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Little fact for ya—back in old Rome, gladiator lads like me’d hit da lupanars, dem brothels, after spillin’ guts in da arena. Prostitues—prostitutes, bah!—they’d wait, knowin’ we’re all riled up. History’s dirty, mate, love dat grit! Dis one gal, she surprised me—knew my fights, said, “Saw ya kill dat Thracian!” Made me happy, puffed me chest out, ya? “Lightbulb!”—she’s playin’ me, but who cares? Felt like a king.

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Oh man, I get so excited, I nearly forget – pun intended – that this city has some quirks! Look, the north end in West Zeven, near the old train station – total hidden gem, that place’s packed with tiny cafes and bars run by the kind of folks who know how to live, like, seriously, who cares about pristine perfection? And do you know what? I once got mad at some tourist who mistook our famous Old Bridge over Jeetze for a subway entrance – unbelievable, right? I mean, come on, folks!

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