May 2008

We’ve just had an EARTHQUAKE!!!

I’d put it at around 5 on Richter. The whole house shook, cupboard doors opened, Polly the cockatiel flew up screeching, etc. I grabbed AAH and planted both of us in the doorway.

Gotta run. More later.

Once upon a time, the idea of a famous rock band playing in Niceland was about as far flung as Denise Richards’ wedding ring. Between, say, 1970 and 1990, you could basically count the number of famous acts that stopped here on the fingers of one hand. There was Led Zeppelin in 1972 and then there was Jethro Tull at one point, and Ella Fitzgerald, and that was about it.

Those were the days. Today you can’t seem to turn around without someone thrusting a concert in your face. Iceland, apparently, is the IT girl on the concert circuit. If it’s financially viable [a nation of 300,000 doesn’t exactly support stadium-sized spectacles] they’ll come and they’ll play.

Which obviously is a Very Good Thing. In the past we’d have to chase concerts to some country or another; now they come to us. Last week it was John Fogerty. Last Saturday it was Wayne Shorter. Last night it was Bob Dylan. In a couple of weeks it will be Paul Simon. And in a couple of months Eric Clapton. – I’ll say it again: we’re the size of a London suburb; we’re freaking Ealing. Can we support this kind of activity? ~ Apparently.

EPI went to see Dylan last night; admittedly at the last minute because he’s already spent a fair amount of dosh on concerts this summer and wasn’t sure he wanted to afford it. YT gave it a miss because I’m a not a huge Dylan fan [although I do know the lyrics of Like a Rolling Stone by heart, do not ask me how] but when EPI came home gushing about it I gave myself a couple swift kicks in the butt for not mustering up the pep to go. I have now decided to take my cue from EPI’s brother and sister-in-law, who are resolved to hit all the major concerts this summer – because when the circus comes to town, you should go.

Plus, just think of all the dosh I’ll save by not having to go to another country.

THE SUN STRUGGLED TODAY, REALLY STRUGGLED

… to get out from behind the clouds, but never really made it. Went out for a long walk at lunchtime with a friend and it kept threatening to shine the entire time. Meanwhile, it was pretty windy, but not cold, so bearable. Out by the golf course the arctic tern* is gearing up for nesting season [they fly halfway around the fricking globe to nest on a golf course, how misguided is that?] and it’s hard to know which is more life-threatening: getting walloped in the head by a golf ball or attacked by a tern. It’s currently 9°C [48F] and our sun came up at 3.35 am, went down at 11.16 pm.

* Factoid: In Icelandic the arctic tern is called kría, which is almost an exact replication of the sound they make when they’re attacking you. Kría is also an offhand term for a nap, don’t ask me why because I don’t know.

About 12 years ago, when I was just starting out as a freelance translator, I got a job translating a film script from Icelandic into English. It was written by a young up-and-coming filmmaker [who has since gone on to make a couple of attention-grabbing films] and the translation was commissioned by the Icelandic National Broadcasting Service. The script was to be entered into a pan-European scriptwriting competition held by the national broadcasting services of all European nations and it had to be in English. A couple of months later it was announced that this particular script had won the competition, which was a fairly big deal and got considerable press coverage. Nowhere, however, was there mention of a translator, or indeed, a translation.

I was kinda peeved about that. Not only had I given my best to the assignment, but having my name associated with a prize-winning script would have been really helpful to me at the time. I was new to the trade, assignments were not exactly coming in on a conveyor belt, and I was supporting a small child on my own. So I called up the Icelandic National Broadcasting Service to ask why my name as translator hadn’t been included – wasn’t it common practice to have a translator’s name associated with his or her work? The Director of Domestic programming, whom I was put through to, was extremely defensive, bordering on hostile. No, they did not see the point in mentioning the translator because it wasn’t about the translation, it was about the script. I started to protest, at which he cut me off with the immortal phrase: Þú ert bara þýðandi úti í bæ sem færð greitt fyrir þína vinnu. Which basically translates as: “You’re just some translator who has been paid for your work.” Ah. Thank you for clarifying that.

