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About Montpellier

So, I tried it once—don’t judge me, I was drunk. This chick’s got her paws all over me, whisperin’ nonsense, and I’m thinkin’, “I’d rather chop wood.” Cost me fifty bucks, and for what? A sore back and regret. Little known fact: back in the ‘70s, sexual-massage joints popped up in Cali—hippies called it “bodywork.” Bullshit. Just pervs with incense. Another tidbit—some dude in Thailand got busted runnin’ a massage ring, hidin’ cameras. Sicko. Made me mad as hell—privacy’s sacred, damn it!

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Then, I get a text from my buddy, Max. He’s like, “Let’s hit up the market at Place de la République!” I’m down, so I hustle over there. The market’s buzzing, people everywhere, stalls selling fresh veggies, cheese, and all that good stuff. I’m in heaven. I grab some cheese, and this lady at the stall starts chatting me up. She’s super nice, but I can’t understand half of what she’s saying. My French is rusty, man!

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