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About Marseille

Oh, and the smells—oil, sweat, maybe lavender if they’re fancy. Hits ya nose like a memory ya can’t place. I’m sittin’ there, thinkin’, “Hannibal, you sick bastard, why’s this so good?” Cuz it’s primal, Clarice—skin on skin, no bullshit. But don’t get it twisted—not all parlors are legit. Some are fronts—shady as hell, cops bustin’ in mid-rub. Saw it once, fuckin’ hilarious—dude in a towel sprintin’ down the street!

Massage à Saint-Maximin

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The park, oh! Parc de la Libération, is a downright treasure. I stroll there on lazy afternoons, cuppa coffee in hand (or tea – sigh, details, details) – watching kids scamper along the trails and old dogs doze off in the sun. Sometimes, I even smirk at the irony – a massage parlor owner finding serenity in a park, eh? It’s all a bit cosmic, like something from Margaret’s bittersweet dialogues… “There’s no way back,” I joke, but not really!

Aga Khan signs Co-operation agreement with France