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About Bordeaux

The hands, Clarice… they glide, they press, they *know*. Like Béla Tarr’s long-ass shots, it drags on, builds somethin heavy. “What’s concealed is revealed,” like the movie says—every knot in my back? Gone. Every dirty thought? Amplified, ha! I’m lyin there, half-naked, oil drippin, and it’s funny—ya feel like a king and a perv at the same time. Pro tip: don’t go to them sketchy joints—neon signs screamin “massage”? Bullshit, that’s a trap. Find a real pro, someone who ain’t rushin ya out the door.

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But then, BAM! I step outside, and it’s like the universe decided to throw a curveball. I’m walking down Rue des Écoles, minding my own business, when I see this dude trying to parallel park. And I’m talking about a serious disaster. He’s in a tiny car, and it’s like watching a cat trying to fit into a shoebox. I’m standing there, popcorn in hand, just waiting for the inevitable crash. Spoiler: it didn’t happen, but I was ready to cheer or boo, depending on how it went down.

Early end to Dauphine for Andy Schleck