rants

So, I’ve been having a bit of trouble coming up with things to say about the Eric Clapton concert I went to last weekend. At the risk of sounding like a perpetual sourpuss, I have to say I didn’t enjoy it very much. And I can’t decide whether it was old Eric himself, or the awful venue [never again will I attend a concert at the Egilshöll arena, NEVER] with its horrific acoustics, or the sweltering heat [apparently the temperatures inside went up to 29°C / 84°F], or the condensation that started dripping down from the ceiling about two-thirds of the way through [the body moisture of 14,000 people dribbling down upon our heads, can you say DISGUSTING?] or the still-infuriating fact that we had to deposit our water receptacles at the door and then stood in that godforsaken lineup for a fricking hour.

All those things were bad enough, but maybe the root of the problem is that I’ve never really been a huge fan of old Eric’s. I own one of his CDs – the Unplugged one – and ‘Layla’ and ‘Cocaine’ were two of the most blast-able party anthems when I was growing up, but apart from that I really don’t dig his stuff all that much.

Be that as it may, I do like most types of music when it’s played well, with passion and real gusto. When the performer is really into what he or she is doing, I can usually get swept up pretty easily and have a good time. Not so with old Eric last Friday. In fact, I have to echo the words of my sister-in-law who said that the entire time she couldn’t get past the feeling that he was just ‘doing his job’. That he was ‘at work’. That was my sentiment also – Clapton is a skilled musician, he can really go at those guitar strings, but to me a lot of it seemed pretty mechanical. About a third of the way through, he and his second guitarist starting doing this kind of duelling-guitar thing, which was the first time I felt any sort of chemistry between performer(s) and audience. Soon afterwards he broke out his acoustic guitar and played a few songs sitting down, which also came across really well. I thought at that point that the concert was about to take off, but alas – it soon faltered and old Eric was back to being ‘at work’.

Initially I thought this experience of the concert was perhaps because we were standing so far from the stage [I couldn’t see a damn thing and had to fall back on watching the action on those big screens they had flanking it; numerous times I wondered why I hadn’t just bought the DVD and turned the volume up real loud at home] and because of all the general discomfort in there, but my sister-in-law was right up close to the stage, and she felt the same way. So clearly that wasn’t the issue.

Another thing that really bothered me – and bothered a lot of the people I’ve talked to – was the fact that he came on, shouted “Good evening!”, shouted “Thank you!” after many of the songs, at one point he said something about his friend who was there, but that was it. He barely smiled and made no effort to form a rapport with the audience. He didn’t even introduce the band, which I thought was pretty lame. He’s not an unlikeable character and I know he’s had a hard time and he’s worked hard to get sober and all that so I’m prepared to cut him some slack, but he certainly didn’t win me over as a performer.

The major downer, though, for almost everyone, was the absence of Layla. Before he arrived, mbl.is published his set list from two days previously in Bergen, and he followed it exactly EXCEPT that he left out Layla. Now, I know that there’s no rule he has to play the same set, but since it seemed to have been the only song he omitted from the set it seemed like a major letdown for everyone. Truly disappointing.

I should state for the record here that EPI disagreed with me on almost every point. [Not the point about Layla. Nor about not introducing the band. But almost everything else.] But then he’s a guitar guy and really got into the intricacies of the playing and whathaveyou, and couldn’t have cared less if Eric smiled or bawled or stood on his head or shouted F*uck you! [well, maybe that]. EPI wanted some hot guitar action – he didn’t want “showmanship” – and hot guitar action is what he got. He went out of there pretty happy.

Just one more point: I thought he had a kick-ass band with him and was pretty enamoured of his keyboard player, who looked like a skinny version of a Scandinavian troll doll and really let rip on those solos – apart from ‘Cocaine’ those were the highlights of the concert for me. Clapton’s sidekick guitar player was pretty good too, but mostly I was just stunned by the fact that he played the entire concert with a wool hat stuck on his head without his brain being boiled to a pulp. Of the entire band, the most charismatic was the bass player, who unfortunately was only rarely shown on the big screen but who had an amazing stage presence. And the drummer was supremely entertaining of all – the expressions on that guy’s face were almost worth the price of admission alone.

