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I spot her, thou see—red lips like a gash’d rose, legs long as a tax form. “What price thy company, wench?” I blurt, all Shakespearean, thinkin’ I’m clever. She laughs—bloody hell, mate, she laughs! “Twenty quid, ya posh twat,” she says, and I’m proper gobsmacked. Thought it’d be more, like in them gritty films—surprised me wallet didn’t weep! “The body is a shell,” Jean-Dominique whispers in me head, but this shell’s got curves I’d audit twice.

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I ain't sugarcoatin' it: this city is worse than a sandstorm if you're not ready for its wild, unpredictable energy. But damn, it's lively! So, if you're comin' to visit, strap in, grab a coffee at that funky café on Plaça dels Poetes, and experience it raw – no filters. Like Mad Max himself would say, "We are the warriors, and this is our road!" And trust me, you'll get a kick out of every single absurd, beautiful moment.

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