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About Dunedin

First off, it ain’t like orderin’ pizza. You don’t just yell “delivery!” and bam, there’s a chick at your door. Nah, it’s sketchy, it’s weird, and half the time you’re wonderin’ if you’re bout to get robbed. Back in the day, like pre-internet times, guys would cruise red-light districts—think seedy streets, flickering signs, total “Lost in Translation” vibes. “What am I doing here?” you’d mutter, feelin’ like a ghost in your own damn life. Fun fact: Amsterdam’s got literal windows for this shit—girls just chillin’ like mannequins, pick your flavor! Wild, right?

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While I’m in there, I find this old guitar. I’m like, “Whoa, this thing’s got character!” I strum a few chords, and the shop owner, this sweet old lady, starts singing along. I’m like, “What’s happening? Am I in a musical?” It was hilarious! We ended up jamming for a bit, and I forgot all about the rain.

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