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About Reykjavik

Hey, pal, so findin’ a prostitute, huh? I’m Tina Fey, snarky as hell, “I can see Russia from my house!” vibes. Lemme tell ya, it’s a trip—like somethin’ outta *25th Hour*, Spike Lee’s gritty masterpiece. Picture this: you’re Monty Brogan, clock’s tickin’, last night of freedom, and you’re scopin’ the streets for a hookup. Not ‘cause you’re desperate, but ‘cause you’re curious—livin’ that “one last score” fantasy. I mean, who hasn’t wondered, right?

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Next, I wander down to the East Iceland Heritage Museum. I’m all about that local history, you know? I’m checking out the exhibits, and there’s this one about the fishing industry. I’m like, “Wow, these folks really knew how to catch fish.” But then, I see a display about the infamous Egilsstadir fish market. Apparently, it was a big deal back in the day. I’m thinking, “I’d rather be at a fish market than stuck in a boring meeting.”

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