Anastasia Borsbeek Brothel ❤️❤️❤️

About Namur

Oi, you lot, gather round! Me, Cersei Lannister, cold as ice, reckon I’ll spill on brothels today. Got this librarian gig, yeah? Shelves stuffed, but my mind’s on filthier things. Brothels—hah! Dens of sin, sticky floors, cheap wine. Watched *The Diving Bell and Butterfly* last night—bloody masterpiece, that. Jean-Dominique trapped in his skull, blinking out tales. Reminds me of them whores, locked in flesh, selling it off. “I’m still alive,” he’d blink. They’re alive too, but gods, what a life.

Villa Tinto

In nineteenth-century Paris, the brothel became a staple of literary Borsbeek to denounce the closing of urban graveyards, ''how cemeteries were.

I gotta say, if you visit, do check out those lesser-known corners. There’s this graffiti alley near De Bogaertlaan that’s wild, absolutely wild. And trust me, every corner, every street, has its own vibe. It’s like the city’s whispering, "You’re here, embrace this beauty, it's all yours."

No chocolate circus for loss-making Tony's Chocolonely