Lonely Planet og Reykjavík
Þegar maður hefur ekkert að segja er allt eins gott að birta eitthvað eftir einhvern annan. Lonely Planet eru virtar og góðar ferðabækur, ég hafði eina slíka um hönd þegar ég fór um Túnis í sumar sem leið og varð hafsjór af upplýsingum um landið, byggingu þess, stjórnarfar, menningu og atvinnulíf fyrir vikið. Ég fékk dýpri skilning fyrir vikið og ferðin um Túnis fékk betri merkingu. Ekki var verra ég hafði eitthvað að segja þegar ég opnaði þverrifuna og gat talað meira og besservissað.
En Lonenly Planet bókaflokkurinn er með heimasíðu - lonelyplanet.com. Ég fór þangað og grein um Reykjavík. Hér fyrir neðan er greinin birt án þess að spyrja kóng né prest. Njótið.
Breaking the Ice in Reykjavik
There were a few men with beards and jumpers on board with me as the old Fokker headed for Iceland – further north than I’d ever contemplated travelling. Beyond glaciers, volcanoes, geysers and a possible glimpse of Björk, I had no idea what to expect. According to a passably upright drunken friend I’d spoken to the night before, Iceland had been so named to discourage a Viking invasion. The Icelanders pointed out to their would-be aggressors that further north lay a place with such a hospitable climate it was called Greenland – a much better holiday destination for Norsemen on R&R.
Anar, my host, met me at the airport wearing a jumper and a beard. In an effort to make me feel welcome, he announced that he owned a pub and that draught Guinness had just arrived on the island. Being Irish, I took his gesture as a challenge to my authenticity and, determined to not let my country down, insisted on going there to wrap myself in the glory of Ireland’s drinking prowess. Where better than a pub, I figured, to gauge the mood of a nation?
"You know," he said, shepherding me to a corner of his unremarkable pub, "we have always had an affinity with the Irish; we regard you as our closest relations."
"Why’s that?" I asked. "Is it because of the typo in the Viking secretarial pool which led to Ireland being invaded instead of you?"
"No," he said with a baffled look, "because we hate everyone else."
I must say, I felt jolly proud.
Anar and I sat for hours deep in cultural exchange (well, I tried the local beer) until the bar became uncomfortably crowded. The locals seemed to be taking turns bumping into me, despite the fact that the pub was half empty. Perhaps jostling one another was a traditional Icelandic greeting.
"Has a volcano erupted?" I asked Anar.
"There’s no problem: you’re in the way and they’re getting past you, there’s no aggression. What’s that phrase you use? Get the drinks in."
He later explained that there were no Icelandic words equivalent to ‘please’ or ‘thank you’. "It’s just the way it is. We’re not unfriendly, but those words aren’t necessary."
Waiting at the bar for ten minutes fending off blows and being ignored by the bar staff convinced me that I’d have to lose my namby-pamby good manners, sharpen my elbows and get stuck in. Springing from the shackles of my correctness, I stepped forward and bellowed, "Can I have a drink please?" Success, I gleamed, as an ornately tattooed and stunningly attractive barmaid approached. "Wait your turn," she said as another woman spun me around with an elbow to my ribs. Anar laughed and waved his empty glass – he’d seen it all before.
Several stages of merriment later, I tried to make conversation at the bar. "I hear they test lunar vehicles here because it has the same surface as the moon," I said to a man whose eye I had momentarily caught. He sneered and walked away. "So, Iceland is the only member of NATO that doesn’t have an army?" I asked, trying to tease a woman into conversation before she scurried off. Finally, I approached a man at the bar "Can you tell me where the toilet is, please?" which, judging from his reaction, translates in Icelandic as, "Do you want to come back to my hotel room for a game of Twister?"
"You said they all spoke English," I chided Anar.
"They do, but we don’t care much for small talk. We are the most widely read and written country in the world, and summer is short – we don’t go much for small talk."
I even tried flirting with the goddess behind the bar but she was as cold as, er, ice. I came back to the table grumbling about glacial moraine, and Anar said, "She gave you your drink, what more do you want?"
I chatted with Anar for what seemed like the whole night but it was still light outside. Surely I’ve set some kind of drinking record, I marvelled to myself, as Anar announced that the pub was closing. "Huh?" Through the haze of my insobriety, it dawned on me that there would be no dusk. Apparently the sun had dipped below the horizon just after midnight but I hadn’t even noticed a flicker. I stood on the street, staring incredulously at the painted sky, missing my protective companion, the night.
"You look pale," said Anar. "Are you okay?"
"Mmm, I’m just not used to being so drunk during the day."
"Maybe you should go to your hotel. You look so pale that small animals might think you are the moon and hibernate."
Suddenly it seemed like the entire juvenile population of Reykjavík had taken to the streets in a mangled, effervescent, explosive mass of drunkeness. "We’ll find a party," said Anar leaving me in the melée.
I leaned against a wall and watched the Festival of Insomnia – thousands of people unable to sleep with the incessant banner of daylight, waiting for someone to announce, "I’ve got heavy curtains, party at my house!" In the meantime, to the crack of excited chatter and breaking glass, men stalked each other like fighting cocks and occasionally violent scuffles erupted to which nobody but the protagonists took notice.
We eventually found a party where I was pushed by men with jumpers and beards for a couple of hours. Finally, somebody was moved to talk to the pale stranger and soon I was the VIP everyone just had to entertain. The people I met here looked after me for the rest of my stay, and proved to be terrific company; full of vitality, jagged wit, and a stimulating depth and sincerity. One of them even loaned me his jumper.
I realised then that Icelanders reflect the environment they live in: seemingly harsh and uninviting, and in the case of some of the drunks outside the bar, boiling, spluttering and spewing. But once you get used to the chill, you discover that the land and its people are pure, robust and gently inspiring.
Yrkisefni og ófremdarástand
Þegar á vef er skrifað þá finnst mér mest um vert að hafa yrkisefnið gott, hafa eitthvað að segja, lýsa einhverju, greina eitthvað.
Oft vill verða svo að fólk skrifar bara eitthvað, enda afstaða manna til netspistla misjöfn, enda erindi manna eftir því. Netið er málpípa hjá sumum en næst því að vera sjálfsframlenging hjá sumum.
Nú er ófremdarástand í vefheimum því naggurinn liggur niðri. Egill á skilið hrós fyrir sína vinnu og miklu meira en það. Vona að þetta lagist sem fyrst.
VR - er þetta ekki að verða gott
Það sem brýtur þig ekki, það herðir þig. Það hlýtur að vera þannig. Ég var á spjalli við félaga um helgina og við urðum ásáttir á að svo væri. Talandi um rétta slóðan, hvort sem hann er vandfundinn eða fyrir augum okkar þá rúllar þetta allt áfram sem þéttur straumur.
En munum það að gefa okkur á tal við fjallagarpana sem er á leið niður af tindinum þegar við eru á uppleið og höfum það einnig hugfast að gefa þeim tíma sem eru á uppleið þegar við höldum niður á við.
Maður fer sennilegast á einhverja vistunarstofnun einhvern tíman svo það er gott að hafa þetta bakvið eyrað.
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