1
I
purchased my airfare so far in advance that it was easy not facing the fact
that it would be me flying to an
island that dangled under the Arctic Circle--
Thoughtlessly,
I went through the formal steps of preparing for a trip: I told friends, I bought a backpack, a
tent, and a sleeping bag. Now, as I
sat at the airport, I was slowly realizing, OH
SHIT, I really have no idea what I am doing!
*****
I slept fine on the flight from
Some time during the flight, I awoke to find
the marrow in my shoulder pulsating.
The pain extended down my arms, into my fingers, and down in to my
ribs. I had this sick feeling that
I was having a heart attack. I was
scared that my trip was already ruined.
I wanted to sleep the pain off so bad.
When
the in-flight meal came, I was quite hungry but sleepy too. So, I involuntarily compromised. I would begin to munch on a
cracker. I would get the cracker to
a nice pulpy state, only to fall asleep before swallowing. A little later, the pain in my arm would
wake me up and I would discover the chewed crackers in my mouth. I would chew a little bit more to
correctly identify that the cracker pulp was ready to swallow. Mmmmm,
that was good. I think that I would
like another cracker…but no sooner would I fall asleep…
This
cycle went on like this all the way until the final decent into
*****
I
should mention at this time that I had received some information about
As
I remembered this hard fact, I realized that I was approaching the Iceland Air
ticket counter. Furthermore, I
noticed the agents looked very Icelandic.
I wondered if I was going to get laid before I even arrived in
*****
Ironically,
as I unsuccessfully tried to have a heterosexual experience with the female
Icelandic ticket agent, I became more aware of the light mannerisms of those
around me who were also waiting to board my same flight. The more I listened and observed, the
more I realized that those also waiting for the Icelandic flight were part of a
gay singing group. Some of their
T-shirts gave it away:
We
sing out!!!
Whoa! Did Hans pull one over me? Was Hans
laughing somewhere at the silly ideas he had planted into my horny brain? Was
Now,
I have no problems with homosexuality, but they weren’t going to hamper
my humping spree in
What
could I expect on the plane, on the island? Did the Iceland Air clerk think that I
was part of the “blue heart” gay choir? Was that why she and I didn’t get
it on?
Soon
it was time to board the plane.
Surely, I would find others of my minority orientation group.
*****
I am at this very
moment, folks, about to board the plane that will leave the country. I am now in line to board…20 more
people, then me. I am about to give
my boarding pass...and…ooo…eee...and closer, YES! I just did it. I just gave the flight attendant my
ticket and am now a helpless foreigner!
Folks,
I am now aboard the plane. Stepping
into the plane was like stepping into
Great, the people next
to me just asked me if I was part of the touring choir group. Damn it, and
there I was trying to ooze raw sexuality.
I thought I screamed heterosexuality. I was always convinced that cooperative
women could smell my prowess.
Yes, yes, my name is CRAIG DOWNING and I would like to make an official
statement: I am not in the choir.
First, innately by definition--choir--I must be able to sing. And, can I sing? No, and don’t make me show you
that I can’t sing—it would be damaging for all parties involved. Second, even if god did correct my out
of tune and knotted vocal cords, I am very, very heterosexual. I’d
love to show your wife how heterosexual I am. Thank you for your time…
2
I
awoke to bright sunlight and an ocean of clouds. I saw navy blue water
and…land! It was black and
there were no trees. I was landing
in
After landing, I successfully retrieved
my luggage, slipped through customs and bought a bus ticket into the city.
Before
getting on the bus, I went directly outside. I went past the buses. I went past all the cars and
people. I found a parking median
with grass--Icelandic grass. I
grabbed a tuft and stuck it in my mouth, mmm, cold moist Icelandic grass. I then returned and hopped on the
bus. Soon I would infiltrate deeper
into the island.
The
airport bus transported me to the closest major city, actually, the only major
city in
Okay,
hiccup #1: The youth hostel in
I
guess this is where I should have had a contingency plan. So, I called Hans to update him on what
was happening.
Hans had arrived in
*****
Well,
I was going to try to stay at another hostel in a neighboring town. I tagged along with these two middle-aged
fellas from
“Yeah,
my great grandfather came from
Damn
good question Jimmy, because I really don’t know why I'm here. As a kid,
I remembered reading about
“I
liked the pictures?” I offered.
So
we all ended up at another youth hostel together. No sooner did we get to the youth
hostel, than our friend, Optimistic Jimmy, asked the clerk,
“Hey,
do you know my great grandfather Bjorn Magnusson?”
Jesus Jimmy, shut up!
“See,
my great grandfather came from…”
I
was seriously smirking to myself as Jimmy goes on about his Grandpa, but damn
all, it ended up that these proud Icelanders keep records of everyone.
*****
I
called up Hans again and set up a rendezvous at point alpha: Town center. I returned to the city on the same bus
route that took me out of the city.
At first I was feeling very lost and confused, but now I was starting to
feel a little better. It is silly how
just knowing a bus route can make you feel as if you know what you are
doing.
After
riding that “known bus route” for an hour wondering where the damn
“city center” was, and after multiple friendly Icelanders kept
saying “next stop, soon,” I had made at least one complete route on
the bus. I was just going to get
off where it looked metropolitan enough to me.
Now
an hour after I was supposed to have already met Hans, I was only just
arriving. I figured it was too late
and I would just meet Hans back in our hometown of
Then,
in the middle of
Hans
said, “Hello, Craig.”
This
triggered a case of the willies up down my spine.
*****
So
we walked aimlessly around shooting off pictures. There were pictures of me standing next
to a boat, Hans standing next to a boat, now next to an Icelandic sign, and
then in front of a store. Hans
chose to be a part of the cheesy lean-out-and-smile-from-the-stationary-train
picture. I abstained.
After
a while, Hans and I decided to meet the girl that he was hanging out with here
in
We,
23 year old males, made a deal about Linda, “I won’t tell anyone
back home if you don’t tell anyone, deal?” Deal.
*****
Linda
mentioned to Hans that she wished he would speak with more of an American
accent and, even better, with all the Texan flavor he could muster. So, we intellectuals decided that I
should oblige and surprise our Linda, our Icelandic Hostess.
After
hopping around on buses, Hans and I arrived where Linda worked. We approached Linda. And, with the thickest Texan drawl
humanly possible, I introduced myself.
It went something like this,
“Howdy
partner, any lassie that’s a friend of Hans is a friend of mine. Now, I have got me a real hankering for
some BBQ, but this here country don’t have a damn lick of the
stuff…” < I don’t find this funny anymore…just cut
to next paragraph describing this …but not with quote>
About
right there, as I was looking at poor Linda’s soft, young, blank
Icelandic face, Hans erupted laughter through his nose. He effectively snotted all over
himself. Of course, I am an easily
impressed American whose sinus cavity is no stronger than Hans’. So, I too, erupted out all over my
lip. Still blank, young Linda was
starring at two recently met Americans and trying to make sense of this
American behavior. Quickly we
debriefed the situation and immediately ran away.
*****
Later
we were waiting for Linda at her house.
We stuffed ourselves with Icelandic chocolate. We ended up collapsing on her couches
and taking a nap. I was sure my
body had no idea what time it was.
3
Linda was back. I awoke fully rested and charged
up. We decided to go out and find
something to eat. There was this
American-themed pizza joint that had all these crazy pizza names like: The
Woodstock, The Rolling Stones, and, dear god, one was called The Pearl
Harbor! I imagined this
While
we were all sitting by the window just eating our pizza, I started to get this
odd feeling. People walking by were
more than just glancing into the restaurant. No, they were shamelessly staring,
wide-eyed and astonished. The
pedestrians were not staring with disgust, but rather with general
interest. It was as if I had a
broken arm, a black eye, or an obvious scar. Whatever it was, it would catch and
mesmerize the pedestrians walking by our window.
We
left the restaurant. As I walked
around, people continued to gawk.
It was like an old western movie; some new kid walking into town. As the new kid is approaching downtown,
people are whispering while someone runs ahead to tell others. But, now as I was walking, I saw people run in to stores to get the attention
of the store’s occupants.
Then the messenger would proceed to point out the window at innocent
little old me. I would catch the
whole group laughing in a wide mouth chorus.
