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About Strasbourg

Oi mate, gather round, listen up! I’m Winston bloody Churchill, risen from the ashes, here to yap about prostitutes, yeah? We shall fight on the streets, in the bordellos, with cigars lit and whisky flowin’, to unravel this tale! Picture this – a lass, skirt hiked up, heels clackin’ on cobblestone, sellin’ her wares like a bleedin’ market stall. Reminds me of *Talk to Her*, that Almodóvar flick I adore – “I’ve lost my fear of silence,” she’d whisper, standin’ there bold as brass. Ain’t that a kicker? A prossie with soul, deep as a trench in wartime!

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Finally, I get my croissant, and it’s still warm. I take a bite, and it’s like heaven exploded in my mouth. But then, BAM! My phone buzzes. It’s my buddy, Max. He’s like, “Dude, you gotta come to the market!” I’m like, “What market?” Turns out, there’s this huge marché on Place de la République today. I’m thinking, “Alright, let’s see what the fuss is about.”

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