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About Cologne

So, picture this—imagine me, kimono and all, tryna figure out where you even *find* a prostitute these days. Back in the day, samurai’d just stumble into some shady teahouse, and bam—there’s your girl! Little known fact: them old Geishas, they weren’t even prostitutes, nah, people just assumed. Drives me nuts! All that makeup, the grace—total misunderstanding! Makes me wanna scream, “I’m not that kinda girl!” But then I’m like, okay, chill, Larry, let’s focus—findin’ a prostitute, modern style.

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Neighborhoods here are tight-knit. There’s Buchenviertel with its colorful street art and caffeine addicts hanging around the tiny café on Neuenweg. I swear sometimes I feel like I’m in a Haneke film – every corner hides a secret, every whisper sends chills down your spine. I remember one day — so many typos in my head! — I was in a rush, and oh boy, my laundry list of mistakes: wrng, smal, wndrful, freakin, amazin, kaching, borin, stunnin, bizzar, bamboozled. That’s Contwig for ya.

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