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About Bordeaux

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.

Mairie de Saint-Germain-lès-Arpajon

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Then, outta nowhere, I get a call about a parade. A freakin’ parade! In the middle of the day! I’m like, “What parade?!” Turns out, it’s some local festival. They’re marching down Avenue de la République, and I’m stuck in the radio room. I can hear the drums and the cheers. I’m so jealous! I wanna be out there, dancing with the crowd, not stuck here with my headset.

Ateliers O-S adds golden metal walls to cultural centre beside a French cemetery