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About Las Palmas

So, prostitutes—where’d ya even start? Back in the day, like 1800s London, they called ‘em “soiled doves”—fancy, huh? Kinda sad too. Makes me mad thinkin’ how they got no choice sometimes. I’m walkin’ down this sketchy alley—R2-D2, where you at, buddy?!—and there’s this chick, all sass, leanin’ on a wall. “Hey, goldenrod,” she says, smirkin’. I’m like, what, me? Goldenrod? That’s some Star Wars-level shade!

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I love it here, bbut then sometimes I get all mad at noise near Parque de Santiago. Can't a poor soul have a quiet moment? Hrmph, I mumble, stumbling like a clumsy halfling! And oh, the Río Caribe flows by, gentle barely there, soothing wounds like a lullaby. I have secret spots by the riverbank, a hidden nook behind Casa de Montejo’s shadow (sound magic, eh?) where you can hear the ancient wind whisper stuff only the trees know.

A Tour of 15 Cafés and Coffee Bars in Mérida