This incident came to mind last week when I attended the opening of an exhibition held in connection with the Reykjavík Arts Festival. The exhibition – and opening – was at one of Iceland’s most highly-regarded cultural institutions, and a rather lavish catalogue – a book, really – had been published to accompany the exhibition. YT had been commissioned to translate all the text in the book – a significant body of work.

At the opening, the director of this particular institution, who by virtue of her role is one of the main pillars of Icelandic culture, stood up to make a speech. She spoke briefly about the exhibition, then turned her attention to the book, remarking how proud of it she was [deservedly so] and enthusing about all the people involved in making it happen. She cited the names of all the artists featured in the book, the editor, the co-editor, the person who wrote the text, the person who wrote the introduction, and finally, the designer.

Not a word about the translator. This despite the fact that 100 percent of the text in the book was translated, the translation had taken several weeks to complete and had cost this particular institution hundreds of thousands of Icelandic kronur [ISK 100,000 = USD 1,400 / EUR 900]. The translator was a nonentity.

This is merely one example of many, many.

Let’s ponder for a moment what Icelandic society would be like if there were no translators. For one thing, instruction manuals, packaging and such would be in a language other than Icelandic. Seeing as how most consumer goods are imported, that might create a few problems. The vast majority of television programmes and movies would be incomprehensible to a large part of the population. Communication with exporters abroad would be difficult at best, so imports to this country would presumably be severely limited. Icelandic companies and insitutions would not easily be able to promote themselves overseas, so export revenues for this country would be neglible. Foreign cooperation in just about every sector – defense, education, economics, communications, health, culture, arts, science, judicial – would be extremely difficult, if not impossible. Icelandic writers and artists would not be able to promote their work outside of Iceland, and similarly Icelanders would not have the benefit of reading works from other cultures in their own language. The tourism sector would be set back by about a century.

In short, this country would regress back to the dark ages.

Most translators work independently and therefore we don’t have the resources to make our voice heard. But does that automatically mean that our work should be insivible? Or dismissed? Or not given the credit it deserves? I wonder if there will ever be an awakening concerning our important contribution to this society. Obviously things have clearly not changed much over the last 12 years, so alas, I am not very hopeful.

BLUSTERY BUT MILD OUT THERE
Overcast and it’s been threatening to rain, although I’ve yet to see a drop. Apparently we’re in the midst of an Icelandic-style heatwave, wOOt! Yesterday was heavenly, for example, and we wouldn’t mind a bit more sun later today or tomorrow. Right now we have 11°C [52F] with sunrise this morning at 3.38, sunset scheduled for 11.13 this evening.

OK, not that I give a crap [I don’t. really. No - REALLY] but I honestly could not BELIEVE what I was SEEING during the voting in the Eurovision Song Contest earlier tonight. The song I predicted would not get a single vote - nay, would get LESS than a single vote, would go home with a NEGATIVE vote, actually WON fricking Eurovision.

It was Russia. It was Russia with the most nauseatingly drippy song ever conceived. A song that, all the way through, when you thought it couldn’t possibly get any more sappy, it actually did. I first saw that song during the semi-finals last Thursday and EPI and I laughed ourselves silly; at that time I couldn’t believe that it actually made it through to the finals. So tonight, AAH and I were watching [smart EPI gave Eurovision a miss in favour of Wayne Shorter] and the song started, and AAH just kept going OH. MY. GOD. and YT just kept going: NO, WAIT FOR IT. JUST … WAIT FOR IT. And then we proceeded to roll around in absolute stitches. First at the fact that the guy was crouched down on the ground [so overcome with emotion] and singing barefoot. Second, when the violin player started madly going at it in the background, third when the main singer shimmied up to the violin player. The real clincher came, though, when the [male] figure skater appeared and started twirling pirouettes around the pair of them and when he dramatically turned his back and the singer touched him [lightly!] on the shoulder to make him start twirling again. [Seriously - you had to be there.] And finally when, during the climax [natch], the male singer tore open his shirt, exposing his bare, masculine [and immaculately waxed] chest. [Oh, right: *swoon*]. However, by the time the song finished and the three of them reached out their hands, on their knees, and crooned the word BELIEVE in absolute unison, we were no longer laughing. And that’s only because I never laugh at pornography, emotional or otherwise.

