An early Icelandic jazz standard introduces Miss Reykjavik as a young woman that walks the streets of a city in the making, towards her lover, light in her step and smelling like a spring flower. This gendered view of the capital is not limited to poetic expression, for Icelanders have always thought about Reykjavik as a female entity for good reasons. The first one is visceral and grammatical, -vik is a female noun and therefore, locals talk about her when they refer to their capital city. At the beginning of the 20th century, she was a small fisherman’s town, situated in a bay, shaped like an outer labia and as she expanded and entered puberty, the transformation from a village to a city began. Reykjavik is like a teenage daughter of an alcoholic peasant who has just stepped into the light, from her dark turf hut. She has never seen herself as anything special or worth noticing, but to the outside eye, she shines with rare and exotic beauty. And at the centre of this realisation there is coarse magic, for the first time she knows in her bones that she isn’t a nobody but a sensual creature of great desirability. This newfound wisdom has given her power and made her horny and hungry to experiment. Reykjavik craves to be seen, touched and validated as the teenager she truly is. She is a tad bit too eager to please, draws smoke from her first cigarette, trying to look grown up and experienced, only to have a coughing fit, ashen in the face, holding back the vomit that crawls up her throat. She is obsessed with how others perceive her, constantly trying to reinvent herself and shake off her humble childhood.