That’s it for me, then. But if you’ve made it this far and were at the concert I’d love to have your take. Það má vera á íslensku!

GORGEOUS DAY TODAY

The sun was out for most of the day, colouring everything brilliant – until late this afternoon when clouds rolled in and we actually had a little sprinkling of rain. Took a break from work to get some fresh air out by the golf course and it was gorgeous, really WARM, which is rarely the case out there as it’s a peninsula that basically just juts out into the sea. And everyone seemed to be in such happy spirits. Looks like we’re in for more of the same over the next three days. Right now 13°C [55F], sunrise was at 5:07 am, sunset at 9.56 pm.

PS - found a couple of vids on YouTube that are actually a lot more impressive than the real thing *sigh* I should have just stayed home and watched the highlights there. Here’s [the completely cringe-worthy] Wonderful Tonight and here’s Cocaine. So what do you think: do you feel the passion, or is old Eric just doing his job?

So, last Friday night Eric Clapton played a gig at the Egilshöll arena and put on a pretty decent show. All very professional, like, with lotsa hot guitar action and whathaveyou, all of which I shall get to presently. But first I must tell you all about the pre-show experience, which was - not to put too fine a point on it - painful, and exasperating, and infuriating.

Consider: we arrive at the venue in very good time, even before the warmup band starts playing at eight, and in front of the entrance there is a big sign: NO DRINKS ALLOWED. And everyone is putting their unfinished drinks down just before they go in [probably thinking they’d be frisked, as one usually is at foreign rock concerts, but I digress] and YT, of course, deposited her Egils kristall water bottle with the others, the very picture of law and order.

However, the moment we stepped into the arena, I knew I was going to need water. Or more precisely, that I would pass out if I didn’t have water. It was already HOT and the air was thick and awful, and it was obvious that half the audience wasn’t even in the arena yet. That’s probably because they were all waiting in line for drinks. I am not kidding: when we walked in, we saw probably around 700 people lined up to get to one of two bars – which, note bene, were the only places where you could get anything to drink. Including water.

EPI and I first headed into the “A” section – which we had paid extra to be in – but soon decided we had no choice but to line up for water. Some debate ensued as to how we should proceed: should one of us get in line and the other try to save a decent spot, or should we both go and risk being separated for the duration of the show, or should neither of us go, and take the risk of passing out from dehydration halfway through the show? – In the end we felt it was wisest to stick together, so both of us went back out and got into line. It was around 7.50 pm.

At 8 pm, the opening act started playing. We only heard them in the distance because we were in line to buy a bottle of water. At 8.45 the opening act stopped playing. We heard that in the distance, too, because we were still in line to buy a bottle of water. By 8.50 pm we were still in line to buy a bottle of water. In fact, we were in one of three lines that led to that particular bar – on the other side there were three equally long lines. And at the end of those three lines there were five Icelandic adolescents serving drinks and taking money. [You know how I gripe about slow service? Icelandic adolescents are THE SLOWEST.] Or, more precisely, taking plastic, which as we know require a bit more time to process than straight cash. And when they’d done that they poured every single beer or every single wine that every single person ordered into a plastic glass. Moving at a snail’s pace. With, oh, probably about 1,000 people waiting in line. No pressure, like. Hey – just take your time!

Meanwhile, the clock was ticking. And ticking. In ten more minutes, old Eric would take to the stage. “A” section was so full by now that we could just as easily have bought tickets for B. And just then, YT had a flash of brilliance. An idea so inspired that I could have kicked myself ten times over for not having had it about sixty minutes earlier.

I told EPI to go to the trash can** and see if he could scrounge an empty bottle of water. Disgusting, I know … but desperate times call for desperate measures. Because there was no hope in hell that I was going to pay ISK 9,000 [USD 110 / EUR 73] for a ticket to see Eric Clapton and then spend it in line to buy a f*cking bottle of water. YOU READ ME? Not a hope in hell!

