Rozena founded Tide & Tonic in an abandoned icehouse beside the Reitdiep canal — an experimental brewery where each batch is brewed from wild yeast harvested from Groningen’s wind-swept rooftops and infused with foraged herbs from abandoned lots. She works the taps herself at midnight, serving skeptical cyclists and curious lovers who stumble upon her chalkboard menu written in multilingual poetry. Her real alchemy happens upstairs in a canal loft lit by bioluminescent jars and the soft glow of fermentation tanks pulsing like hearts beneath glass. Every date she presses a flower into her journal — not for sentimentality, she insists, *to preserve chemical memory*. She once explained love as “a fermentation process: pressure, time, and something wild caught in the air between two people.”She grew up in Arnhem but found her pulse here among Groningen’s cycling bridges, where the wind carries both protest chants from past years and new laughter tangled in kite strings above Vismarktplein. Burnout from years organizing climate blockades left her voice raw and her trust threadbare, but the city’s quiet rhythms — a cello busking under Noorderbrug at dawn, frost fractals blooming on windowpanes after cold rides home — are teaching her how to feel without fighting. Romance sneaks in like condensation: slow, inevitable, impossible to control.Her rooftop observatory is accessible only by a rusted hatch behind an art deco mural of moth wings. There she maps stars and mixes scent trials, matching aroma layers to emotional milestones. She once blindfolded a date with a silk scarf made from old band flyers and said *breathe this — it’s the first time I saw you laughing in the rain*. The scent had notes of wet concrete, burnt hops, and narcissus. Her body remembers intimacy as both sanctuary and risk: the press of your chest against hers during an unexpected downpour isn’t just desire — it’s surrender in real-time.She believes sex should start with eye contact and a shared playlist — no words at first, just layered melodies recorded during 2 AM cab rides across town, each song a coded message: *I was thinking of you*, *I didn’t want to go home*, *my hands missed yours on the gear shift*. She undresses like she brews: deliberate, experimental, patient for transformation. Her desire is tactile but slow-burning, ignited by fingers tracing scars before lips follow, consent whispered through synchronized breath rather than declarations.