Anyway. If there ever was a case to prove that the Eurovision Song Contest has become a bastard of its former self, tonight was it. Because let’s face it: we just don’t get each other. Tonight’s emo porn was as far removed from me as Silvía Nótt’s outrageous antics were from southern and eastern Europe two years ago. It all sounds very good on paper, but Europe is no longer one big happy family fortified by the annual spectacle that is Eurovision. Which is why they should totally split the contest up into West and East Europe. Like, immediately.

That said, I must admit that I enjoyed the breadth in the different songs this time around - from heavy metal to Beyonce-Shakira clones, to performance art, to disco pop. OK, maybe splitting the contest up isn’t such a great idea. Maybe they could just outlaw anything that brings on an attack of nausea.

[Weather - see yesterday’s post from a few hours ago!]

Make no mistake: despite its many remarkable accomplishments, the Nicelandic nation is seriously afflicted with small-nation complex. And nowhere does this complex manifest as clearly as in its obsession with the Eurovision Song Contest.

For those who don’t know, Eurovision is a pan-European contest organized by the national broadcasting services in each of the nations, that has been running since the 1950s or thereabouts. The object is to choose the best originally composed and performed song. Whereas it started off with some semblance of dignity, today most people would agree that essentially a cheesy campfest of mediocre pop songs. It’s nonetheless become one of the most popular televised events of the year, probably second only to the Áramótaskaup – the annual parody of the year’s main news events that is broadcast on New Year’s Eve. It is during those two broadcasts that the streets of Reykjavík are virtually empty of people.

That is, of course, presuming that Iceland is taking part in Eurovision. Europe’s expansion over the past few years has necessitated a few changes to the contest, most notably in that there are now semi-finals preceding the finals, and this year, for the first time, there were two semi-finals. Also, in the past few years, the ‘new’ European nations have seemed as eager as the small-nation-complex nations to prove their worth on the European stage and have pulled out all the stops with their songs. There has been a great deal of disgruntlement around alleged rigged voting … the results are arrived at through televoting and certain ‘related’ nations [Greece and Cyprus, Germany and Turkey*, former Eastern Bloc nations, e.g.] tend to vote for each other, although whether this may be attributed to foul play or simply a similar taste in music remains undetermined.

The closest Iceland has come to winning the Eurovision Song Contest [despite the perpetual predictions that THIS YEAR IT IS IN THE BAG] was in 1999, when Selma Björnsdóttir landed in second place after a thrilling toe-to-toe with Sweden, switching first and second places almost all the way through the voting. In 2004, the first year in which there were semi-finals, Niceland once again sent Selma Björnsdóttir, convinced that our shining Eurovision knight[ess] would bring home the trophy this time. Those annoying semi-finals were just a formality, Selma would fly through them … and much to everyone’s amazement, she didn’t. [But naturally rigged voting among the former Eastern Bloc nations was to blame.] Incidentally, this was not the first time that the Icelandic nation was filled with stunned disbelief that our contestant did not win Eurovision – it happens with alarming regularity.

Meanwhile, a couple of years ago Iceland reached new and unexplored heights in its Eurovision quest for winning by sending old Silvía Nótt [remember her?]** as its representative. In YT’s opinion, Silvía Nótt provided some of the most stellar entertainment in the history of Eurovision, particularly offstage, but very clearly I was in a minority there, as Silvía Nótt is probably the most hated contestant in Eurovision history.

