nothings

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more cat pictures

WETHR
Iz col’ nau. Un dark. Un rain all dayz. Nau iz 10C 50F. Da sun rize 4:55 am, da sun setz 10:09 pm. U may leevz komment nau, pleez.

The other day I went to buy myself a new cellphone because apparently making calls and sending hasty text messages and using the phone to remotely control your kids just doesn’t cut it anymore. They have this new thing where you can surf t’internet and pick up your email and gab with your friends in real time and such. And because YT is a typical Nicelander who must always have the latest, best and most superexcellent in all things gadgetry [not really], and also because AAH needed a triband phone she could use in the States and my old clunker fit the bill, I decided it was time to upgrade.

Anyway, so off I go to old Kringlan mall and wander into a store and promptly break into a sweat because ALL THOSE PHONES that do all those different things that I’ve never even heard of before and, well, it was all just kind of overwhelming. So this girl comes over and asks if she can help me pick one, and all I knew was that it had to be Nokia because I’ve always owned a Nokia and everyone in the household owns a Nokia and it’s good because we can all use the same phone chargers, and besides it was useful for narrowing things down a bit. Oh, and I also wanted to be able to pick up my email. That was all.

So, long story short, I go home with this model of phone, except in a lovely white, and after admiring it for a bit I break it open [I’m not kidding, I had to use force] and stick my SIM card in and start playing around with the settings and such. It had this bit of plastic pasted over the screen and the plastic had the logo of my phone company printed on it, and I fiddled with it a bit more [frustrated as hell, if you must know] before removing the plastic, and it was at that point that I realized that the logo and name of the phone company was not on the plastic but embedded in the actual phone itself.

In other words: at the top of the phone: NOKIA. Below that, just beneath the screen, this

[Except the name was to the right of the logo.]

I dunno. Call me anal, if you will if you shall if you must, but the more I looked at that sucker, the more it bugged the hell out of me. It looked like an ugly blemish - nay, a grotesque pimple - on my pearly white 3G Nokia phone. Particularly - and this is important - because the model I looked at in the store DID NOT have such a grotesque pimple on its pristine black surface, so effectively I had been sold a phone that was different from the one I had viewed in the store. Besides, I thought it was pretty damn presumptuous of old Vodafone to expect me to just advertise their brand for them - FOR FREE - for the next two or three years, when they hadn’t even asked me nicely. Or, actually, when they hadn’t even asked me at all.

By the end of the evening, I’d decided I wanted a new phone. One that didn’t have that dastardly Vodafone advertisting logo on it [by this time it was all I saw when I looked at the phone]. After all, I have no particular loyalties to Vodafone - and what if, a few months down the road, I decided to switch phone companies? I’d be with Síminn, or NOVA, or Tal or whatever, and my phone would still read VODAFONE in big screaming letters. Which would just be stupid, like the whole thing was stupid.

So, the next morning I get on the blower to the Vodafone service centre. The girl on the other end talked to me like I was demented when I explained that I wanted a phone that didn’t have a Vodafone logo. “Why? Didn’t you buy it from Vodafone?” - Well yes, I bought it from Vodafone, but … . “Yeah, ok, but we don’t have those phones without the logo.” - Well then I’d like a refund. She laughed in my ear. “A refund? HAHAHHA!” Finally she said I could TRY to talk to the store manager at the main Vodafone store … but her tone of voice made it quite clear that she was purrritty damn sure I wasn’t gonna get anywhere.

RING RING!

YT: Hello, is this the manager of the Vodafone store?

MANAGER OF THE VODAFONE STORE: Yes.

YT: Yeah, hi. I bought this phone [blah] … logo … [blah] … advertise … [blah]… refund.

MOTVS: If you’ve already put your SIM card in it we can’t take it back. It’s a used phone.

YT: Yes, but the phone I looked at in the store didn’t have the logo on it. I get the phone home and it’s got a logo. That’s not the same phone as the one I thought I was buying.

MOTVS: If you’d returned it as soon as you saw the phone had a logo and not put the SIM card in it, I could have taken it back, but you didn’t. You put the SIM card in and now it’s not the same phone as the one you bought.

