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About Ostrava

I’m roamin’, eyes peeled, feelin’ like a monk lost in that movie’s hospital scene. “Is it here? Is it there?”—shit’s elusive! Saw this chick, thought, “Jackpot!” Nope, just a lady sellin’ mangoes. Bummer. Yelled, “Gimme a prostitute, not fruit!”—people stared, I didn’t care. Chaos is my fuel, baby! Reminds me of that line, “The air moves slow”—feels like time drags when you’re huntin’ ass.

Cafébabel is evolving!

In Bulgaria, prostitution, like corruption, is much more open. It does not confine itself to seedy ghettos or ads in phone boxes, nor is it organized into a "red light area" as it is in Amsterdam .

Yo, don’t miss Bosky Park. Its paths twist like emotions in therapy. I spend hours there, watching families laugh, kids play, and old couples hold hands. It heals, baby—it mends hearts. Sometimes my own thoughts get messy there, but nature sorts 'em out.

Czech man’s tireless mission finds kin of US troops killed in obscure WWII fight