So EPI ran off to execute my brilliant scheme, and just then a girl who was standing next to me working security and who along with a co-worker had been on the receiving end of a mini-rant [the co-worker claimed it would have just been “too much of a hassle” to set up more than two – TWO! – POS units** for the thousands of people in line … but of course it’s not “too much hassle” for people to spend a fricking hour in line to buy water!] leaned over to me, handed me a bottle of water that she had been drinking out of and said, very sweetly: “Here. You can have my bottle. I can easily get another one.”

[Please, if you would, just take a moment to close your eyes, envision that gawky girl with the braces and mousy hair, and pray that – tonight – a zillion gold nuggets rain down upon her house and by some miracle all gather in the roof gutter to be poured in through her bedroom window. Because she totally deserves it. Thank you.]

So with just eight minutes to spare, EPI and I raced out of the arena, down to the bathrooms, each filled a bottle [rinsing it out thoroughly first, washing the top with soap, etc] before running back upstairs and making it into “A” section in the nick of time. Two seconds after we got through the gate, all hell broke loose as old Eric – looking rather, er, casual in a loose shirt, baggy jeans and runners [i.e. the supremely uncool kind, not, like, Converse or anything] – not to mention unshaven – took to the stage.

Continued next post…

WEATHER

Cooler now than it’s been … very chequered weather today, clouds interspersed with sunny spells interspersed with showers. It’s 12°C [54F] now [up from 8C this afternoon] and sunrise is at 5.01, sunset at 10.03.

* Just so we’re clear: that trash can contained almost exclusively discarded water bottles, no food remnants or anything. Well, except for that half-burger EPI fished out and YT polished off on the way to the ladies’.

** Is that what they’re called? Those gizmos you run the debit/credit cards through?

… continued from last post

YT and the Nicelandic Consumers Union [Neytendasamtökin] go back a long way. Or - well - a few years. We first became acquainted about seven years ago when I owned a dud of a computer that had broken down about six times in two years. I happened to relate the story to EPI’s niece, who was working there at the time as a lawyer. She promptly put me in touch with a co-worker who was, and is, a serious force to be reckoned with. About a month later my computer dud was back with its [not-too-happy] seller, whereas in its place I had a new high-end laptop that turned out to be an absolute workhorse and ran non-stop for about five years without so much as a hiccup. I’ve been a Consumers Union member ever since and am a big fan because they kick ass up there.

Anyway, I called them up and they put me through to the same woman as before, who totally commiserated with my sad story about the phone and its hideous logo. When I got to the part about being stonewalled by the Vodafone manageress, she was indignant. “No. No. Of course she can refund you the money. They sold you a different phone from the display model. You should get your money back.” She asked me to send her an email relating the main points and she’d speak to them. Less than two hours later, she called me back. “Take the phone back to the store in Kringlan and they’ll give you a full refund.”

YES!!!

[Incidentally: this sort of thing NEVER happens in Iceland. The Icelanders can be assertive as hell, but they’re LOUSY consumers - they’re forever being handed wooden nickels and just taking them. Refunds for anything are practically unheard of here. One notable exception is the fabulous ZARA, which when it opened its first store here about six years ago started offering full refunds on clothes that were returned in the same condition as when bought, within a specific time frame. Hats off! - and now a few more stores have followed suit. But I digress.]

So later that day, I found myself in Kringlan, heading for old Vodafone. I had on my tough front, all prepared to be cross-examined or to have to go through the same shit as with the people on the phone, but lo! - nothing of that sort happened, the apathetic kid perched on his stool behind the counter just took the phone and mumbled something about not knowing how to do refunds [you don’t say? ] and then asked someone else before just … opening the till and giving me the refund, in cash. Get that? - IN CASH. I was floored. Because if there’s one thing more outrageously surprising than getting a refund in an Icelandic store, it’s getting that refund in cold hard cash.

