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About Valencia

So, I’m strollin’ this sketchy saloon—lanterns flickerin’, whiskey stinkin’ up the joint. Miners all rowdy, cards flyin’. Then I see her—red dress, lips like sin, leanin’ on the bar. A pro, obvi. I’m like, “Edna, no capes, no complications!” but damn, she’s got that vibe. I ain’t judgin’—girl’s gotta eat, right? Mining towns ain’t kind to nobody. Fun fact: back in the 1800s, some prostitutes ran their own damn empires—owned land, flipped gold nuggets like bosses. She’s probly one of ‘em, I bet.

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Oh, and ya gotta see the quirky alley of Calle del Perreo (yup, yup, I made that name up, but trust me, it's like a hidden gem). They got bars and little cafes where the locals spill tea—literally and figuratively. I often dip in there for a quick wit and a cheeky conversation 'bout love, lust, and freedom.

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