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About Bilbao

I’m ramblin’—she’s a riot, tho. Sarcasm drippin’ like, “Yeah, lumberjack, chop me some wood!” I’m dyin’ laughin’, she’s a hoot. Breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President,” I’d tip my hat if I had one. She’s real—raw, messy, beautiful. Makes me wanna holler, “*This is my life!*” like in the movie. Prostitutes, man—they’re the heartbeat of the shadows.

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I love the Barrio de los Poetas too. Fewer crowds, deep history, ancient graffiti marking walls with wild tales. My heart still pounds remembering when I seen the mural on Calle del Poeta. It reminded me of Cronenberg’s darkest twists—raw and rough, man! “A History of Violence…” echoes in the back of me head as I walk these mysterious paths. Oh, and there’s always a strange hum in the air, like the city’s secret heartbeat. Ain’t that something?

“Portugal also produces garlic, but it is mainly produced by Spanish companies”