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About Funchal

So, brothels—whoo boy, where to start? Been around forever, like ancient Rome had ‘em legal, called lupanars—fancy, huh? Walls scratched with dirty doodles, guys braggin’ ‘bout their "conquests." Ain’t that a hoot? Git-r-done! I reckon some fellas still think they’re Casanova strollin’ in. Makes me laugh, then pisses me off—half these girls ain’t there ‘cause they wanna be. Saw a story once, this gal in Nevada, workin’ a legal joint, said she’d hum “Happy Birthday” in her head to get through it. Damn, that stuck with me—kinda like Tyrone shootin’ up, tryna escape.

Zara…HERE NOW!

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Then, outta nowhere, I see this old man selling handmade trinkets. His stuff is legit! I’m talking about wooden carvings and little pottery pieces. I’m drawn in, and we start chatting. He tells me about Tavarede’s history, how it used to be a quiet fishing village. I’m all ears. It’s fascinating!