YT: I thought the logo was on the plastic. I don’t usually start by taking the plastic off.

MOTVS: Well, if the logo bothered you so much, why didn’t you start by checking to see if it was actually on the plastic?

Ah. Yes. Icelandic customer service - at its finest. So after ascertaining that this was her final answer, that she absolutely was not going to take the phone back, I did the grown-up equivalent of running to mommy: I called the Consumers Union.

To be continued …

WEATHER!

Blustery and cool. It was gorgeous yesterday, this morning still pretty nice with just a thin veil of cloud and hardly any wind, but by afternoon it was chilly and blowing pretty hard, at least out by the golf course where EPI and I took a brisk stroll to imbibe some fresh air. Currently 12°C [54F], sunrise was at 3:57 am, sunset at 11:08 pm. Getting darker fast!

When EPI and I and EPI’s father drove across Sprengisandur last week we spent the first night at the a place called Hotel Highland, billed as “the only luxury hotel in the Icelandic highlands”. EPI’s father had called ahead to book a room for himself, which cost a paltry ISK 15,300 per night [USD 197/EUR 125], and sleeping bag accomodation for EPI and me, which cost ISK 2,900 [USD 37 / EUR 23] per night. Neither of us minds roughing it – especially since ‘roughing it’ in sleeping bag accommodation in Iceland generally just means that the bed has no duvet and the bathroom is in the hall.

Hotel Highland is utterly remote; however, just before you get there you come to another place offering highland accommodation, called Hrauneyjar. As we drove past, we noticed that place was hopping – loads of tourists sitting around outside drinking beer and generally having a swell time, by the looks of it. Very inviting.

Meanwhile, the Hotel Highland, located a few kilometres up the road, was absolutely dead. Not a soul was visible on or around the premises, and the reception was deserted. We waited a little while in the tiny vestibule that served as a lobby, completely at a loss, until a bunch of French tourists started piling in, who had just arrived on a bus. At that point, a young woman appeared in the reception and proceeded to deal with our booking. She spoke no Icelandic and seemed very confused about what to do with us. Disappeared again, then came back and announced to my father-in-law that he was in “Room 13” [dumdum], whereas EPI and I were in “L-House. Outside, back there. L-House.”

So we go back outside, EPI’s father holding the key to his room which was attached to a piece of wood with the room number burned into it with a magnifying glass, and proceeded to look for both Room 13 and L-House. Round and round we walked, until EPI and I arrived at low ramshackle building that looked like it could be L-House. His father, meanwhile, wandered off to look for his room.

Words can hardly describe the dismay that filled our YT as she cast around L-House. A more apt name would have been ‘Bleak House’. It was a shack that had originally been slapped up to house temporary workers at the nearby power harnessing station, decades earlier. And it was showing its age. Curtains were torn, the rods were askew, sections of beds were falling off … everything was makeshift and shabby, although – to be fair – relatively clean.

But the worst was yet to come. Back outside, we found EPI’s father – who, incidentally, is 82 – standing in the parking lot in a state of semi-shock. Seems he’d finally found Room 13. He’d stuck his key in the door, opened it, and been accosted by a terrible smell. The room was a mess, the curtains were drawn, and there was a shape on the bed – the shape of a man on his back with his mouth gaping open, who was “either deceased, or passed out,” according to EPI’s father, who was visibly upset.

At that point YT took the lead and decided that we should go back to Hrauneyjar – with all its living, breathing people – and try to wangle a couple of rooms for the night. We left the key to Room 13 in the empty reception and drove back to Hrauneyjar, which – as before – was a hub of activity. So much, in fact, that it took us about 20 minutes to find someone in charge. Finally a plucky, assertive woman with a big Pink Panther tattoo on her neck came along and announced herself as the manager – not only of Hrauneyjar, but also Hotel Highland. Score! So we related our misfortune, she shook her head woefully and got on the blower to the invisible people back at the hotel. “Who is in room 13?! Who is in room 13?!” she demanded to know, before commanding, “Well, get him out of there!” Apparently – she told us later – they have these sorts of problems from time to time, where people get pissed out of their skulls up in the middle of the highlands, don’t check out when they’re supposed to, and when the hotel staff tries to evict them, refuse to leave because: “I can’t drive! Where do I go!?”

