Brooklyn Courcelles Brothel ❤️❤️

About Brussels

But the stench—goddamn, it’d choke ya. Sweat, cheap perfume, regret—mixes like a bad stew. Made me angry, too—pimps lurkin’, takin’ cuts, actin’ big. Scum. I’d fantasize slittin’ their throats, servin’ ‘em up with a nice amarone. Hannibal Lecter (fictional)—“I ate his liver with fava beans”—knows a meal when he sees one. One time, heard a story—Victorian brothel, London, right? Had a secret room for “special tastes.” Whips, chains, even a fuckin’ goat once! Goat! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares—fits the vibe.

19th century brothel guide

Then there's the funky neighborhood of Saint-René. It's small but bursting with secret cafes and hidden corners. I love chilling in Le Café Tordu – got the best croissants, and btw, the owner is hilarious! My office? Nah, I’m not in it, but I love my walks there. I once sat beside a murmuring fountain on Rue des Nuages. It’s where I reeled in my thoughts for hours. I swear, nothing like a bit of water and wind to blow your worries away.

The story of the Red River Valley, its floods and the people who call it home