It
was now approaching evening. Linda
decided to let us see the Icelandic nightlife by ourselves. This nightlife lasted a half-hour as I
realized that my key to my hostel was missing. We ended up needing to go back to
Linda’s place on a bus to look for my key. We had to run to get my keys and then
run back in time to catch the last bus back to my youth hostel.
*****
Wouldn’t
everyone want to sleep now? I mean,
it had only been my first day in
Arriving
at the youth hostel lobby, I found our recently discovered cousins still
talking, Jesus!!!! I head
upstairs.
No one else was asleep. So, I took this time to prepare a very
restful and comfortable bed. I
pulled out my down sleeping bag.
For this great night of slumber, I even put all the down in the down
sleeping bag at the bottom to make it extra comfy for my back. Mmmm,
sleep...sleep...
Of
course, as you can guess, I was not the most excited of travelers in regards to
our friend Optimistic Jimmy. Well,
as much as I would be glad for anyone to sleep as comfortably as me, I would
not make sure that everyone else knew it by snoring as ungodly loud as
possible. Jesus Jimmy! He rattled my bed, my brain, and my deep
sleep. Yet, even though he woke me,
I couldn’t just go and shut him up by jamming my fists up his nasal
passages.
Jimmy’s
snores shook me as he lay deep in sleep. Jimmy was even sleeping in a fetal
position. Jimmy's snoring was as if
he were trying to make as much noise as possible. I then started to wonder if he was
choking. His snoring was just that
bad! Thank god that eventually his
companion, frustrated as I, balled up a sock and threw it at him.
I
awoke many times during the night not knowing what time it was. The sunlight was no longer a reliable
indication of the time. At this
latitude, in the summer, there was sun light pretty much all the time.
I
awoke to find it 10:00am. Both of
my roommates were already shoveling down some oatmeal. So, I, being the conversationalist that
I sometimes can be, started their morning off with a
generic-tourist-on-vacation-morning greeting. I really didn’t want to bring up
anything about the noise quake last night.
“Ah,
what a great night’s rest,” I announced.
Wouldn’t
you know it? My loving friend,
Optimistic Jimmy responded, “Really, I couldn’t fall asleep at all
last night.”
Oh
yeah, right Jimmy. You were the
only one who got any damn sleep.
*****
Icelandic
water smells like poop. The tap
water in
Clean
and ready, I departed. I was going
back to Linda’s house. We had
all decided to head out to the famous Blue Lagoon. Of course, I had forgotten a pair of
swimming trunks, so I was forced into a more sexy option--my boxers. Adding to the sexy element was the fact
that my pee flap did not, and I repeat, did not have a button to keep it
closed. To add even more excitement
to this embarrassment, Hans and Linda had decided to bring along another girl
to witness my potential exposure.
Of all the boxers I had, which one did I get stuck sporting for this adventure? The most all-American boxers I could
find. All they read was,
“This buds for you.”
Woo wee. Hey, hello all you Icelanders! Guess who the dumb-ass American is?
*****
The
Blue Lagoon, to me, was the epitome of
What
a surreal experience this was. I
mean I’d seen pictures of the Blue Lagoon and yet, there I was in the
middle of a 3-D experience at the Blue Lagoon. It was like those old cheesy
children’s stories where a kid falls into a picture book to find
themselves experiencing each picture.
There
I was at a geothermal plant seeing Hans’ head bobbing up and down in this
phosphorus blue water against chunky green mountains.
Wow,
the water really was hot. Supposedly, it gets so hot that people
die. At least one person dies there
every summer. And, I thought the
shower water was stinky. The water
at the lagoon was the smelliest.
After this swimming treat, we went back
to Linda’s House. Tonight we
were really going to experience the Icelandic nightlife.
4
Before
going out, I had moved to the attic of a Guesthouse in the center of
This
was an odd situation because now would be a good time for me to introduce
hiccup #2. It was now Saturday
night, tomorrow was Sunday, and Monday was a national holiday. This would mean that the banks,
one’s lifeline for money, would be closed for two days. This, too, could only be a problem if
one had no foreign currency. One
might need foreign currency to maybe feed oneself, or to pay for a roof over
one’s head. Yes, I had no
money and no access to a bank for 2 days.
Thank the great credit card God.
I could only guess how much my credit card company would charge me for
these foreign exchange of goods. I
would charge $10 here, $15 there, and $20 there for Icelandic pastries. Mmm
good. I was having pastries for
pre-breakfast, breakfast, post-breakfast, lunch, dinner, and post-dinner...pastries, mmmm.
So, I had no hard
currency to pay for my rent at the Guesthouse. Needless to say, I was avoiding my
Guesthouse. I totally felt like
some crack-head with no money to pay my landlady.
This explained why I
had chosen these nights to explore the Icelandic nightlife. Also, the eternal sunlight made it easy
to accomplish this feat.
Icelandic
nightlife, what should I expect?
Same answer applies for what I should expect going to
*****
It
was 12am. Hans and I were ready to
get laid. Very quickly we realized
that this was not going to happen.
Everyone
was attractive, even the hefty ones.
I had stepped into beautiful world.
It was like some kind of GQ set.
Everyone, yes, everyone was in expensive and very stylish clothes. Well, except for me, who was in his
casual wear--jeans and a T-shirt.
It
ends up looking like this: The
13-18 year olds wear jeans and T-shirts.
Whereas, the 19-30 year-olds wear fancy and expensive clothes.
So
what did I look like? Basically, I
looked like an overgrown 23-year-old kid.
Well,
as the night went on, it got worse.
Hefty drunken girls kept hitting on me. Of course, no one I was looking at had
their eyes even 180 degrees in my direction. Yet, hefty drunk girls came a
running.
I
was the hefty-drunk-girl love magnet.
Wow, that magnet was strong.
Once the thick ladies swung past the electromagnetic waves, in the hefty
drunk girls would come and in they would unfortunately stay. When one hefty drunk girl would leave,
another, a team plot I tell you, would shuffle in trying her luck.
Oh
yeah, by the way, it was 5am. It
was light out and no one was going home.
We were in no hurry because Hans had no idea how to get home and the
buses didn’t start running until 7am. Okay, 5:30am the crowd was thinning.
*****
“Icelanders
are very lax with sex,” I
remembered Hans telling me. Okay, I
was feeling the time crunch. It was
time to act. I had to act quickly.
I
saw a target. She was mine. I had ammunition for conversation,
“When
do the buses start?”
Check,
ready, okay, here we go…
As
she briskly walked by, I had just enough time to tap her shoulder and lay it on
her,
“Excuse
me, but what time do the buses start?”
A
genuine question, and here comes her answer,
“
”
Here
is her answer one more time, folks,
“
”
Yep,
she was deaf and mute. Of all girls
I hit on, I ended up picking the damn Helen Keller of
*****
Okay,
it sucked and now I was done. I
wanted to go home-- no, not just to the hotel room, not even back to
*****
Slipping
into the guesthouse at 6am I was glad that no one was awake wondering where
their money was. Slumber was good
--so good that I slept in until 3pm.
5
Now,
I was up and off with Hans and Linda on our first hiking trip in
At
the park, we observed a waterfall.
We arrive at some wishing pool where witches were once drowned. We made some profound wishes like:
I
wished Hans would buy me a suit.
I
wished I were a Ninja.
Blah,
blah, blah.
I
was still recovering from the eventful and uneventful previous night. We were still tired, so, when we got
back I was off to sleep again.
*****
The
next day, we were ready for more outdoor activities. We decided to pick a mountain--any
mountain and climb it. Thank god I
was wearing my mountain gripping sneakers.
So, without water, a plan or good shoes, we were heading up the
mountain.
I was introduced to an old Icelandic
tradition of trickery. Every time I
asked if we were close to the top, other hikers responded as genuinely as all
possible,
"Oh
yes, very soon."
The
view was nice. We took
pictures. In Three and half-hours,
we were up and then back down at the car.
I am getting old so I was off to bed again.
6
Waking
up the next day, I knew the banks were open, yes, and that meant cash. On the way to the bank, I thought about
situations where I was prevented from exchanging my traveler’s
checks. I saw automatic sliding
doors going haywire and mashing my hands leaving me then unable to sign for my
traveler’s checks. And then,
how the bank would not accept my signature made with my pen in my mouth. I saw myself in the middle of nowhere
without any money. Trying to earn
money, I saw myself going to the Icelandic plasma stations. I saw myself in a factory shoveling fish
innards.