This year, after the looonnnggg and excruciating winter-long process of choosing a song, Iceland finally settled on the somewhat inanely dubbed ‘Euroband’, with a disco-charged song called This Is My Life. The Euroband is fronted by two reasonably well-known singers here, who were probably most aptly described by one little girl, asked on TV to give her take after watching footage of them performing, who earnestly remarked, “They’re like a Barbie boy and his mother.” The song received a drab response among most people … and yet last Thursday the Euroband actually managed what no Icelandic contestant has managed before – they totally aced it out of the semi-finals and into the finals, which – oh did I fail to mention this? – are on this evening. And despite my reservations about the song, the Barbie looks and whathaveyou, I have to give them this: they completely deserved it because they gave 110% to their performance and totally kicked ass!

So you can bet that YT will be sitting in front of the tube this evening and cheering them on. Because when all is said and done, I’m a small-nation-complex girl at heart.

LOOKING BEAUTIFUL OUT THERE!

The sun is peeking out occasionally, and there’s a slight wind which is OK because it’s mild. And just so you know: I had fabulous weather while on my mini-retreat and actually managed to get a bit of a tan***, heheh. On this special Eurovision day we have 12°C [54F] and sunrise this morning was a 3.44 am, sunset due for 11.07 pm.

* On account of the large Turkish population in Germany

** Ágústa Eva, the woman behind Silvía Nótt, appeared on the Icelandic National Broadcasting Service last year and announced that Silvía Nótt was no more, and now has some stellar turns on a weekly talk show called Svalbarði, in which she sings with the house band and performs in various skits – check her out in this video, particularly around 5.0 minutes – especially hilarious if you speak Icelandic!

*** OK, freckles, mostly.

I’ve snuck out of town for a couple of days … in case you miss me, feel free to browse my archives, check out my Flickr photostream, or peruse some of my favourite blogs. Back soon!

PS - if you need me urgently, I’ll be here.

Almost everybody knows about the Icelandic Sagas – the epic tales of Vikings and kings that were so eloquently recorded in Iceland in the 12th and 13th centuries and which still physically exist today in the form of our manuscripts, most of whom are preserved at the Culture House here in Reykjavík. As many readers will know, the literary tradition is still very much alive in Iceland – this country sells more books per capita than any other country, and there is zero illiteracy. Iceland is a nation of storytellers, and one of the most amazing things about travelling in this country are the incredible stories associated with virtually every patch of ground in this country.

EPI and I belong to a hiking group, and each year we explore a new part of Iceland – generally places off the beaten track. This year we’re going to Skagafjörður, staying in a small village called Hofsós [where the Emigration Centre is located] and during our trip we’ll be sailing out to an island called Drangey, which features very dramatically in the story known as Grettis Saga, which EPI re-told me the other day in anticipation of our journey.

Grettir Ásmundarson was a warrior known for his exceptional strength, who murdered a bunch of people and was consequently outlawed. He became famous for wrestling with and defeating a certain ghost named Glámur had been making the lives of some farm folk utterly miserable. This ghost was more like a walking corpse – a zombie. He would show up every night after dark, first wreaking havoc all around the farmhouse, banging and rattling and generally being a massive pain in the ass, after which he would throw open the door, grab the person nearest the door, and mangle them to death. So Grettir decided he would sleep next to the door the first night following his arrival. The ghost shows up and starts banging on the house and rattling everything and generally scaring the sh*t out of the farm folk, after which he throws open the door and makes for the first person there [which of course was Grettir]. However, amazingly, when the ghost went to tear off the skin [as in animal skin] beneath which the person [Grettir] was sleeping, the skin wouldn’t budge. Grettir was hanging on beneath it. So the ghost pulled and pulled, until crafty old Grettir suddenly let go, the ghost was flung against the wall, and Grettir pounced on him. A horrible fight ensued, during which Grettir managed to grab hold of him below the waist and snapped his spine, then fell on top of him and pinned him against the ground. At which the ghost said to him, “Look into my eyes.” Grettir knew he shouldn’t because everyone who looked into the ghost’s eyes went mad; however, at just that moment the moon appeared from behind a cloud and he found himself staring into the eyes of the ghost, and they were utterly terrifying. And from that moment on, Grettir became terrified of the dark.

