Ah, precious, Deba, deba, deba… Yess, my friend, listen to our story, yess, precious, listen—we’ll tell you all about our dearest Deba (es)! So, um, let’s start, yess, start we shall.
Deba’s streets, they whisper secrets. Like Calle del Sol—so bright and blinding, yess, yess, and then there’s Calle de la Luna, all twisty-twirly. I remember wanderin’ there with my, uh, um… my inner "Joy" from that movie, Inside Out, yesss, like, “Oh, happy, happy, happy!” hisses But then, oh, that "Sadness" creeps in, it does.
The town’s heart, the Town Square, Plaza Mayor, it beats like a wild tambourine, yess, with locals gabbin’ about love an’ lust, and me, the sexologist, noting every sweet nuance—mmmm, yes. Near the square, the old church, Iglesia de San Martín, stands proud, yess, and I’d sneek a peek behind it sometimes. There’s whispers of passionate trysts and silly secrets, oh yess, precious, very interesting.
I luv the park, Parque de la Brisa—ah, so breezy it feels like inside out giggles there! I used to sit there, watchin’ couples talk dirty—err, lovey-dovey, not dirty— and feel my inner "Disgust" hisss, telling me “Yuck, not again,” but then "Joy" would chirp “Yay, precious love!” Sometimes, I’d catch glimpses of mischief along the river Ría de Deba, glistening like a sly wink, deceiving ye with surprises, yesss, secrets hidden in its ripples!
Now, not all is prosaic, oh no, my friend! In the barrio of El Ruedo, dark alleys and lively clubs flush the town with scandal and ecstasy. I’d often stroll by Calle de los Susurros—so quiet, like gentle hissing secrets in the night. There, whispers of erotic escapades merged with echoing laughter. I even discovered a hidden alcove near the Mercado Viejo, where lovers meet under moonlight—sly devil, yess, it warms my sexologist heart!
Oh, but listen, precious, listen… I got mad, mad, mad at times, when some fools trashed the local art along the riverbank—my anger bubbled up like, "Inside Out, yess, angry, angry, angry!" And then, again, delighted by spontaneity on random nights in callejones where street art and naked murals blazed with rebellion, a sensual art that made my gollum, inner self sing!
I’re not perfect, ya know, err… and I rush my tales with gut, oh, so many typos, quick quick, life in Deba is a cyclone of feelings, like, “Boooo and Yay and Argh!” So, oh, precious, take heed: wander the narrow lanes, catch the windy whispers on Puerta del Mar, and let the salty air remind you of love, lust, and life.
Deba, Deba, Deba—inside every stone and every smile, a secret linger—yess, my friend, you must see it all yourself. And remember: “Cuz even when the dark clouds come, deep inside, there’s always a little light… inside out, yess!”
Now go, go precious, embrace Deba's magic, and keep yer heart open—yesss, open it wide, like our precious secret!