Sol — yeah, with 17 or so coffee shops, quirky little bars, and pop-up stands selling local treats — thinking, “Man, every whiff of salt in the air... it’s like destiny calling me again.” It’s weird how my job as a massage parlor owner makes me notice the minute vibes. Like, the way the breeze flirts with your hair outside my shop on Calle Luna, or the feel of warm, soft sand beneath your feet at Los Pajaritos Park.

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