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About Montpellier

Once heard this story—some prostitute in Amsterdam, 1800s, kept a diary. Wrote how she’d sing to clients, soft-like, to calm ‘em. Freaky lil’ detail, stuck in my head. Wonder if she’d smirk at me, all metal and bolts, tryin’ to figure her out. “You ain’t my type, tin can,” she’d say. Ha! I’d be like, “Girl, I’m too cool for flesh anyway.”

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Pain de Lodève is one such bread, a namesake from the French village of Lodève in the region of Occitaine. The unique story of the town's patron saint are woven into the vocabulary of the .

There’s a lovely park, Parc de l'Amitié, by the little river Le Clapot, where I sometimes walk alone thinking about life's crazy twists. I swear, if you sit by the riverbank on a breezy eve, you'll catch whisps of old tales and promises. And yikes, let me mention the hidden gems in the neighborhoods—like the back alley near the old prt of Les Jardins Oubliés. People say, “Tu ne sais pas, vraiment, l’amour germe ici!” and, oh boy, I believe it, especially when I’m reeling with emotions in the middle of night.

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