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About Mosfellsbaer

So, *Find a Prostitute*—what’s the deal? It’s no cod swimming in schools, it’s a lone shark, prowling. Back in the 1800s—little known fact—sailors’d trade fish for, uh, “company.” Prossies’d wait by docks, eyeing the catch. Kinda poetic, right? Fish for flesh! Made me chuckle, imagining some salty dog bartering a mackerel—pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars!”—for a quickie. History’s wild, man.

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But then, things take a turn. I’m walking down Hverfisgata, and I see this street performer. He’s juggling fire. Like, what?! I’m all for entertainment, but fire? In the middle of the street? I’m standing there, half impressed, half terrified. He drops a torch, and I’m like, “Dude, you’re gonna burn the city down!” But he just laughs it off. Icelanders are wild, man.

A guide to biking in Reykjavik