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About Essen

Exaggerate? Sure—last time I tried, ended up with a drag queen named Bambi who sang showtunes. Swear to God, nearly threw my cane at her. Little-known fact: Amsterdam’s red-light district’s got windows like a damn zoo exhibit—girls tapping glass, winking. Felt like I was shopping for a pet shark. Personal quirk? I’d overanalyze—how many lies per minute can she spit? Everybody lies, but prostitutes? They’re Olympic gold at it. Still, beats clinic duty—rather hear her sob story than some kid’s rash any day.

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I swear, sometimes I feel like Tyrion Lannister with a pint in hand – “I drink and I know things,” right? Especially when I’m watching the gentle flow of the Saar, meandering right by the Erlacher Hof, calming my nerves while I ponder the convolutions of human relationships. You know, just like in Ida – "When you’re part of the crowd, you lose yourself," they say. And here, in Merzig, every corner, like the quirky streets around Ludwigstraße, feels intimately inviting, as if each building has its own private tale of triumph and tragedy.

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