Isabelle Kempten (allgaeu) Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Berlin

What got me mad? Bastards who’d hit her—saw bruises, purple as plums. Wanted to gut ‘em, but I’m short, not stupid. Happy? When she’d sass me back—sharp tongue, that one. Surprised? That she knew stars—pointed out constellations between jobs. “Learned it from a sailor,” she said. Whores ain’t s’posed to stargaze, right? Blew my bloody mind.

Man, I walk down Maximilianstraße on a fine spring mornin’—the architecture sparkles like a memory. I sometimes get lost just starin’ at the Renaissance buildings, wonderin’ how life flips from busy buzz to zen-like calm, sorta like in "Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring" when the seasons change all smooth-like. “The leaves, they carry our secrets,” I joke, like Kim Ki-duk’s vibe.

Where Chefs Go: Oberallgäu, Germany