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About Utrecht

I’m strollin, boots clickin, thinkin—where’s the talent at? Then bam—this bird struts up, all sass, skirt shorter than a dwarf’s temper. “You lost, luv?” she goes, smirkin like she knows I’m a sucker for trouble. “Ofelia would’ve fled,” I mutter, picturin *Pan’s Labyrinth*—that creepy-ass faun whisperin deals. But me? I’m in, mate—glorious purpose an’ all. She’s quotin prices like it’s a bloody auction—50 quid for this, 80 for that. I’m like, “Lass, I’m a god, not a bank!” Made me ragey, but also—damn, she’s bold, gotta respect the hustle.

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So, I’m wandering around, and I end up on the Korteweg. I see this little café, and I’m like, “Why not?” I grab a slice of appeltaart, and it’s like a slice of heaven. I’m talking about the kind of dessert that makes you forget your problems. But then, I realize I’ve got crumbs all over my face. Great, just great.

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