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About Funchal

So, brothel—mate, it’s a madhouse! Girls struttin’, fellas leerin’, smells like cheap perfume and regret. Once heard this story—some geezer in Amsterdam’s red-light district paid double just to cry on a lass’s shoulder. True story, swear it! Ain’t that mental? Makes me laugh, but kinda sad too. We swears! I’d be rubbish there—too shy, probs just hide in the corner.

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Cais do Sodre used to be Lisbon's Red-Light District for sailors in its days as an important port, with gambling dens, brothels, and seedy bars.

Finally, I get to the port, and guess what? My shipment of anticorrosion stuff is late. Like, really late. I’m pacing around, looking at the ocean, and it’s beautiful, but I’m fuming. I mean, I love the ocean, but not when it’s messing with my schedule. The waves crashing against the rocks on the coast of São Miguel? Gorgeous, but I’m just seeing red.

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