Fortunately,
the bank transaction was a success.
“Money,
please...thanks,” I said and left the bank.
I
paid the lady at the guesthouse.
Now, I was off to try the local Youth hostel that didn’t have any
vacancies when I had first arrived.
“Yes
we have rooms. You can put your
bags in the room, but we clean them from 11-4.”
Guess
what time it was. Good, right, you
are catching on; it was 10:55am.
Woo wee. So I dropped off my
bags and went back into town to meet Hans.
*****
We
had an agenda. Today was museum
day. First we were off to the
Reykjavik Museum of Photography.
Damn,
and what an impressive museum it was.
I am surprised it was not internationally recognized. I mean, they had selected not on
quantity but on quality. They
selected the best damn 15 pictures I had ever seen. What an efficient idea this was. There was no need to build a new
separate building for the photography museum either. No, best to save space in this over
crowded island and put this prolific museum as the lobby to a business. Thank god they put a complete coffee
table full of photography books of other museums so visitor’s time
wasn’t wasted. I think people
were quite surprised that not only one, but two, tourists had actually visited
this colossal museum. We stayed a
good two minutes.
We
were now off to the
*****
In
my room at the Youth hostel, I met a Danish guy. This Danish guy had just finished
working on an Icelandic farm for three months. He went on to tell me that he had
learned to communicate with the cows by emulating their snout twitches and
snorting. As impressed as I was, I
could not partake in communicating in this manner.
*****
Here
is a circular argument:
“Why
did you come to
“I
don’t know,” I responded.
“Do
you know any Icelandic?”
“No.”
“So
why did you come to
“I
don’t know.”
“Do
you know any Icelandic?”
"No."
*****
I
napped for a little while. Well, as
much as one can nap with three other people loading and unloading their
gear. Forger it, no sleep now.
Later,
Hans wanted to treat Linda and I to Mexican food. When we arrived at the
restaurant, Hans was having second doubts about treating everyone when each
meal cost $17.
So
we ordered. My food arrived and poof $17 worth of food gone in 2 minutes
flat. Actually, Hans and Linda
could not finish their food, so I ate $25 worth of food in less than three
minutes, mmm.
Hans
and I left Linda as we went for coffee.
Coffee, that was stupid. I
didn’t need anything else to help disrupt my sleep schedule.
Heading
back to the Hostel at 1am I discovered Optimistic Jimmy and his buddy. Good for Optimistic Jimmy, he had found
his old farm and some third or fourth cousins. We exchanged stories. I warned them about the overload of
excitement at the Reykjavik Museum of Photography, and recommended that they
stop by the
(Not
magnified)
These
curtains were to block out something—obviously not sunlight. So, my room was as white as:
Add
to this, that next door, through acoustically transparent cinder blocks, were 8
Asians having some kind of mafia meeting laughing and chuckling. Oh, and in the morning it seemed as if
some young kid had a nightmare and wanted to let everyone know.
That
was an acoustic graph of the scream.
So, I had no real option by then but to get up. I left for a grocery store and bought
some granola cereal. At least, I
assumed it was some kind of granola cereal. After tasting it, I seriously considered
that the label said in Icelandic, BIRD
FOOD, not for human consumption.
Danger: Tastes like shit.
I gagged it down anyway. Off
I went to meet Hans.
7
Today
was a special day for Hans. Today
we were going to hook up with a member from the old band The Sugarcubes. No, it
wasn’t Bjork.
We
were walking down the main drag. It
was 2 hours before we were supposed to meet up with this member of the
Sugarcubes. We heard someone
calling Han’s name from a traffic stop. Of course, it was the previously
mentioned band member. Our host
said hello, and we confirmed our appointment. Later, I was asking Hans where he met
this guy. Hans replied,
“Over
the Internet.”
“So,
this sugarcubes guy has never actually seen you?”
“Never.”
“Wow, it must be
so obvious that we are foreigners that, from his car, he could identify us on a
crowded street.”
So, I responded by
purchasing a hat.
It looked a little like a Viking hat, but it
was made of knitted wool. The hat
was very Scandinavian.
*****
We just ended strolling around until it was
time to meet our guest from the Sugarcubes. He had brought his kid, whose name was
cactus, yes, like the plant:
I don’t know if that is typical in
*****
Boy,
did I sleep! Thanks to Hans, later
that night, a cute receptionist came to wake me up and to inform me that I had
a phone call. No time for dinner,
but thank goodness I had that gourmet bird-food cereal.
So I meet Hans
downtown. It was nothing real
exciting. We went and got coffee at
a place called Café Frank. I
do not know if this was in honor of Ann Frank or what. Anyway, we got to talking and drinking
coffee and as it got closer to the time for the last bus I did not want to
go. I actually was looking forward
to walking home--relaxation and tranquillity. In sunlight, at 1am, we started walking
home. I guess this sounds stupid,
but, it seemed a lot shorter from the bus--it took damn forever. Worst of all, I had to take the biggest
poop ever. The poop was like some
kind of Thor driven boulder pressing for day light between each stride I
made. Thirty minutes like this. It was not good.
Well,
at least when I finally got back to the Hostel things were finally quiet so
that I could rest easier. Though,
when I lay down, it triggered the sign for everyone to find ways to prevent me
from sleeping. Someone, I
didn’t know who, was snoring with such low frequencies that it could have
been coming from anywhere. Walls,
brick, wood, earplugs, lead walls, nothing would have stopped those snoring
sounds. Eventually, I learned how
to breath in as the snore started, in effect, slightly muffling the ferocious
snore.
Unfortunately,
soon my new bunk buddies joined in with the nightly snoring ensemble. This one guy in my room must have been
dreaming he was running; he kept panting excessively. Then he would stop. Is that good? No.
He would actually stop breathing all together. So, there I would listen, hoping
ironically that he would start breathing again so I wouldn’t have to go
over there and provide CPR. Did he
start breathing again? Did he
ever! He would start even faster,
in the manner of a drowning victim finally brought out of the water and to the
shore. Somehow I slept.
8
“Hallo,
Kreg, telefon…”
“Ah,
yes, thanks.”
So
Hans was waiting on the phone. I splashed my face with water and stumbled down
stairs.
We
were going off to see another sculpture museum and a church. We snapped off a stream of
photographs. We definitely showed our
tourist side today. Oh, and by the
way, yesterday my strap for my backpack broke.
We
were hanging out at the bus stop and I noticed some Icelandic cutie. With a lame tourist excuse, I asked her
where I could get a pin or some glue to fix my bag.
Laugh,
giggle, and that was it.
Was
she nervous? Did she not understand
me? Either way, I was no closer to
fixing my backpack or getting laid.
Whoa
hold on, a hardware shop. Yes,
ingenious, a screw, a nut, 2 washers and my backpack was fixed.
We
were heading to a café to celebrate the work on my bag when we saw the
most amazing thing. What more could
I ask for? Could I be reading it
correctly? Why was this not in my Icelandic guide?
THE
A
penis museum! It was as if my
subconscious had asked itself what I would most like to see while alive in this
reality. Then, somehow my
subconscious created this museum just for me! My god, how could so much good karma all
come to just one point? This was
not anything like the photograph museum where there were only 15 pictures and
1,000 books about pictures. No,
they had all but one specie native to
The
owner was still waiting on the human penis. He had the invisible man’s
penis. Yeah, yeah, ha, ha, real
funny, that was what I thought, too.
The human penis he was waiting on was of this renowned Icelandic
womanizer. This womanizer,
supposedly, had a big schlong. The
owner of the penis museum even had a certificate with a signature from the big
schlong guy and signatures from two of his doctors.
I
must have shot 20 pictures there at that god-blessed museum. I wanted to talk with the owner, trying
to get him to realize that surely we
were cousins. Eventually, after two
hours, we left and headed to the café to further celebrate our day.
9
Yes! The girl from earlier that day was at
the café. I showed her my
handy work that I did on my bag.
Giggle,
giggle.
I
was thinking of something to say to her.
“Did
you know there is a penis museum here?”
She
giggled and laughed.
After
getting that intellectual topic rolling, I went on to tell her about all the
penises that were there.
Giggle,
giggle, laugh.
I
was beginning to doubt how much English she spoke.
Giggle,
giggle, laugh.
So,
Hans I went and found our own table.
