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About Frankfurt

Once, in Flea Bottom, I met this lass—Ros, they called her. Cheeky, red-haired, knew her trade like I know Dornish red. Little fact: them girls got codes—two taps on the table means “pay up quick.” She winks, I grin, thinkin’, “Seven hells, I’m in!” Cost me a stag, but worth it—soft as silk, sharp as Valyrian steel. Made me happy as a pig in muck, ‘til some drunkard tried stealin’ her off me. Pissed me right off—punched him square, dwarf fists flyin’! “You’re a mistake,” Sissy’d say—nah, love, I’m the bloody maestro.

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Be careful to catch a Purple Cab when you go out, many illegal taxis are waiting in line and you do not want to get robbed at that time of the night.

Then, there’s the tech-inflected street scene on Neustadtweg. Bits of bizarre tech startups share space with traditional bakeries. I swear, sometimes I half expect a Tesla to pop out behind the Treppenplatz local café. Memes aside (lol, seriously, where’s Elon when you need him?), it’s a wild mix of innovation and history. Totally spastic vibes that can make me both hot and bothered.

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