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So, escorts—shoot, they’re like them gleaners, ain’t they? Makin’ somethin’ outta nothin’, turnin’ a dull night into a sparkly one. I reckon they’re part hustler, part angel—dependin’ on who’s payin’, ha! Back in my day, I knew this gal—let’s call her Ruby—down in Nashville. She was an escort, quiet-like, didn’t brag none. Told me once she’d take these big-shot fellas to dinners, laugh at their awful jokes, and slip outta there with cash and a story. Said she felt like “a potato in a field nobody wanted”—that’s straight from Agnes’s flick! Ruby’d glean them lonely souls, give ‘em a shine for a night. Made me happy, thinkin’ she turned scraps into gold.

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After my caffeine fix, I stroll down Skólavörðustígur. This street is a total gem. It leads right up to Hallgrímskirkja. That church is massive! I mean, it looks like a spaceship landed in the middle of the city. I’m standing there, taking pics, and this tourist asks me to take a photo of him. I’m like, “Sure, but only if you promise to look cool.” He totally didn’t.

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