I
had already drank too much coffee, and now I needed to piss a storm. So, I was off to the bathroom. I closed the bathroom door. Click
the door shut and locked. I now
noticed that there was no doorknob on the inside of this bathroom. Shit,
I pissed knowing that I was locked in the bathroom. Damn it. I attempted the tried-and-not-so-true-Magnum-P.I.-credit-card trick.
Negative, it didn’t work.
I was still stuck inside the bathroom.
Okay, 10 minutes later,
I had jimmy rigged a door handle and broke out of the holding cell. I celebrated my escape by eating
Hans’ fries.
We didn’t stay at
the Café that long. That day
we were going to some music fest, so off we went.
10
Previously we had tried
to get some back stage passes for this fest from the Sugarcubes guy, but it
didn’t work out. So, we
checked out the prices for the fest.
Each day was broken up into two parts. From 6pm - 9pm, there were experimental
acts on a small stage. Later, from
9pm - 12pm there was a large stage for bigger bands.
Of
course, there was a price for each part, $7 and $12 respectably. Did I mention that those prices were for
each night--three nights in a row?
This gave us a grand total of too much money for bands I had never heard
of and couldn’t even pronounce.
Standing there, being told the price, and how they did not sell a 3-day
discount pass, I realized I was not going to pay for any tickets.
Click, I
don’t really know what happened next.
With some weird Mentos inspired moment
and Hans’ impromptu idea, I ran up to two people working at the
fest.
I
started talking in the most assertive American I could,
“Hi,
Craig Downing, from
I
was directed upstairs to talk to Baldur, the event manager. I was still watching myself walk upstairs,
talking, moving, and "getting things done”.
I
burst into a room. In the room,
there were some computers and people working and shuffling papers.
Here
we go again. I watched myself spurt
off,
“Media? I am looking for Baldur.”
Baldur
stepped forward. I approached,
stern, American, and confident with hand out,
“Hi,
Craig Downing,
Baldur
was very supportive. He asked
exactly who we represented. I just rattled
off some local ‘zines I knew of back in
“College?”
he inquired.
I
informed him that it was an underground culture magazine. Zing,
zang, kabang.
The next thing I knew
Baldur handed us two “All Area Access” passes. Woo wee! He also informed us that blah,
blah… I was lost in “All
Area Access” heaven. I
stopped hearing anything Baldur said soon after I touched the passes.
Blah,
blah, went Baldur.
Yes,
right, uh, huh, we responded.
Then,
Hans and I were walking through the gates for free. Hans and I immediately ran to the
bathroom for a secret success meeting with high-fives all around.
11
At
the music fest, the small stage had some interesting acts. We watched in the dark, nervous and shy
about our “All Area Access” passes. We were wondering how much did
“All Area Access” mean?
Did it mean entrance to the backstage, special exclusive parties, free
gourmet food, and art orgies?
The small stage show
was over. We followed the crowd
out. Some of the festival’s
crew spotted our passes and invited us away from the crowd to have first pick
for seats at the big stage show, which started in half an hour.
Some
bands played on the main stage but nothing exciting except one band, Vinyll,
who was quite good. I was feeling a
little press-like. We observed how
the “All Area Access” pass did include backstage. So, I went to try out our press persona
back stage. Swoosh, I was sucked into media world. Somehow people really thought I was a
journalist from
I
looked for and found Vinyll. I was
trying to get some free albums from the band for my “article”. Oh, they were so helpful. They informed me of the time for their
press conference. I finished making
contacts and walked out of the green room.
Oh
yeah, I had pulled out this note pad to add to my journalist look. I took notes here, notes there, all for
my chief editor who was still stateside.
Outside, in the common area, I joined up
with Hans. We bumped into a guy
named Curver who had played some experimental guitar stuff on the small stage
early that day. Curver started up a conversation with the
I
was bored. I went returned to the
backstage room. I had my notepad
ready--ready to make someone a star.
There
was no one that I wanted to talk to.
Noticing all the computers backstage, I started asking questions. I discovered that the festival was being
broadcast live over the Internet.
“Maybe
5,000 people by Saturday,” the technician informed me.
Then,
out of no where, came this 35-year-old, hot, sporty lady toting a very fancy
Canon camera. She asked me some
questions about who I was.
“Oh,
yes, my name? I am Craig Downing from
After
I answered her questions, out of journalism camaraderie, I asked her some
questions.
It
ended up that her fancy camera was actually a fancy digital camera. A roaming digital camera to complement
the 35mm film cameras I had seen set up for the show. These film cameras were being used for
the full feature documentary film they were making of the festival. She let me know that she was in charge
of getting roaming shots and statements from behind the festival scene.
*****
Later
that night at Linda’s house, Hans and I were sitting around still not
quite believing that we had pulled off this big ol’ lie. Now realizing the seriousness of what we
had gotten ourselves into, I checked the notes from Baldur. Ah…did I mention that we were in
over our heads?
“Hans,
we’re in over are heads.”
In
that “All Area Access” bliss, Baldur was setting up interviews,
times, contacts, etc. It ended up
that Hans and I had an interview with the big headlining band of the whole
fest, some international band called Gus Gus.
*****
The
first night was over and everyone was going to a café to unwind. As “press”, we were
obligated to go. The café
was packed. There was a line. Eventually, we were allowed in. Unfortunately, the only seats available
were jammed in a corner behind an obstructing pillar, hence their
availability.
Ah,
and Curver, the market-his-own-music slickster, recognized us and came over to
speak with us. In conversation, it
was discovered that his band name was the same name of the Icelandic national
refuse company. Did he worry of
lawsuit here? No, ironically
instead of potential suit, the refuse company gave him company stickers,
banners, buttons and even a card that allowed him 20% off their products.
Somehow
my conversation with Curver moved to groupies. Curver joked how few girls there were
for an experimental music artist.
With my experiences concerning Icelandic women, I told him to try being
a foreigner. Here comes some
Icelandic sarcasm for you.
Curver
stated, “No, no you could get any girl here because you are a
foreigner.”
He
went on to tell me that to help himself get laid he puts on a sailor suit when
ships come into port and walks around town. Together, we kept on complaining about
the difficulties in getting laid.
Curver
stated, “Seriously, you could get any girl here because you are a
foreigner. Here I’ll show
you, my friend, how easy it is for you to get laid.”
Curver
proceeded to invite over the ugliest Icelandic girl yet. Whoa,
shit, abort, sailor, abort. I
quickly told Curver I’d meet him at another café later, and I left
before my gift arrived. I high tailed it to another café,
Café Barrin.
At
this other cafe, there easily could have been a line, but instead, there was a
mob. Of course, hips and tits were
immune to waiting, and females were invited to just walk right in. I noticed while standing in the mob,
that the waiting mob was composed entirely of guys squirming and pushing to get
into the entertainment. After
trying my “All Area Access” pass, I had visions of sperms fighting
for an egg; all squirming and pushing to get in and score. I left.
12
Waking
up, I realized that tomorrow we had an interview with the biggest band in
*****
Later
we went back to the fest. I had now
added my camera to my journalist costume.
I was ready for the second night of our facade. There were some interesting bands on the
small stage and then a hot girl on the main stage. I was obligated to interview her.
I
ran backstage after the show. I
darted between hopeful Icelandic musicians and found hot girl. By the way, her show sucked. It was her and some dorky retired,
dungeons-and-dragons, geeky-looking guy.
They had these pagan guys spitting fire and other stuff to cover up the fact
that their music sucked.
So,
I was about to highlight this hot girl when geek guy stepped in and started
answering all my probing questions.
I was acting interested as all hell. Finally, I stroked this guy’s ego
enough that he finally stepped down, and I got to talk to hot girl. You
were great, blah, blah. What a presence you had, blah, blah.
Best show yet, blah, blah,
great use of fire to complement the awesome music, blah, blah.
We
talked, but the “All Area Access” pass was not as granting as I
would have fantasized. Of course,
while I was talking to that hot girl, her record label manager came nosing
around asking me questions. I had
to go. I left telling her how great
the band was…blah, blah.
I
was trying to get away from this record label guy when out of nowhere I heard,
“Say
something to the world!”
What?
Remember
that live Internet feed? Well, the
Internet crew acquired a cable hook up to a camera and went mobile to interview
people. Guess who was first?
