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About Ghent

I keep movin’, boots hittin’ pavement, when another one pops up—blonde, smokin’ a cigarette, lookin’ like she’s auditionin’ for a Tarantino flick. “You look lonely, sugar,” she says. Lonely? I’m happier than a pig in mud alone, ya harpy. “I’m gonna scalp ya if ya don’t scram,” I mutter, channelin’ Aldo. She blinks, confused. Good. Hate when they don’t get it. Did ya know, in old France, they branded prostitutes with a fleur-de-lis? Marked ‘em like cattle. Brutal, but kinda badass.

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Oudenaarde got that magic, baby. Every crumbling wall, every park bench speaks its own story. I mean, I'm just a pleasure coach who sees beauty in the tiniest shadows and forgotten nooks. Remember that feeling of connection in "Her," when every moment's like a soft confession? Whoa, that's this place.

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