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About Almada

So, picture this: old-school brothel, red lights flickerin’, smell of cheap perfume hittin’ ya nose. I’m talkin’ 1800s vibes—did ya know back then, some madams ran empires? Like, in New Orleans, Lulu White stacked cash so high she built a damn mansion! Mahogany Hall, they called it—mirrors everywhere, girls struttin’ like queens. Blows my mind, man. Power in a world that’d spit on ‘em otherwise. Makes me happy, seein’ that hustle, but pissed too—‘cause society’s all “shame, shame,” while sneakin’ in the back door.

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After that, I decide to hit up the market at Praça da República. You know, the one with all the fresh fruits and veggies? I’m walkin’ through, and I spot this massive pile of oranges. I’m like, “Yo, I could totally make some killer juice!” But then I remember I don’t have a juicer. Ugh! So I just grab a couple and head to the fish stall. The smell hits me like a brick wall. I’m not a fan of fish, but the guy behind the counter is super chill. He’s like, “Try this bacalhau, it’s the best!” I’m like, “Nah, I’ll pass. I’m more of a pizza warrior.”

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