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About Antwerp

So, picture this: a whore, right? Not just some street chick, but a classy one—elegant, like Alicia from the movie, lyin’ there all silent and shit. “She doesn’t talk back!”—that’s what Benigno would say, fuckin’ creep. But real talk, whores got stories, man. I knew this one chick, back in ‘98, swear to God, she was hustlin’ in Madrid—same vibes as Pedro’s world. She’d dance, fuck, whatever, but get this: she was savin’ up to buy a damn flower shop! A flower shop, motherfucker! Who knew whores had dreams like that? Blew my damn mind.

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I could go on – every street has its tale. Zolderstraat’s quaint cafes? More like back alley meets modern art. And some days, walking through Boutersem, I get hit with that eerie vibe like in Caché – “Sometimes, hidden things always reveal themselves.” It’s as if every corner has a secret, or you’re just paranoid as hell. My spa is my safe space where I can laugh at it all.

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