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About Berlin

Pisses me off though—some dodgy parlors rip ya off. Greasy geezer last month charged me double, muttering “special service.” Special my arse—left me skint and cranky. Shaken, not stirred, I was fuming! But when it’s good? Oh, mate, it’s like Juliette Binoche in that movie—mysterious, smooth, leaves ya guessing. “What is it about her?” I mutter, mid-massage, as some bird’s hands work magic. Surprised me how bloody proper some places are—clean towels, no funny business unless you ask. One time, this Swedish chick hummed opera—felt like a king, not a spy.

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There’s loads more, friend, like the abandoned watermill on Kirchweg—an offbeat beauty, almost haunted, but in a good way. My mind spins reminiscences of code and friendships, “It’s not about how many lines you write, it’s the connections you make,” ohhh, precious, see?

The German students in the Kurdish armed movement