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About Madrid

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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I love the Barrio de los Poetas too. Fewer crowds, deep history, ancient graffiti marking walls with wild tales. My heart still pounds remembering when I seen the mural on Calle del Poeta. It reminded me of Cronenberg’s darkest twists—raw and rough, man! “A History of Violence…” echoes in the back of me head as I walk these mysterious paths. Oh, and there’s always a strange hum in the air, like the city’s secret heartbeat. Ain’t that something?

“Portugal also produces garlic, but it is mainly produced by Spanish companies”