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About Groningen

I’m pissed tho—too many fakes. Dudes pretendin to pimp, wastin my time. “Who are these idiots?” I mutter. Last week, nearly punched one—skinny rat, smelled like vodka and lies. But then—boom—found a gem. Quiet type, eyes like steel. “You’re not here to talk,” she says. Smart. I like that. Paid her quick, no fuss. “The world’s a machine,” I think—straight from Béla Tarr’s gloom.

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Then, we decide to grab some lunch. We hit up this food truck on the corner of the Selwerderweg. They’ve got these crazy fries with all the toppings. I’m talkin’ mayo, onions, the works. I’m munchin’ away, and Joris is telling me about his latest Tinder disaster. Classic Joris, right?

The first female pallbearers