So anyway, by way of apology she declared that EPI’s father should be placed in “Suite No. 2” back at Hotel Highland [there was no room at Hrauneyjar] in place of Room 13. Suite No. 2 turned out to be pretty nice – it had its own bedroom as well as a living room with – JOY! – a pull out sofa bed that EPI and I could crash on [imagine our relief in escaping decrepit old L-House]. The ‘Suite’ even happened to have a little patio out back on which we were able to prop up our little travel BBQ and cook up some lamb filets with baked spuds and stuffed mushrooms. Indeed, we were happy as clams in ‘Suite 2’ and didn’t even mind that things were, shall we say, a little on the malfunctioning side, so much that my FIL, who has travelled all over the world, dubbed it the ‘Soviet Suite’. We washed our hands in the bathroom sink and next thing we knew we were standing in a puddle of water – almost as much water dripped from the pipes as came out of the tap. We reached out for a towel in the bathroom and the towel rack fell down on one side and just dangled there. There was no knob for turning on the shower in the tub. But of course, to us these were merely charming little quirks, considering all that had gone before. And you can bet that we drank a hearty toast to the man in Room 13.

WEATHER TODAY!

Perfectly sunny and amiable, but with a chilly wind that sort of kills the fun. It’s 14°C [57F] right now, and sunrise was at 3.51 [it was blazing sunshine when I drove to the airport at 6 am to pick up AAH], sunset due for 11.14.

YT: I was reading an interview today with [a woman] who’s been trying to have children for years.

EPI: M-hm.

YT: Apparently they’ve tried everything and they’re going to adopt now.

EPI: Yeah?

YT: I didn’t even know she was married. Apparently she and her husband have a long-distance marriage; he lives in Denmark and she lives here.

EPI: […]

YT: What?

EPI: And she wonders why they can’t have children?

[PS. I’m still away!]

Finally got out today to see hunky Viggo Mortensen’s photo exhibit at the Reykjavík Museum of Photography, which opened around three weeks ago. My timing happened to coincide with a) the fact that I was in the neighbourhood, b) it was free, c) a few days ago I saw Eastern Promises and really liked it a lot. [How about that scene in the sauna, hm? Mercy.]

The exhibition is all about trees, with which old Viggo appears to have a fascination, and it’s actually pretty good. I expected it to be horribly gloomy and dour because all the promo shots I’d seen for it had been that way, but no. There were actually a few photos there that had colour and sunshine, plus there were poems written on the walls, some of which were by old Viggo himself. [Hint: this is for those of you who clicked on that Flickr menu disk a few thousand times. I know what you like.]

Incidentally, Viggo’s taken a bit of a shine to us here. He visited for the first time a few years ago, and now he just can’t get enough and keeps coming back. Probably because he can be a loner here and nobody cares. I read some interview with him the other day in which he said that, right after the opening of the exhibition, he was going to get in a car and drive out to the boonies, and just stay there by himself for three days. Hope he realizes that there aren’t any trees out there. And that there may be polar bears.

Speaking of which!

That third bear turned out to be a horse. Silly, silly tourists! Clearly someone needs to educate them about the fact that polar bears have paws NOT hooves. Perhaps someone could arrange an exhibit in arrivals section of the Leifur Eiríksson Air Terminal - THIS IS WHAT A POLAR BEAR LOOKS LIKE. IF YOU SEE ONE, DO NOT ATTEMPT TO RIDE IT. Something like that.

WEATHER: NO CHANGE
Brilliant sunshine, cool breeze, lots of goose-pimpled Nicelanders with exposed skin. Right now 11°C [52F]. Sunrise at 2.55 am, sunset at 12.03 am.

“Knock knock”

“Who’s there?”

“Polar”

“Polar who?”

“Polar bear”

[Pause]

“Perish”

“Perish what?”

“Perish the thought”

“Perish Hilton”

“Perish France”

“Perish see you in your underpants”

[Pause]

“Knock knock”

“Who’s there?”

