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About Arbaer

So, this brothel—man, it’s a wild joint. Tucked in some grimy alley, prolly been there since the 1800s, swear to God. Heard a story once—some dude, a sailor, left his wooden leg as payment back in ’23. True shit! They still got it hangin’ on the wall, like a trophy. Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ ‘bout that poor bastard hoppin’ out, broke but satisfied. Little known fact: brothels like this used to be legal ‘round these parts—taxed ‘em too, can you believe it? Government was like, “Yeah, get that coin, ladies!”

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After class, I needed a breather. So, I hit up the local café on Aðalgata. Best coffee ever! I order a latte, and the barista, bless her heart, spills it all over the counter. I’m like, “Great, now I’m gonna smell like coffee for the rest of the day.” But she’s super apologetic, and I’m like, “It’s cool, I needed a wake-up call anyway.”

Pictures: Didn’t let the cold stop them