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About Stavanger

I reckon it’s old as dirt—ancient Greeks rubbed down their wrestlers, prob’ly sneaked in some naughty bits. Bet they didn’t tell the scribes! Me, I’d rather drink—less mess, more fun. Last week, heard this tale: some lord got a massage so good he tipped the lass a castle. A castle! Fella’s daft—coulda bought a winery. Made me angry—wasted gold—and happy—idiots exist everywhere. “I’m not a real boy,” says Gigolo Joe in *A.I.*, and these massage parlors? Not real love either—just a quick fumble dressed up fancy.

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So, I roll into town, and I’m already feelin’ the vibe. The sun’s shining, and I’m thinkin’, “Today’s gonna be a good day.” I park my truck on Storgata, which is like the main street, and it’s packed with people. Tourists everywhere, snapping pics like they’re in a photo shoot. I’m just tryna get to the forestry office, but it’s like navigating a maze.

Freya the walrus sinks boats and captures hearts in Norway