I
turned around. There was the media
crew, wide-eyed and smiling, looking at me as if I were about to pull a rabbit
out of my flat American ass or something.
“Ah…hey,”
I was stunned.
“Tell
the world where you are from.”
Shit.
“
“And,
why are you here?”
I
rattled off my press package, Jesus.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t over yet! There was another tap on my
shoulder. There were more
paparazzi.
“An
official statement about the festival for the film!”
Now
film cameras were pointing at me!
Jesus, this facade was getting a little out of hand. There I was, a cheap-ass dork, in the
middle of a circle of record label managers, a live international Internet
feed, and a 35mm film crew.
13
Back
at Linda’s, later that night, I was thinking of more questions to ask a
band that we had never heard of. We
decided to bring Linda to the interview just in case they started talking in
Icelandic.
The
next morning, we prepared for the big interview with a gut full of French
fries, cool sunglasses, a note pad, an old ‘70’s canon camera, and
a big fucking smile. We were off to
the interview of the century.
We
arrived. There was a change of
plans. Baldur didn’t
introduce us to Gus Gus. No,
instead, we were introduced to the 4AD record label representative for Gus
Gus. Not that our questions for Gus
Gus were the only questions we
had! Shit, what the hell are we going to do? Here we go. Just
think stern handshakes, smile, scribble, and snap pictures--think convincing,
just be convincing.
“Hey,
I am Craig Downing,
Yes, knock out
professionalism, baby! Well, that
was about the extent of this “knock-out professionalism”, too. Baldur and the 4AD guy, Rich, decided to
go somewhere for lunch. I was glad
that we were staying in public areas.
I just kept on thinking that our facade was wearing more and more
thin. I was afraid they were just
going to jump us.
The interview
sucked. It was so obvious that we
had no idea what we were talking about concerning Gus Gus. I kept wanting to talk to the 4AD guy
about the Pixies.
*****
It was the last night
of the festival and Gus Gus was headlining. After the show, Hans and I were suppose
to interview the band. We had been hanging
out with Curver who had ended up being a really great guy. So great that we had even let him in on
our secret. He didn’t care. He thought it was funny.
My
god, Gus Gus was popular! At the
show, it seemed like all of
Okay,
the show was big, but Gus Gus sucked!
Curver told us that Linda was there and soon after that, she found
us. She had brought her friend
Lilja. Did I mention we had an
interview with Gus Gus after the show?
Of course, we just took off as fast as we could before the show ended.
We sped off in
Lilja’s car. Hans and I
ripped off our “All Area Access” passes and revealed to Linda and
Lilja that we were not really rock-star-celebrity journalists from Rolling Stones
Magazine. In fact, we were really
just Hans and Craig all along.
Linda and Lilja were both glad to have the regular Craig and Hans back.
14
Late
after the music fest, we had decided to go downtown. First, we were off to pick
up Lilja’s boyfriend, some sailor guy. He was one up on us
all--half-drunk! He furthers the
tourist’s myth with this famous Icelandic joke.
“How
does a foreign male get laid in
Ha,
ha.
Icelandic sarcasm, I tell you.
Great he, too, was in on the tourist myth.
We
parked. We were off for
downtown. Sailor boy was quite
randy, loud and drunk. He was
bringing a lot of unwanted attention.
Implement operation: Ditch the rowdy sailor.
“Hey
Hans and I are going to get some coffee, if you guys (no, not you sailor boy)
get bored then meet us at café Frank.”
Success! Hans and I left. Now, all Lilja and Linda had to do was
catch on to our genius, dump the sailor boy and meet us at café Frank
for some good 2-males-2-females fun.
Café
Frank was without one single spare chair.
Shit, shit, the plan, the
plan! The plan was falling
apart. The sailor was winning. Implement emergency get-girls-back
plan.
We
went out combing the area looking for the rest of our team. No luck and then we saw Linda getting
into Lilja’s car about to leave.
There was no time to assess the environment. We had to act in haste. In fact, there was no time to notice
that sailor boy was being dropped off curbside. Here comes operation: Slick.
This
next part happened so very fast.
Sailor boy was being dropped off from one side of the car. Hans and Craig jumped into the car from
the other side. Lilja hit the
gas. All passengers tumbled and
rolled around squealing with laughter.
This
all could not have been accomplished in any more Ninja style--complete
perfection. Now it was two girls
and two guys in a car. It was early
night…yes! We decided to get
a movie.
*****
All
was great until at the last minute, as we pulled up to Linda’s house with
the movie, Lilja bailed out, damn, damn, damn. Well, it ended up that both females were
real exciting. Linda liked the movie so much she was
snoring 10 minutes into it.
15
The
next day I was off to purchase supplies for the big haphazard trip around the
island that we planned to take. I
had started my search looking for a gas cooker. I was told to get on this certain bus
and to tell the bus driver that I needed to go to a camping store. So, I did.
On
the bus, driving around, it started to look a little familiar, actually. Oh wow, I was at the good old Youth
hostel. Wow, the camping store was
next to the Youth hostel. The bus
driver called me up and points to the Youth hostel,
“Camping
there,” he said.
No, damn it! I try again,
“No, no, camping
shop--store.”
“Ah,
yeah, yeah,” he understood me now and we were off.
Okay
this bus driver had this great sense of humor; he pulled along side the only
mall on the island,
“Store,
shops here.”
Shit, this was the end of his bus
line. I just had to get off this
fella’s bus. So, I jumped off
the bus to find my camp burner by myself.
I ended up walking all around town.
I eventually found a camping store.
Ah, I found a nice simple gas cooker. Slip
went the credit card and the camping burner was mine.
*****
“Hans,
how much is 9,200 kronur in dollars?”
“About
$140”
$140 for a gas cooker, no way! I could not sleep at all that
night. Did the store clerk know I
was leaving soon? Was that his last
day at work? Was he pocketing some large cut of my $140 for a
“simple” gas cooker?
Oh, what a cooker it was!
The cooker looked as if someone had unbent a coat hanger and put a burner
in the middle, as a matter fact, I grabbed it because it looked to be the
simplest and cheapest burner displayed.
So, you can believe I was back at that store at 8am the next morning
ready to exchange.
*****
After
the exchange that morning, I had been invited by Linda’s grandpa to come
over and taste some famous Icelandic rotten shark meat. Rotten, yep, that is what I wrote, a
national delicatessen, you know.
Before we left Lilja showed up for the entertainment. Vroom,
vroom, and off to grandpa’s we all went.
16
“Hey
Lilja would you pay 9,200 kronur for a gas camping cooker?”
Giggle,
giggle.
Linda’s
grandpa was excited to see us. He
had hand picked some of the finest rotten shark meat in the country. To my understanding, normally they let
the shark meat rot, not for a couple of days. No, no, where is the flavor there? Try three months. Well ends up, as a special treat, gramps
had found festering shark meat that had been left to rot for 6 months. Thanks
gramps.
As
I waited in grandpa's living room, I knew when he had retrieved the shark
meat--I could smell the rotten treat as he appeared from the kitchen. I guess the crowd could sense my
instinctual hesitation, but Gramps assured me,
“Look
at me, I am old and strong, shark meat--shark meat I tell you.”
Linda
pulled me aside,
“You
do not have to eat it. They would
understand.”
Chicken
out now? No way, I swore that I
would try it, damn it.
Okay,
Gramps ate his piece first. He did
not keel over and die. He was
actually smiling. He then
announced,
“Big
and strong, mmm, shark meat.”
Of
course, he was also spurting out flakes of shark meat as he spoke. Maybe it was actually good. I mean, rotten berry juice is wine and
that is quite popular. This shark
stuff might actually be good. Pass
that over gramps!
*****
Okay,
you know when you burn yourself, how your hand pulls itself away from the heat
source involuntarily before you sense the pain? My whole body did just that as it
sensed, before I did, how strong and pungent the shark meat actually was. Out of some insane politeness, I kept my
body from jerking back. What was I
thinking? This
“delicatessen” was strong.
All my neurons and nerve endings were trying to override my decision of
putting this decaying shark flesh in my mouth. The same thing your body would do if you
were to try and put, say something like, poop in your mouth.
Soda? Ready. Camera? Check. I brought the shark corpse closer to my
mouth. My soul had left my
body.
