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About Bordeaux

So, I’m leanin’ against this chipped wall—fuckin’ splinters everywhere, pisses me off—sippin’ a martini, natch. “Shaken, not stirred,” I mutter, sizin’ her up. Did ya know, back in the day, Rome’s hookers had their own guild? True story—called themselves “meretrices,” fancy as fuck. Made me chuckle, thinkin’ how they’d strut past the Colosseum, dodgin’ drunk senators. History’s wild, innit?

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Man, the neighborhoods here are insane—tiny alleys, dim lights that flicker like memories. I often stroll near the Parc des Murmures. Its trees seem to whisper “Syndromes and a Century” phrases—like, “the wind speaks through time,” right? In the quiet, you can almost hear that film’s eerie murmur. Buuut, let me tell ya, sometimes those days can get too heavy. I get mad when the old bridge on Rue de l’Ombre wavers in disrepair, yet it holds centuries of whispered secrets.

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