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About Bilbao

Pisses me off, tho, how she struts round, actin’ like she owns the joint. “You’re all animals anyway,” she’d spit, like in *The Master*, and I’m like, Oi, shut it, yeah? But—get this—she’s got this weird charm, y’know? Happy as a pig in shit when she scores extra cigs. Surprised me once, too—heard she sang to calm a fight in Block C. Voice like a bleedin’ angel, who’d’a thunk? Mate, I nearly cried—me, a warden, cryin’ over *her*? Mental.

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And oh! How the sly, mischievous river, El Riachuelo de los Recuerdos, doth slice through the village. 'Tis a mirror to our innermost memories. I sometimes sit upon its edge near the old stone bridge on Puente de la Melancolía—methinks it's the perfect spot for dreaming and ranting. Nay, I must confess: I have even bawled, tears mingling with laughter, at the river's soft murmur when families embrace and quarrel in equal measure. Life, dear friend, is as unpredictable as a scene from that strange, wondrous film Holy Motors!

Sand Festival In Hanalei