Even
before it was in my mouth, my eyes had glazed over with fluid. Linda, Hans, Lilja, grandma, gramps and two
cameras were all watching. Why
gramps, he was even leaning in with my bite, watching wide-eyed, as if I were
about to taste some new recipe of his.
Against all survival messages in my brain, slap, I shoved the rancid shark nugget into my mouth. 
How was the taste? The shark meat did not classify as a
taste, more of a sense. In high
school, if you have ever dissected pigs, rats, fish or even shark, then you know
the sense. It was straight
formaldehyde with a chase of ammonia.
So, there the decomposing shark meat sat burning through my tongue and
my throat. My throat muscles were
rippling to launch back the shark meat back to the sea where it belonged--not
in my mouth!
I
had seen pictures of protesting Buddhist monks that pour gas over themselves
and then ignite it. The Buddhist
monks did not budge a single follicle as their flesh melts away. Not that I am a Zen master, but some how
I managed to look at gramps, while chewing mind you, and actually say,
“Ah,
not bad…”
There,
right there at that point in time folks, I should have earned some
international “good guy” award from my U.S./Iceland
ambassador. Okay, now, I was
wondering how long I had to live; an hour, two hours, 24 hours?
Here
comes the part where, looking back now, I know for a fact that I went
momentarily insane. Instead of
saying thank you, please visit me sometime in the states and leaving, I put my
toothpick back in the serving bowl and skewered another piece. Yes, I skewered another piece of the
delicacy. To look at it? You ask.
No, not to look at, no.
I…put another piece in my mouth. Yes, cabin fever, lost marbles, seasonal
affliction, under the weather, call it what you will, but I was for that
instant, INSANE. Why? I just don’t know.
Gramps
was so happy. He was so proud that
he even said that I was now half Icelandic. Yeah, that is right buddy, you better
believe it!
Linda was eager to
leave. So, soon after that trauma,
we left. God, all I wanted to do
was brush my teeth with Drano, but instead I chewed ten Certs breath mints to
combat the shark taste in my mouth.
I was afraid to move my tongue, lest I stir up remnants of shark
residue. Now off to get supplies
for a week of camping.
17
After
purchasing pasta, ramen, and Snickers bars, I was packed and ready for camping.
Here
are my comments on the camping phase of the trip. Was I prepared? Mmm, I was kind of prepared. Here is my philosophy on camping. If you don't almost die, it is no
fun. This was coming from me, the
camping genius, who went down into the
The
bus left. We were on it. Check, good. Beautiful landscape and I felt as if I
had a hang-over from the two hours of sleep from the night before. I tried to get some sleep on the
bus. Because of the sunlight, I had
placed my jacket over me to form a tee pee. Hans said the bus driver kept wondering
if I had paid or sneaked on using my tee pee to hide. Yeah, with the teepee jacket over my
eyes I was thinking I can not see you,
therefore you can not see me.
Finally,
I woke up still under my tee pee. I
looked over to find Hans mourning over his walkman.
Without
having to say this every time my eyes were open, here is the perpetual comment
for Icelandic scenery: It is absolutely beautiful. There, now I don’t have to say it
every time and bore you.
*****
Our
first stay was at National Park with a huge glacier. I had some kind of national geographic
bug or something. I was feeling
rather rash. I was trying to
convince Hans that we should step off the bus, walk up that damn glacier, find
some snow and pitch our tent. Oh
yeah, what a picture: Two young lads nestled in mummy bags, a burner, a tent,
and white gleaming snow, all framing your everyday urban eagle scouts.
Hans
snapped me out of my national geographic fantasy and lured me to set up tent at
the regular campsite so we could see how cold it really was before challenging
the glacier. So we set up the
tent. As all the other tents are
taut and tight across their poles, ours was loose and flapping in the wind.
*****
After
our amateur tent was set up, we were rearing to go on a hike. So, off we went. No sooner did we leave did it start to
drizzle. Drizzle is not bad as long
as you have extra clothes or hiking boots.
You guessed it; I had no back up attire. I only had sneakers and one pair of
Levi’s corduroy pants to my name.
Did I turn around? Now the
theme was high adventure. Soaked,
we trudged on.
Hans
had prepared a little bit better than I had. Hans had some $170 Gore-Tex all-weather
jacket. So, he was sporting that
against the rain. What did I have
on for a jacket? Folks, I had a
thrift store found employee issued American Airline's jacket.
We
eventually reached the highlight of the trail, a water fall, mmm, and now back to camp. I had now pulled my arms out of the
sleeves for warmth. Back at camp,
the wind had picked up. By the way,
wetness + wind = extreme cold. So I
took refuge under the hand warmers in the bathroom.
Okay,
that night I was lying in the tent all night wondering if it were safe being
able to see my breath in the tent.
Furthermore, I was wondering, do
damp clothes dry when it is cold?
After
a cold night, there is nothing like waking up to put on damp clothes and eating
a Snickers bar for breakfast. My
clothes were damp as all get-out!
And where did we decide to go?
The glacier.
This
was actually fun, but way up on the glacier, we were wondering why we were
hearing running water. After
finding holes in the surface of the glacier, Hans and I realized the water was
running through the glacier. So,
half a mile up on the glacier, we were realizing we should defiantly consider
getting off the glacier. High
adventure.
18
We
survived the glacier, packed up and hopped on the bus. We were off to a place that though spelt
Hofn was pronounced like a genuine hiccup.
Okay
a little geography for you.
*****
The
next day we were up and off to a small remote town that we read had a W.W.II museum
and a hot spring at the top of some hill.
For some reason, no one else got off at this town and the bus driver
kept checking to make sure we had the right stop. We set up at our free campsite and were
off to find the W.W.II museum and the
Well,
ends up the museum did not open until July and,
“
*****
Okay,
this town had to be the shyest town we had ever been to in
Bed
is normally when one falls asleep.
Me, a natural veteran of nighttime, meaning dark, well I was having
trouble sleeping in the midnight sun.
At this point, I was still not really sure how much I had slept. So, like a town’s resident madman,
I just started wondering around the town.
This was quite surreal; everything was still. There was no one around. I could see cars and boats, factories
and tractors, but, in the light and long shadows, not a soul. I kept imagining I was in a town wiped
out by a virus and I was the lone survivor. Walking eventually made me sleepy. I dragged myself back to the tent and
finally slept.
The
bus would not come for another day and being as we did not quite enjoy the
first day I would be damned if we were going to stay for another day. So, we started hitchhiking. We hitched hiked with a teacher into the
next town.
19
In
this next town we had made the acquaintance of Seth, from
“So,
Seth, why are you here?”
“I
don’t know.”
We
accepted him. We were all off to
*****
The
bus driver was definitely a personality.
He was this really great happy guy who loved talking over the bus'
P.A. He continued to yap for the
whole trip.
The
bus was so stuffed that Hans’ backpack and my backpack were in the
aisle. The absence of space had
made the bus quite personal. I
smelt Germans, I saw Asians, and I heard Australians.
The
road, or what ever we were driving on, was some kind of unpaved gravel path
that led us through the wilderness.
It was a horizon of just lava-gravel, not one piece of vegetation, just
rock piles. It looked so much like
the moon that Neil Armstrong and his crew actually had trained there.
Now
the windows were dust covered and one could barely see out of the bus. Here in the middle of all this dreary
desolation, in a crowded bus, on a gravel road in the middle of nowhere, our
bus driver had just finished telling us about the moon training when he decided
that it was not fair that our view was “not so good”. He felt bad. The bus diver thought that to better the
situation he would sing an old traditional Icelandic song to the
passengers.
At
first, I thought I would start laughing.
I mean, some guy, who couldn’t stop talking who just liked to hear
himself talk, wanted to sing over the bus intercom--please, come on. When he started singing, it
happened. Something that might have
serendipitously been the greatest reason for me going to
One
could have recorded the bus driver’s singing. One could have even sung the song
again. But, out there in the middle
of “moon land”, in a bus barreling through desolation, it was the
most amazing thing ever. The driver
was using an old-school principal’s microphone and was singing his heart
out in native Icelandic. No one
else was there but us. It was the
most amazing thing. The singing was
so amazing that I, out of happiness, started crying; I didn’t see it
coming and couldn’t help it.
It was such a great moment.
I
was not the only one who felt it.
When the bus driver stopped, the whole bus, like a huge auditorium, just
exploded with applause and general hoopla.
