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About Las Palmas

So, you’re out there, lookin’. Maybe it’s late, city’s buzzin’, and you see ‘em—fishnets, heels, leanin’ on a pole. Reminds me of Marion in that movie, y’know? “I’m gonna be somebody!”—but it’s all grit, all desperation. You don’t just stroll up like, “Hey, how’s it goin’?” Nah, there’s a code, a vibe. I read once—get this—back in the ‘90s, Times Square was crawlin’ with ‘em before Giuliani swept it clean. Little factoid for ya! Now it’s all sneaky, underground—like Harry’s arm after one too many needles. Gross, right? Made me gag thinkin’ about it.

A Pobra do Caraminal's harbour

I gotta say, every nook here is steeped in memories: the small crumbling mural on Rua do Amor, which is so underrated, and the laughter of locals filling the Mercado Central every Saturday – a true heart-warmer. I sometimes get a little hyper about how profoundly the city touches me. It’s as if every fragment of nature, every conversation on a tattered bench at Estação dos Sonhos, whispers secrets of the universe, like Malick’s poetic musings.

Just where is missing Spanish teenager Diana Quer?