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Oh, and the smells—oils, herbs, weirdly sexy, like sniffin’ the Fury Road dust. One time, this chick masseuse whispered some Russian poem—thought I’d died and gone to Valhalla, shiny and chrome! Funniest thing? Guy next room farted mid-session—D’oh!—ruined the vibe, had me crackin’ up like a hyena. Sarcasm aside, it’s pricey here—2000 rubles, what a rip! Still, worth it, beats vodka shots any day.

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So, I dash down to the nearest store on Storgatan. It’s a tiny place, but they usually have what I need. I’m sprinting, dodging cyclists and old folks. Seriously, they move like molasses! I finally get there, and the guy behind the counter is like, “Cinnamon? Nah, we ran out.” I’m like, “Dude, you’re killing me!”

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