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About Barcelona

What pisses me off? When folks act all snooty bout it—like, “Ooh, it’s immoral!” Chill, Marge, it’s just a massage with extra pizzazz! I mean, I’d be happy as a pig in mud—warm hands, soft table, no kids screamin’. Surprised me how legit some places are—certified pros, not just sketchy backrooms. Thought in my head: “Homer, you dope, why ain’t you tried this yet?”

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Then there’s the Parque del Retiro – well, not that fancy one in Madrid, but our local little patch o’ green where you can meander. I often sit ‘neath a gnarled olive tree on Calle de la Paz, watchin’ life roll by slowly. I’d spill out counsel over coffee spilled on the cobblestones – messy, raw, and true. And, oh, the little river that winds near the outskirts, el Río de la Esperanza. Some call it a trickle, others swore it flows with memories; I swear it murmurs secrets if ye lean in close.

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