Anyway, after being outlawed, Grettir escaped to the aforementioned island known as Drangey, in Skagafjörður. It has sheer cliffs rising straight up from the water and was virtually like a fortress because it was impossible to get up those cliffs undetected. Because Grettir was so afraid of the dark, he got his brother Illugi to go to Drangey with him to keep him company. This was fine for a while, until one day their fire went out. According to the lore, Grettir swam not only from Drangey back to the mainland [which was considered virtually impossible] but also all the way back with the fire lit.

Eventually Grettir’s enemies got the best of him when they got an old sorceress to put a spell on a tree root and float it out to the island. Grettir – who was desperate for firewood – went to pick it up, but for some reason the root wouldn’t budge. So he got out his axe and went to chop it in two, but [on account of the spell] the axe turned in his hand and hit him in the leg, injuring him severely. He managed to survive, but was not able to recover his strength, and before long his enemies organized a raid on Drangey. A fierce battle ensued between Illugi, Grettir and the attackers, at which time Grettir was felled.

So anyway, we’re going out to Drangey this summer for a bit of exploration. [I’ll be sure to steer clear of any roots.] And speaking of stories: EPI’s grandfather was the first man after Grettir’s alleged feat to swim out to Drangey. Many people considered the story of Grettir fiction because they said there was no way you could swim all that way in the freezing cold sea. EPI’s grandfather begged to differ and proved that a real human being actually could. Since then, this particular swim, called Drangeyjarsund, has been undertaken many times in Iceland, but it’s still considered a major feat. ~ Incidentally, EPI’s great-grandfather taught the Icelandic nation how to swim, something I wrote about here a while back. Which no doubt accounted for his son’s exceptional swimming abilities.

TODAY’S WEATHER

Cloudy, a bit damp and chilly, moderate winds. Everything is so GREEN all of a sudden – in the space of about a week it’s been TRANSFORMED. Went to check out some things at the Reykjavík Arts Fest today, including Dr. Ruth’s ‘performance’ such as it was and a nekkid woman riding a Nicelandic horse, … alas, so much to write about, so little time! Right now we have 8°C [46F] sunrise at 4:02 am, sunset 10:48 pm.

* Not, you may note, ‘The Sagas’ because I’m really badly informed. Icelandic children read them in schools, whereas YT in her Canadian incarnation read Shakespeare. Virtually all I know about the Sagas is gleaned from cultural references and EPI’s enthusiasm for them and fabulous storytelling abilities.

For about the past two weeks there’s been this ridiculously annoying HUM in our toilet whenever we flush it. It lasts for as long as it takes for the water tank to fill, then stops. During the day it’s not too noticeable, but if one of us happens to go to the loo during the night it’s like the entire building is vibrating. It’s embarrassing.

So YT finally got proactive today, hauled out the yellow pages and called a plumber. For the record, I looked for the number of the immortal plumber, hoping to entice him in for some edifying conversation, but clearly he’s become so popular that he no longer sees the need to advertise in the Yellow Pages. In lieu of that I picked the first ad that caught my eye, featuring a very robust-looking lumberjack-type guy wielding his tools. That’s my man, I thought, and dialled his number in similarly robust fashion.

He turned out to be an absolute deadbeat. If the sound of his voice was saliva it would have dribbled. I hadn’t spoken three words before he asked me in his saliva-dribbling voice if he could call me back in five. Surprisingly he did, but the minute I mentioned the word ‘toilet’ it was: “Uh, we’re really busy right now, call me back in two weeks.” Yeah, right. Whatever.

So, on to the next ad, which had no rugged lumberjack plumber in it, but in which the guy on the other end seemed infinitely more amicable, you know, as plumbers go. He said he was real busy right now too but that he’d pop round after work to have a listen to our toilet. ‘Yeh, right,’ thought I, not believing for a second that he’d stick to it. BUT just to be on the safe side, I called EPI and told him that at least one of us had to be home, there was a plumber coming over with a stethoscope.

