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About Munich

What gets me goin’? The buzz, the chaos—happy as a pig in muck when I’m dodgin’ some pimp’s glare. But the sleaze? Nah, that pisses me off. Grubby hands, fake smiles—makes me wanna clock someone. Surprised me once, though—this one bird in Paris, classy as hell, spoke four languages, ran the show like M runnin’ MI6. “Nature’s got nothin’ on this,” I thought, echoin’ Monty’s rant about life screwin’ ya.

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The city's got its patches—you got your old town around Marktstraße, where the ancient church stands like a sore thumb in the middle of modern bullshit. I often walk by Schloss Mechernich on the outskirts. That castle? It’s all moss and history. I frequent the little park near the Rur river. The river's a snarl of water if you ask me, but sometimes I sit there at dusk for a few minutes. It’s like the calm in the storm of my everyday life.

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