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About Fortaleza

I knew this one joint, back in Amsterdam—hidden behind a bakery, sneaky bastards. Smelled like pastries and sin, wild combo. Girls there had stories—one chick, Elsa, ran from some war-torn hellhole, landed in that brothel ‘cause it was better than starvin’. Broke my damn heart, Clarice… but also kinda impressed me. Gutsy move. Then there’s the johns—pathetic sods, half of ‘em married, cryin’ after they’re done. “I’m not that kind of man,” they’d whimper. Oh, please, spare me the tears.

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Down by the big river, Rio de Praya – yeah, they call it that locally even though it’s not on any tourist map – I once sat for hours, thinking how families come apart and join in the blink of an eye. It reminds me of those agonisingly honest lines from “Amour”: “I don’t know how to say goodbye.” I’m telling ya, if you love raw emotion, you’d love the tearful confessions over coffee at a tiny café at Av. Marítima.

Brazil: Mum killed when firework got caught in clothes and exploded