Truly, I could hardly believe my good fortune. So what I did was leave the store, walk exactly ten steps across the corridor, and straight into the store of the competition, which I happened to know had that very same phone but WITHOUT the branding on it. Heh heh. I knew this because I’d been there the previous day, but had due to some weird sense of obligation ended up buying from my phone provider, with the aforementioned disastrous results.

So the girl who had been serving me the previous day came up to me and we got chatting and I told her my little story and that I wanted the same phone, and did they have it in white. Alas, they did not. However, she suddenly got this mischievous little look on her face. “I have JUST the phone for you,” she said, and disappeared, only to return very conspiratorially with a little box that she opened. “There are only fourteen of these in the entire country,” she said, almost whispering. “They only ordered six of this colour; the buyers - who are all guys - thought it was a joke, that nobody would buy them.” She raised an eyebrow. “They sold out within an hour - to people in-house. I got one myself.” She pulled it out and proceeded to demonstrate, taking YT through the navigation menu and such. “They tried to order more, but there were only nine left. We don’t even have them on display. We keep them under the counter.”

Whell! With that kind of hard-sell, how could I possibly refuse?

[semi-nauseating gush ahead]

So I now have a gorgeous new phone, that I am absolutely smitten with. Seriously - this is a major departure for our YT. I’m more the classic subdued type, easy on the flash. Not only does my new phone have serious BLING, it’s also not a Nokia [gasp!] and was considerably more expensive than the phone I planned to buy. The screen is crystal clear, the navigation is genius [I much prefer it to any Nokia phone I have ever owned], the buttons are easy to push [i.e. aren’t all jammed up against each other] and it knows intuitively what I want to do, before I do it. [”Do you want to copy your contacts from the SIM card?” - why, yes I do, little phone!] If you want, you can check it out here [it’s the pink one - you can even try it out in their super-duper online virtual phone world].

[/semi-nauseating gush]

Okay then! So you see, all’s well that ends well. And now I must sign off because I’m heading off tomorrow to search for polar bears. Cheerio!

WE HAD A TROPICAL STORM TODAY
I kid you not. It’s what the weatherman said: “The remnants of a tropical storm will pass over the Land today.” Mostly what this meant was a lot of rain, and fairly warm temps - for us, at least. It’s no great shakes at the moment, 12°C [54F] and still raining, sunrise was at 4 am, and sunset at 11.05.

Last week when I was getting ready to head to the cottage I noticed that my bikini was missing and realized I’d probably left it behind at the Laugardalslaug pool the weekend before. Decided therefore that I’d drop by there on my way out of town and see if they had it in the Lost & Found.

So I go in there, into the ladies showers where the staff has a little room in which they hang out, and find two teenage girls playing cards.

YT: Hi. I was here last weekend… [blah]

GIRL 1: What day was it?

YT: Saturday

Girl pulls down a basket marked ‘Saturday’ and starts going through it.

G1: No, it’s not here.

YT: [anxious] Do you think it could be in any of the other baskets?

G1: Probably not.

YT: Could you check … maybe Friday’s?

G1 pulls down Friday’s starts going through it, and sure enough unearths YT’s bikini top.

YT: That’s the top!

G1 goes through everything but no bottoms.

YT: How can the top be there and not the bottoms? I mean, if you found the top …

G1: Oh, you wouldn’t believe what people steal around here.

YT: […?]

G1: Oh, yeah. People steal all kinds of things.

You know what? I didn’t believe it.

YT: Is there nowhere else where they might be?

GIRL 2: Everything goes downstairs if it’s not here.

So I persuade GIRL 2 to take me ‘downstairs’ - which was actually the most creepy-assed basement you’ve ever seen - to have a look. And, boy. It was a bloody fricking warehouse down there. There must have been HUNDREDS of towels, THOUSANDS of bathing suits. I took one cursory look in the bikini section and just threw in the towel gave up.

Anyway, I was seriously bummed. I really liked those bikini bottoms: black boxers, with a drawstring in front with little gold shells on the end, and big gold metal rings where the drawstrings came out. Got them in Berlin last March so it’s not like I can just zip out and buy another pair. The damage is severe.

