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About Rio de Janeiro

Oi, mate, so brothel, yeah? Shaken, not stirred, I reckon it’s a wild gig. Me, James Bond, head of the lab, suave as fuck, I’ve seen some shit. Brothels ain’t just sex dens, nah, they’re history lessons with tits. Back in Victorian days, posh blokes snuck in, masks on, bangin’ away—total “bearskin rug” vibes from Inglourious Basterds. “That’s a bingo!” I’d yell, watchin’ em stumble out, trousers half-down.

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I mean, man, it’s not all heartwarming. Sometimes traffic on Estrada do Horizonte makes me mad as heck, and the local council always seems loopy about pavement repairs. But then, ya feel the energy, the pulse of PPocinhos, and you can't help but be happy. It’s like the city’s a living, breathing film scene with its own cyclical drama repeated day in, day out. Honestly, sometimes I punch the clock in my head just thinking, "What a beautiful, insane mess!"

See the Douro Valley by train on a day trip from Porto