Rosa, De Pijp escortwith soul recordsand warm curls

Vinyl. Crates of it. Rosa can lose a whole Saturday in a record shop, flipping sleeves, pulling out soul pressings and obscure Brazilian jazz, holding one up to ask if you have heard it. You probably have not. By midnight you will want to. She is twenty-five, 160 cm, curvy, long curly chestnut brown hair, brown eyes, and a presence that is earthy in the best sense: grounded, warm, zero pretence. Easygoing enough that nothing about meeting her feels awkward for longer than about a minute. Tina digs through the same kind of crates, if you want to compare finds. Warmth is her default setting.

Her second love is baking. Sourdough, tarts, a cardamom bun she is secretly competitive about. It says a lot about her: patient, generous, happiest when other people are enjoying something she made. The third is galleries. Small ones, a single white room and an owner who wants to chat about the artist. She will drag you into one on the way to dinner and you will be glad she did. In English she is funny, curious and very easy to talk to. Her kitchen smells of butter and cinnamon most weekends. Name your favourite song and she will know the flip side.

Her style is relaxed boho elegance. Warm browns, paisley, a shell necklace, loose curls, a look that feels like a summer holiday even on a December night in the city. She lives in De Pijp, a few minutes from the Albert Cuyp and its Saturday crowds, and she knows every bakery on the way. Book Rosa for an easy, honest evening with good music on and good food nearby. The rates are simple, and so is she. Her company makes a hotel room feel like a friend's kitchen, music on, laughter easy. Good records, good bread, good people. That is the whole philosophy.

Rosa's evening has a soundtrack before it has a plan. She turns up with a record under one arm, a soul pressing she dug out that afternoon, and the first mission is a De Pijp bar that lets regulars request a side on the house turntable. Next comes a pop-up gallery, one white room, an artist keen to talk, and Rosa happy to let them. Dinner is simple and generous at a neighbourhood kitchen, bread judged before anything else, every dish passed across the table. She confesses the cardamom bun batch that went badly wrong last week. Later, a slow wander past Sarphatipark. The final hour is somewhere quiet with music low and the story of the strangest record she ever pulled from a bargain bin.