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About Las Palmas

Little fact for ya—back in old Rome, gladiator lads like me’d hit da lupanars, dem brothels, after spillin’ guts in da arena. Prostitues—prostitutes, bah!—they’d wait, knowin’ we’re all riled up. History’s dirty, mate, love dat grit! Dis one gal, she surprised me—knew my fights, said, “Saw ya kill dat Thracian!” Made me happy, puffed me chest out, ya? “Lightbulb!”—she’s playin’ me, but who cares? Felt like a king.

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And oh! How the sly, mischievous river, El Riachuelo de los Recuerdos, doth slice through the village. 'Tis a mirror to our innermost memories. I sometimes sit upon its edge near the old stone bridge on Puente de la Melancolía—methinks it's the perfect spot for dreaming and ranting. Nay, I must confess: I have even bawled, tears mingling with laughter, at the river's soft murmur when families embrace and quarrel in equal measure. Life, dear friend, is as unpredictable as a scene from that strange, wondrous film Holy Motors!

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