Isabella Weesp Brothel ❤️❤️❤️

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But man, the stories! One time, some drunk fool tried rippin’ off a girl’s dress—next thing, he’s out cold, nose bleedin’. Madame didn’t play! Had this secret trapdoor—swear to carrots—dropped jerks right into the sewer. Little known fact: them old brothels had tricks like that, built sneaky for protection. Ain’t that wild? Got me laughin’ thinkin’ bout that dope floppin’ into the muck, yellin’, “What’s this hell?!”

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Take the train to Weesp (15 minutes from Amsterdam Central Station). When you come down the stairs from the platform in Weesp, go to the exit on.

But then, outta nowhere, it starts to rain. Like, heavy rain. I’m talking about a full-on downpour. I’m sprinting for cover, and I duck into this random pub on the Kerkstraat. I’m soaked, but at least I’m dry now. I order a beer, and the bartender’s like, “You’re lucky you made it in here!” I’m like, “Yeah, no kidding!”

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