However, I figured I could at least try to get something similar. So last Friday I went to a couple of stores to see if I could find black bikini-bottom boxers anywhere. Nope. Sold out. And then it dawned on me that every time I’ve tried to buy a bikini with boxer bottoms [because they suit my shape the best] at this time of the summer, they are always sold out EVERYWHERE. Always. Because evidently they’re the most popular type of bikini bottom so, at least at this time of year, they’re rare enough to constitute a serious shortage.

Which also means - maybe - that they’re rare enough to be attractive to thieves.

So I’m starting to give a bit more credit to GIRL 1’s theft theory, although I’m still having major trouble getting my head around the actual WEARING part. I mean, it’s bad enough to steal someone’s bathing suit, but then to actually WEAR it? UGH. Gross.

So, anyway, if any of you who are here in Niceland happen to see bikini bottoms that fit the description above hanging around a pool somewhere, please remove them from that person’s body IMMEDIATELY. Just for the sake of humiliation, you understand. I sure as hell won’t be wanting them back.

AND THE WEATHER HERE IN BOXERLESSLAND IS …
They kept going on and on about what a great weekend it was going to be weather-wise, but then it turned out to be just mediocre. Hardly a ray of sunshine, and today it was mostly foggy with a sort of damp chill in the air. Right now a decidedly cool 9°C [48F] with the sun coming up at 3.17 this morning and setting at 11.45 this evening.

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!]

Niceland seems to be a bit of a media darling these days, what with all the tales of our economic troubles, the big feature in Newsweek, and an article on page one in the Wall Street Journal, which focuses on our alleged obsession with big souped-up jeeps that have been customized to drive all over our rugged landscapes. The main gist of the article [if I understand it correctly] is that this little hobby practiced by ‘thousands of people’ here in Iceland is one of the casulties of the current economic downturn, as gas prices are making the cost of tearing up the glaciers and general terrain for a weekend about as much as that of ‘a weekend trip to London’.

Meanwhile, the truth is that the monster jeep demographic is a fairly small one [I don’t know of a single person who practices this hobby, even in my extended social network], and has earned itself more than a lot of bad press here lately by attaching itself to the trucker demonstrations, helping them block roads and such, thereby causing a lot of grief for the general populace. Whereas people were sympathetic to the plight of the truckers, at least initially, the 4×4 club, as they call themselves, just made fools of themselves. I mean, blocking traffic and potentially endangering lives [causing delays for emergency vehicles] just because it is more expensive for you now to get your jollies tearing around up on the glaciers? Get a grip.

Not that they had a lot of popularity to lose. Their vehicles are especially designed for offroad driving, and offroad driving is completely illegal in this country [tourists take note!] for a very good reason: our vegetation is incredibly sensitive and it can take nature centuries to repair damage inflicted by a single offroad joyride. Also, just last weekend a particular case made the papers, concerning a jeep flipping over and onto the mountain hut at Landmannalaugar, causing damage of millions of kronur to the building. The culprits, who were guides for an unnamed [not by me – I would definitely name them] touring company and who were seriously inebriated, hightailed it away from the scene [unfortunately for them there were witnesses] and according to reports the park warden expected them to return and own up – but they didn’t. An investigation is now underway and with any luck heads will roll.

So, whereas the economic downturn is a reality here and a lot of people are reportedly struggling, the WSJ is a bit misguided in highlighting this as something indicative of our current economic woes. Indeed, yesterday’s Fréttablaðið wrote a blurb about the article and cited a quote attributed to one Alfred “Spotti” Bergisson, who was “willing to fight for his right to party” and who told the WSJ: “I just want to go where I want to go … I get energy in the mountains. I think there.” Which prompted Fréttablaðið to quip: “It’s very good for people to think … for example, about their treatment of the countryside and environmental issues.”

APRIL SHOWERS BRING MAY BUDS

It rained yesterday, was sunny this morning, and is clouding over now BUT all the buds are emerging on the trees, which is delightful. And the best thing – buds don’t cost anything or carry any interest in foreign loans! [or tear up the landscape!] We’re in for more rain later today and tomorrow, but generally it’s mild and everything is turning green. Right now 13°C [55F] and the day is getting longer by the minute – sunrise this morning was at 4.45 am and sunset is scheduled for 10.06 pm.