Nothing could have touched that experience. It was the most natural and authentic
traveling experience ever and no one was there on that gravel road in the
middle of that bleak landscape but us.
After
such an event, I felt like if I had gone home right then that I still would
have felt like I had experienced all of
One
stop on our bus route was a crossroads of other buses. It was amusing to see all us back packers
in one room eating cheap fries and all diligently reading the same Lonely
Planet
Later
on the bus, our stop came and our star bus driver dropped us off at
Talking
to Seth was sexually very therapeutic.
Seth was also not getting the true “Icelandic
experience”. It was good to
hear that I wasn't the only one not getting laid. He, too, was getting nowhere. Good, it was not just me. We came to a consensus that there must
have been a group of Americans that went through this island making complete
asses of themselves and basically ruining it for us.
The
next morning we all were off to this huge black crater. We discovered steam spots on the way to
the crater but otherwise it was just a long walk. The crater in itself was great
though. The crater was a huge rise
with a hole in the center.
The
crater was great acoustically because you could scream in it and it would echo
most indefinitely. The only
unfortunate part was that some real intelligent people had, with light colored
rocks, put wise words on the crater’s floor bottom like:
Peace
and love
John
and Mary
So,
back to the camp. On the way back
we found another lagoon. This
lagoon definitely was more credible.
There was water down in this spooky cave, but 50 degrees Celsius said we
were not going in it.
Back
at the camp site, we bumped into some Swiss guys, who informed us that the next
big city was where the girls were at and chicks were more receptive (wink,
wink). Seth would meet up with us
in Akuryi, this next big town, but the next stop for Hans and I was a crater
garden.
20
On
the way to this stop, the bus was crowded again, but this sharp bus driver decided
to stop and pick up two people hitchhiking. He put their bags on the bus. The hitchhikers sat down and then this
clever bus driver told the hitchhikers how much their ride would cost
them. Upon telling the bus driver
that they were hitchhiking, hence the thumb out (the international sign, mind
you), the bus driver promptly removed their bags and then the hitchhikers. A good chuckle was had by all the
passengers—but wait, the real chuckle was on Hans and I.
We
got off at the next stop. No one else
got off the bus. 8 people came
running up to the bus as if it were some UN relief bus.
The
bus left. One blink and everything
was fine. The next blink and there
were 10 flies in my eye, four in my ears and a herd just waiting for me to open
my mouth. It was a damn epidemic I
tell you. We ran. Buzzzzzzzzzz. They followed. We tried evasive action, faking left,
going right, back pedal, juke, balk...
We
knew that refuge could only be our tent.
In
record time, we set up our tent, jumped in and sealed the air-bug-lock. We read that these flies were attracted
to the carbon dioxide that we were emitting from our lungs. Buzzzzzz,
went the bugs all around the perimeter of our tent. We were trapped. Yet, we still had to go
to the warden and pay for our
campsite.
We
had to get to the campsite warden and back with the least amount of orifice
irritation.
Plan:
We got our wool Icelandic hats. We
put the head part over our mouths and used the straps to tie them on around our
heads—basically wearing the hats upside down. This technique effectively sealed our
mouths, eyes and ears. We also had
decided to hold our breath. Go!
We
burst out of the tent in Olympic style, go,
go, go! Bzz, bzz, bzzz. We
spun, leapt, and twisted, with our lungs full of precious carbon dioxide. Run,
run! Off we ran. Like the peanuts characters, Pigpen, we
were followed by what looked to be a huge gray cloud of dirt.
We
made it to the warden’s house.
The campsite warden opened the door to find two American kids with
native wool caps tied to their faces.
There we stood decked in flies.
“Two
people (swat), one (swat) tent,” we stated.
I
couldn’t just stand there any more.
Now I was leaping up doing karate kicks. I just couldn’t take all these
flies. She went on to rattle off a
very expensive price for our evening.
I guess with us being her only two guests for the whole season she found
it necessary to cover some costs and take us for as much as she possible could.
“Ahhhh,
(swat) ah, my seal, my seal is broken,” I announced as one fly somehow
breached the barrier and made it into my ear. I spun out of formation leaving Hans to
pay the lady.
“How,
(swat) do you (swat)… survive with all these flies (swat)…?”
I stammered out.
She
answered in surprise, “Oh, there are not so many flies…”
There
it was again, that Icelandic sarcasm!
Jesus lady! Not so many flies? Say that again with your mouth open
just a little bit wider! Not so many flies!
We
ran off to the tent.
Of
course, we had found a little trick for dealing with the bugs. The procedure was as follows. We ran around in circles. We darted off to a spot farthest from
where we really needed to go. We
blew out as much CO2 as possible. When the flies all caught up to us, we
ran straight for the tent, dove in and sealed away the enemy before they caught
up with us.
This
spot was so unpleasant that we were considering hitching out to another town
right away, but any more exposure to the flies, even to pack up and get the
hell out, was just too much. We
decided to wait off the flies. We
napped.
21
We
executed a reconnaissance mission and discovered that as the sun went down
towards that horizon the flies took the opportunity to retire for the day. Yeah! We were free. It was 11:30pm and we still had not yet
seen the tourist spot--crater garden.
Hiking at 11:30pm?, you question.
Yes folks,
*****
This
crater garden basically looked like someone tossed around some grenades--just a
bunch of holes. Boring? Mmm, not if you are two dorky American
tourists. These craters are just
like yesterdays mother of all craters; they are mad lava piles. So we climbed up to the top and then
with a running start, and an insane leap we would leap 15ft down these 50ft
piles. The great thing was that the
lava rocks would absorb any impact and send us off on another leap. So with great bounds we leapt like those
goats documented jumping down shear cliff sides. For the record, ah, we did, ah, no
damage to these 200,000 year old natural land features. We did not leave any foot prints on the
faces of these craters--no way. Ah,
rock avalanches caused by our feet impacting the sides, surely not. Signs prohibiting hikers were visible,
yes, sure, but the signs weren’t exactly specific about leaping. I’m sure, almost a
guarantee, that we weren’t the only ones to leap like ninjas down the
crater faces, and I’m sure the locals do it all the time. Still I was afraid there was a
“crater-cam” documenting all of our stupidity.
Dear Icelandic Consulate:
I am sorry-very sorry.
Sincerely,
Craig Downing
Anyway,
beyond the craters we came upon some sheep. Did I mention that my forefathers were
sheep herders?
Woo, wee, yee haw, git, move on, giddy up, and
boy did those sheep move! I was a
damn natural I tell you. I have
been told that sheep are as dumb as they come. Boo
and off they ran. Would the
sheep run in an organized
herd? I guess; the sheep kept
running directly into each other and stumbling down hillsides.
It
was great: Hans would hide in the grass and I would direct (“boo”) the sheep in his
direction. The sheep would tear off
with thundering hooves and wild eyes.
Hans would then pop up like a prairie dog. The sheep would all try as hard as they
could to turn around. The leaders
of the herd would U-turn to avoid Hans.
Not able to see Hans yet, the other sheep in the back of the herd would
try to keep going forward not observing the fact their leaders were trying to
turn around. Hooves, hard heads,
dust and chaos, in general, this was a very entertaining spectacle of
commotion. This provided much
entertainment and is highly recommended.
We
eventually stopped. With all the
running, laughing and howling, we had rendered ourselves exhausted and
collapsed on a hillside as experienced herdsmen.
22
Exhausted,
we retreated to a well-deserved herdsmen sleep. The next morning, I awoke early to the
sound of sprinkling rain. Hearing
the rain I was not too interested in getting up. I decided to try to sleep off the rain.
“Let’s
get up” my brother of the herdsman grumbled from underneath his Sears
sleeping bag that was so old and without life that it was more like a nylon
blanket.
“It
is raining. Let’s wait a
bit.” I responded.
I was then informed, to
my utter disbelief that the sounds that I heard were not rain droplets, but
instead were flies. Hundreds of
flies colliding into the tent. So many flies, in fact, that I was mislead to
genuinely believe that it was rain.
Now of course, I did not want to get up at all.
Our
bus left in 6 hours. We could not
wait for the bus so we decided to pack up and try hitchhiking out of this
hellhole. We employed
firefighter-like speed and that tent was packed in a super jiffy. We were off running to the street to
thumb our way to sanity.