I had a meeting to go to at six, but took my cell with me and had it on the table in front of me, on silent, just in case. Even though I had no faith the plumber guy would show up, but you know, JUST IN CASE. Halfway through the meeting, my cell starts flashing. Sure enough, it was the plumber guy, claiming he was standing outside our front door, wondering why nobody was answering. And I’m like, WHERE THE HELL IS EPI??

Turns out EPI was having a very loud jam session with his good buddy Eric Clapton in his playroom, the one you can’t get into without walking sideways because there are so many guitars filling it. So I called EPI’s cell [I’d left the meeting by then and was standing out in the hall, frantically working the remote control, a.k.a. cellphone] but nobody answered so I called our home phone number but nobody answered there, either. ARGH! The plumber who I thought would DEFINITELY NOT show up was standing outside on our doorstep, nobody was home, and no doubt the toilet was singing a fricking aria in the bathroom. So I called the plumber back, all humiliated, convinced we’d never, ever be able to get another plumber to come to our home ever again … and he’s like, “It’s all good. I’m in.”

So turns out EPI had finally heard the doorbell and let him in, with old Eric Clapton blasting out of the stereo and AAH [getting all dolled up for her final school dance of the season] fresh out of the shower so the bathroom was filled with steam. So EPI leads our VIP into the bathroom and flushes the toilet with flair … and – wait for it … wait for it – there was NOTHING. Not a single hum. Not even a vibration.

Evil, evil toilet.

So EPI did the only sane thing under the circumstances – he started humming. Like the toilet. Hummmmmmmmmm! … hummmmmmmmm! … perfect pitch and everything. And the plumber just sort of stood there and stared, probably wondering what sort of lunatic asylum he had landed in. At which point [according to EPI] he started furiously rattling off all the possible reasons for our [non-existent] humming before quickly grabbing the ISK 2,000 he said he’d charge and bidding a hasty retreat.

Meanwhile, EPI has decided to embark on a new career – he figures he’d make an excellent assistant professor in the Faculty of Plumbing at the Icelandic Technical College, making toilet sounds for plumber candidates to analyze. As for our toilet – well, it started singing again just after the plumber left.

WEATHER!

Started off amazing, like yesterday, but as the day wore on it gradually clouded over and by early evening there was a damp kind of chill in the air. Incidentally, the Reykjavík Arts Festival kicked off this evening, and you’ll never guess who is a special guest: Dr. Ruth!! [don’t ask me why.] She was interviewed on Kastljós this evening and showed that she is still in top form. Did you know, for instance, that after age 50 women need to use lubricant and men can no longer swing from chandeliers? Cor! I didn’t. Right now 6°C [43F] and sunrise this morning was at 4.12, sunset at 10.38.

Went to the end-of-the-year showcase performance by students at the National School of Dance this evening, held at the Reykjavík City Theatre. My youngest stepdaughter was performing … it’s her last show at this particular venue as she’ll graduate at the end of the fall semester and these performances are generally only held there in the spring. Anyway, as I sat there I started to get yet another case of the warm and fuzzies about living in Iceland because … THE TALENT. It’s amazing how many talented people there are in this country and how freely and exuberantly they display that talent. I mean, we’re a nation of 300,000 people, f’rcryingoutloud, and yet you NEVER sense that in the creativity of the people here. It would be so easy for this city or this country to be like any old outpost of the same size where people have no hope and no faith in their own resources or their own creativity, but instead it’s the opposite. In Iceland, virtually everyone is creative, and virtually EVERYONE believes they can do anything, even conquer the world. And as I sat there and watched these kids so full of energy and promise and just giving their all to what they were doing, I just thought YES! Just … YES!!

SCORCHER!

People: I got my first sunburn of the season today. It was fantastic. Went out to meet some colleagues for lunch and we ended up at the amazing Jómfrúin, which had tables set up out on the sidewalk. We were there for just over an hour, and I have a very fetching, sunburned half-moon on my chest matching the scoop neck of my American Apparel top. And it was HOT. At least 17°C in the sun. Right now it’s 8°C [46F], the sun came up at 4.15 this morning, went down at 10.35 this evening.