This question thing is easy, perhaps a bit too easy. And I’m sure it could get tedious after a while, seeing as how I’d have to be answering questions all the time pretending I was in the loop about all kinds of stuff and couldn’t just rant about daily stuff, like the ditzy woman with wet hair who had her open [black] car door pushing against my [silver grey] car outside Bónus today while she pulled stuff out of her back seat …

YT: Excuse me, your door is pushing against the side of my car.
LADY WITH WET HAIR: Oh.
YT: It left a mark.
LWWH: I didn’t slam it against yours.
YT: It left a mark.
LWWH: [Wets finger and rubs the black mark on YT’s car.] Yeah, well I didn’t slam it.
YT: Oh, I see. You just pushed it.

~ BUT we still have questions, and here are a couple more.

From xl:

Do you ever get “island fever?” (That is, have the feeling of being trapped on the island and have to go to a larger space.)

~ Nope! I do not. I sometimes want to get out of here to see something new, immerse myself in a different culture, but I don’t really associate it with being on an island. And after all, Iceland is big. A total of 103,000 square kilometres to be exact.

From Virginia:

Are Icelandic ponies like Shetland ponies, in that they are psychotics with Short-Man Syndrome, or do they have sweet personalities to match their utter cuteness?

~ They have sweet personalities. And incidentally, they’re not ponies. They’re small, but they exceed the official pony size and are bona fide horses. Be forewarned: ‘Iceland ponies’ is a term that should not be uttered in Iceland. Under any circumstances.

From Skúli:

I constantly return to your blog precisely for the things that you complain make you unhappy about it. That’s what life is like - it’s not focused. Then a question: would you agree with the proposition that style shows the personality of the writer?

~ First, thank you for the first part of your comment. Very reassuring. Second, yes, I would absolutely agree with your proposition. In fact, I am consistently amazed at how clearly some people’s character shows through their writing. There’s no way to hide it. It seeps out somehow.

From the Pharmacy Trainee [now a pharmacist]:

My question will be the sillyest of all and perhaps offensive (I hope not) but… Dont you feel that Iceland is worldwide knew (not only, but mostly) because of Bjork? (Oh God, that´s a question I´ve always wanted to ask an icelandic and never had the balls to make…)

~ Not silly and certainly not offensive. The question is a resounding YES. Björk totally put Iceland on the map. She did what the Iceland Tourist Board could not have done with a ten-billion-dollar budget. BJÖRK FOR PRESIDENT!!

Okay, that’s it for now, I have to go to bed.

IT WAS A GORGEOUS SUNNY DAY, VERY DECEPTIVE
Because as soon as you went outside, it was absolutely freezing. Windchill temps well below zero. Tolerable out of the wind, though, but intolerable if you had it full-on. Right now -4°C [25F] and sunrise was at 6.34 am, sunset at 8.29.

Við Tjörnina, literally translated, means “By Tjörnin” – Tjörnin being a Reykjavík landmark that, depending on who you talk to, is either a pond or a lake. [Personally I think it’s too large to be the former and too small to be the latter – so for lack of a better word we’ll call it a ‘poke’.] Hence it should come as no surprise that the Við Tjörnina restaurant is located – you guessed it – by the poke.

In the 15 or so years it’s been open [anybody, feel free to correct me], Við Tjörnina has become somewhat of a Reykjavík institution. Primarily known for its fish dishes and its comfy old décor, it’s the sort of place where Nicelanders tend to take tourists for dinner. I’m going to avoid at all costs the description “just like your granny’s living room” because that’s how every tourist brochure tends to describe it, but, well, you get the picture. Old stuff. Old telephones, old sofas, old ornaments. And tableware that doesn’t match, on purpose.

