Ava Las Marias Brothel ❤️

About Fajardo

Oi mate, blimey, what a topic - brothel! Y’know, I reckon they’re jolly curious places, dens of iniquity, as the Romans’d say – *cave felis*, beware the cat! Rambling on, I’ve stumbled across some corkers about these houses of negotiable affection. Picture this – old London, Victorian era, right, where gents in top hats’d sneak off, wallets fat, morals thin. Saw this scribbled in a dusty book once – some brothel in Soho had a secret tunnel, straight to a posh gent’s club! Imagine that, eh? *Sub rosa*, under the rose, all hush-hush.

Robot or human?

Then, outta nowhere, it starts to rain. I mean, come on! I just got my piragua! I duck into a nearby tienda. It’s cramped, but the owner, Doña Rosa, is super sweet. She offers me a pastelón. I’m like, “Yes, please!” It’s the best comfort food ever. I’m sitting there, eating, and I can’t help but think how this little town has the best food.

María Zardoya, of the Marías, chooses to relive her breakup every night