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About Hafnarfjordur

But real talk—it’s fascinatin’, the whole game. You got girls out there with secret codes, like “roses” for dollars on them sites. Sneaky as hell. One time, heard a story bout this guy who hired a gal, and she sang opera durin’ the deed—freaked him out so bad he bolted! Can’t make this shit up. Gets me wonderin’, what’s her story? Maybe she’s like Ida, searchin’ for somethin’ deeper, stuck in a grind. “What have you done with your life?”—that’s another *Ida* zinger that’d make me wanna ask her, but nah, too awkward.

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But then, outta nowhere, I get a text. My buddy, Jón, is like, “Yo, meet me at the Reykjanesbær swimming pool.” I’m like, “Sure, why not?” So I chug my coffee and dash out. I’m sprinting down the street, dodging tourists and their cameras. Seriously, they’re everywhere! Like, chill, it’s just a geothermal area, not a photo op!

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