“Could I have a pillow?”*

AND NOW THAT I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION
Stunning day today. Gorgeous, blazing sunshine this morning and afternoon, but around - oh - 4 pm it started to cloud over and all of a sudden it was COLD. Who makes the weather around here? We currently have 11°C [52F] and the sun came up at 2.55, will set at 12.02 tomorrow morning.

* This conversation really happened.

Mad props to Sigur Rós, who went out and made a video with a bunch of nekkid people running around in the woods and got it banned on You Tube. Score! Cuz, you know, getting a vid banned on You Tube must be a pretty stellar accomplishment, considering all the millions of videos that pass through there on a daily basis that I’m betting are not all rated G. Which of course begs the question why can they make pornographic [note conscious decision to omit ’semi-’ prefix] videos of naked girls dancing around and shaking their butt in your face and making like they’re getting themselves off and not get THAT banned on You Tube, but when Sigur Rós makes a perfectly innocent little ditty with folks running around in the buff and just generally having a fun time, the moral majority is all MAYDAY! MAYDAY! MAYDAY!

Anyway, here’s the link, but if you decide to click on it make sure you’re 18 or your BRAIN MAY EXPLODE from seeing somebody’s willie!

MEANWHILE, WE’VE HAD WIND
And plenty of it, too. It was beautifully sunny yesterday and relatively warm [highs of around 15C] which made the gusts somewhat bearable. I went out for some fresh air around noon and took my camera with me, so I’ve uploaded a few more rotating images, and a few more pics to my photostream. This morning it it looked about ready to pour, but the dark clouds have passed us by for now. Instead we have cloudy skies and still that pesky wind - the forecast is for BOTH rain and sun, so we’ll see. Right now 12°C [54F], sunrise was at 3.13 am and sunset due for 11.41 pm.

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.

So, old John Fogerty is giving a concert here in a week or two and yesterday Fréttablaðið published a short article detailing his backstage requirements. Excerpt:

Forgerty has simple wishes regarding backstage accommodation. He wants two rooms for himself with tidy [!] showers, a sink and a water closet. Fogerty also wants good Internet access, two ivory-coloured bars of soap, a television and an X-box game console, in addition to a good selection of films and games. He asks for one medium-sized table, two smaller tables, eight comfortable chairs, two large mirrors and twelve dark towels. Fogerty does not want to see autograph-hungry fans and it is specially written in his contract in capital letters that he wants a large, clean [!] washing machine backstage, in addition to a dryer that he alone will have use of.

Ahem. Fogerty’s “simple wishes” notwithstanding, I must say that I tripped over the part about the two ivory-coloured bars of soap. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist [at least not a rocket scientist that has spent any length of time abroad] to figure out that John Fogerty has probably expressly requested two bars of IVORY SOAP.* A brand that, incidentally, is not available in Niceland. Pity the poor concert promoters. After scratching their heads in wonderment over Fogerty’s stipulation that the two bars of soap be ivory-coloured [like, aren’t 98.8 percent of all bars of soap ivory-coloured?] they will undoubtedly go out and buy the best ivory-coloured soap that they can find. Which, despite their best intentions, will not be IVORY SOAP.

Let’s just hope old Fogerty doesn’t throw a tantrum. Or - worse - refuse to wash himself.

HELLOOO SUMMER!

Today was a stupendous day, the first really superexcellent day of the season. Just an occasional hint of cloud cover in the sky - otherwise deliciously deliriously sunny. And warm - I was at the pool this afternoon [which was packed … overheard in the hot pot: ‘… seize any bit of sun - got to get that winter out … ‘] looked up and saw the thermostat was at 15°C, w00t! Plus there was hardly any wind. Flaked out on a sun bench and drifted away in spirit to sunnier climes. Ahhhh. We’re due for rain and storm during the upcoming long weekend, though. Right now 7°C [45F]. Sunrise last night was at 4.35 am and sunset was at 10.15.

* Clearly Fréttablaðið was a bit perplexed as well, for they saw reason to publish an excerpt with this very point on their front page. Ouch!