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About Rotterdam

I reckon you start online—X posts, coded ads. “Massage, wink wink”—fuckin obvious. Or hit the dives, smoky pubs where eyes linger too long. Reminds me, Clarice, of Mia’s mum screamin, “Get out, you little bitch!”—that chaos, that edge. You feel it when you’re close. Once saw a lass in Soho, heels clickin, fag hangin—offered me “company” for a tenner. Bargain, I thought—laughed my arse off. She glared, I bolted.

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Then, just when I think it’s winding down, a fight breaks out inside. I rush in, and it’s chaos. People are shouting, drinks are flying. I’m trying to separate these two guys, and one of ‘em shoves me. I’m like, “Dude, really? You wanna mess with me?” But I keep my cool. I’m not about to lose my job over some knuckleheads.

Einaudi surprises commuters with train station piano performance