About 12 years ago, when I first went there, the ‘old’ thing was all gleaming and shiny, particularly the glansmyndir – glossy pictures – that were stuck up on the walls. Unfortunately now the ‘old’ is, well, a little old. It just doesn’t enchant in the same way it used to. It’s a bit like a grey veneer of complacency has sort of descended on everything including, sadly, the food.

Anyway. Back to our evening last Saturday. We all met up in the lounge [granny’s living room] for an aperitif. I ordered a Kir Royale – my tipple of choice when I was about, oh, [mumblemuble] back in the disco era, and which I hadn’t tasted in almost as long. To their credit, they make an excellent Kir Royale at Við Tjörnina. In fact, if your grandmother drank Kir Royale, that is probably exactly how she would make it.

While there, we checked out the menu and a delightful waitress took our order. A few moments later we were ushered to our table. A waiter came with our wine [Pouilly Fuisse – wonderful] and did everything by the book, opening it at the table [you’d be surprised how many supposedly classy restaurants here just plonk the bottle down on the table already opened], holding the bottle so that the label was displayed while the tasting was done, etc. The only thing he missed was that he didn’t fill the glasses of the ladies before filling those of the men [having worked in some very fine establishments myself, I’m a stickler for these things] but we’ll forgive him for that because after all, here in Iceland, the women are men.*

Next came our starters. I’d ordered “Sauted [sic] scallops w/tomato and garlic” because I absolutely love a good, tender, melt-in-your-mouth scallop. Sadly, the consistency of these reminded me more of a fish ball from a can than a tender miym scallop, although it did have the same delicate, gorgeous taste. EPI, his father and brother all ordered “Pickled herring & fermented shark w/schnapps” [jawol!] wheras my sister-in-law had “Hot smoked lamb’s heart w/applesalad and horseradishcream”.** Nobody complained.

For a main course I ordered what I ordered the last time I was there [about three years ago] because it was so fabulous back then: “Sauteed plaice w/blue cheese and banana”. As expected, the fish was very fresh and on the whole the dish was tasty – but it wasn’t very hot. In fact, it was only lukewarm. Due probably in no small part to the fact that the plates were cold. Which brings me to another point: I fail to understand why restaurants here in Iceland just cannot keep their plates warm. Sheesh! An essential part of serving a good meal is serving it hot and in my book, serving it hot is mutually exclusive with loading it onto a cold plate. What the hell are they teaching in Cooking 101 these days!?

For dessert EPI and I decided to split a French chocolate cake because once upon a time the French chocolate cake at Við Tjörnina was famous and there was even one occasion when we made a point of going there just for the cake because we were having a craving. Alas, we failed to remember that these days French chocolate cake is no longer such a novelty and in fact even EPI and I make a perfectly good French chocolate cake now in our very own kitchen. And so, like the old-style décor, the cake had somehow lost its lustre, in spite of the sculpted dollop of cream they stuck on the top.

Yeah, so anyway, I’m aware that I’m sounding pretty damn bleh about the whole thing, which is unfortunate because in fact I had a lovely time on Saturday night. In fact, I was having such a lovely time that I really didn’t have the inclination to be underwhelmed about the food whilst there, nor to consider the fact that the waiter kept reaching his arm over me to pick up or deliver plates so that I virtually had my face in his armpit. Water off a duck’s back, as they say, thanks in no small part to the lovely company I was in.

Final verdict: Við Tjörnina is an okay place for dinner that can remember its dandelion more beautiful*** and that appears to have become somewhat complacent over the years. Food: a tiny notch above average [quite unacceptable considering the prices they charge.] Service: friendly and amiable but could have done without all the armpit-gazing or [cough] smelling. Ambiance: relaxed but a tad dusty in the metaphorical sense.

WEATHER: It’s been mild and calm today with rain. Wind is picking up now. 3°C [46F], sunrise was at 9:15 am and sunset at 6:09 pm.

* i.e. somewhere, some committee decided that the masculine pronoun should be used to refer to both men and women.
** Sadly, I always feel it reflects badly on a place when they can’t have their menus properly translated.
*** Nicelandic idiom meaning ‘it used to be better’.