Did
the flies stay at the campsite?
NO! There we were, roadside,
in a cloud of flies. I had now gone
so far as to make a personal bubble suit out of my shirt. As a last resort against the flies, I
had pulled my shirt over my head. I
was well covered except for a tiny peephole that was just large enough for me
to see all the cars going by us.
The cars did not stop to give us sanctuary.
We
decided that it would be better to wait the next four hours in the local
restaurant for the bus than standing out in this pestilence.
Protected
from the bugs and with an appetite from hell, we ate French fries for four
hours straight. The bus finally
arrived and we were off to Akureyri, where, again, it was rumored that the
girls were a little bit more “friendly”.
23
We
rolled into town. It was Saturday
night in Akuryi. We set up camp and
bumped into our friendly Swiss friends and Seth. Here, the Swiss informed all of us that
we were in for the “fuck ride of our life.” Every night was, as the Swiss put it,
“goal!” They said it
was simple to "score" because hot girls completely recruited
foreigners for sex. About time!
Okay,
there had been some sexual disappointment so far, but supposedly my wait had
come to an end. After one week in a
foreign country, and one week in a tent, I was very ready for the warmth of a
lady.
I
brushed my teeth like a madman.
Preparing for a potential hygienic experience with a female, I almost
brushed the enamel off my teeth.
Here the events took a twist.
“WE
ARE READY TO FUCK!" came out from the Swiss tent.
I
was starting to question the techniques of my fellow Swiss camping brothers.
The
Swiss went on, “WHO…WHO
IS READY TO FUCK?!!!!”
Hans,
Seth and I were now very scared. We
acknowledged that there might not be a consensus with the sexual tactics of
some of our group’s more active members.
We
decided that we would meet them at this “sex-hub club” rather than
going there with them. The Swiss
agreed. We tactful Americans
decided to go and get some soda before going to the fuck-ride-of-our-life club.
Soda? Guess who else had the idea of getting
something to drink? The Swiss. That was some plan we had there. We were now stuck with the Swiss for the
rest of the evening. Well, of
course, only up to the time when we all got, you know, laid.
*****
The
Swiss guys were on a one-month pass from the Army. They were both 22 year-old
officers. As they described what
they did everyday, somewhere in my brain, something told me that something was
just not right.
“Isn’t
The
Swiss gentlemen looked at each other in an almost affectionate manner, smiled,
looked back at us and then giggled an answer,
“Yes.”
Actually,
to me,
“Then
what the fuck do you do?” I inquired now a little bitter.
They
went on to explain the surveying, fieldwork, mapping exercises and forestry
patrol that they had executed. To
rub it all in, they were paid extremely well. They were paid to be in a damn army that
would not ever go to war, kill anyone, or even hear a bullet anywhere near
them. All that dangerous forestry
work, Jesus!
“Let’s
go find the girls that we are going to fuck!” announced the hard working Swiss
soldiers.
“Swiss
Soldier,” just writing that seems silly enough.
*****
We
departed for the club. This club
was a very efficient club. The club
remained open only from 1am to 3am.
The club charged $17 for these compact and generous hours. Two hours was our window to be recruited
for sex. Our Swiss members
didn’t even wait to get in the club.
No, these sluggers went right to it. One Swiss associate tapped the foot of
an Icelandic girl in line, close in line mind you. The Swiss bachelor informed me and
others in our crowded area that she was the girl he was going to fuck tonight.
At
the club, there were beautiful women everywhere. Could it be true? Could I expect satisfying experiences from
these beautiful, beautiful women?
T-minus
one hour and thirty minutes before my getting-laid window was closed. Everything revolved around the dance
floor. One had to mingle on the
dance floor. After observing what
seemed to be the protocol, I ventured to try. Can I dance? Do I like to dance? No.
What was I doing?
I was actually dancing to the likes of
Bon Jovi, ABBA,
Something
wrong happened. I started to enjoy
myself. With the comforting thought
that no one knew me, and that everyone else was drunk, I loosened my hips.
Brothers
and sisters a young star was born!
A star so bright that neither the people nor the dance floor could hold
me. So, with my ever-demanding moves,
the floor began to clear--give me
space!
As
I felt my wings spread open, well, I noticed that no one else was trying any
other risky dance moves but me.
Everyone was only swinging to the left and then to the right. The natives didn’t use their hips;
they didn’t use their arms--just left swing and right swing.
There
I was in my own little “Fame” movie, realizing that the space given
to me on the dance floor didn’t feel so grand anymore. Unfortunately, only then, in the center
of my own marked circle, did I consider that in a land as styled as Iceland,
where the citizens all wore the same stylish shoes, pants, shirts, and
haircuts, originality was not as revered as I had become accustomed to back
home.
Now
the circle that I had created on the dance floor felt like a big huge case of
boils, pimples, and warts spreading slowly over my now very self-conscious
gesticulating body.
Was
it time to sit down away from the dance floor? Oh hell yeah it was time to sit down
away from the dance floor! First, I
had to make a not so obvious get away.
So I reversed the dance function that I had started. I tamed my hips. Slowly the dancing area closed in around
me. I was again accepted. I then immediately sat down and
considered drinking like a sailor.
Okay,
T minus 45 minutes until the romping window closed. Desperation started to set in. If not in the middle of
They
played more Eurotrash, more Bon Jovi, and even the old Dallas TV show theme
song! I was driven by succulent
fantasies of me waking up in a heart shaped bed with two blonde Icelandic beauties.
*****
At
3am our sex window closed and alone Hans and I scurried and sulked away back to
our tent. Hans told me that he saw
the Swiss soldiers without women.
He said that they were flat out asking to sleep with girls. Hans went on to say that the Swiss even
had another girl helping them. No
wonder they were getting laid.
Everyone eventually gets laid that way. As much as the story was comforting for
my dignity, it did nothing for my penis.
My penis was swollen with two weeks of bright, sleepless and womanless
nights. I was so horny and so
frustrated.
*****
Later
that same night, I was awoken by hollers three blocks away from the camping
sight.
“Arg,
woo wee, let’s FUCK!” the Swiss, I assumed, were coming home.
The
Swiss, still without women, decided to honor us before retiring to their own
tent. They came up and greeted us
by shaking the shit out of our tent providing us an instant “El
Nino” hurricane moment. The
Swiss then went running off howling.
At least they aren’t getting
laid either, I thought.
Still
later that night, one of the Swiss guys somehow managed to lure a girl into his
tent. What torture this was. I could not sleep. I was horny and listening to
pre-make-out tickling.
I
tortured myself by fantasizing about a threesome. The fantasy of some horny Icelandic girl
doing a threesome just for kicks was very arousing to me.
There
are times when what we envision is so irrational that actually following
through with it is so impossible and so far from reality that you find yourself
getting out of your tent. You find
yourself putting on your shoes, walking yourself right over to a giggling tent,
knocking on the flap and greeting a Swiss occupant with,
“You
wanna do a threesome?”
*****
Of
course, the obvious fact that it should have stayed a fantasy comes crashing
down with the answer,
“No,”
as the tent flap closes.
You
are still standing there. You are
wondering what you are doing. You
are wondering what you have done.
You are still horny. You
know you are going to lie on your back and listen to someone else get laid all
night. You have two weeks left in this foreign place and you are not getting
laid.
24
In
order to fly out the next day, Hans had to catch the early bus back to
*****
For
the past few days, I had seen a lot of farms. I rode Hans' bus for a while and then
decided that I would just stop in the middle of no where and just work on a
farm. I thought I’d give it a try, you know, man, land, and work. I ended up getting off at the first stop
on the bus route leaving Hans to finish the route. So long Hans.
*****
After
getting off at the stop, I walked right into the tourist shack.
“So
what is there to do here?” I asked.
The
female attendant went on to say that they had closed the camping site but she
thought there was a trail behind the Esso station. This stop was not that popular for
travelers. She seemed embarrassed,
but this stop was perfect.
“I
do not need a place to stay, money, food, nor water. I just want to work for free on a
farm," I said.
She went to the phone
and after four “no” responses the phone was handed to me.
Somewhere
in the hills, at an undisclosed location, came a lady's voice across the phone
line, “I have a couple of cows and some sheep. I can be there in thirty minutes.”
25
I
was picked up in an old Russian car and whipped out to the hills. The lady driver was the owner of the
farm. She had her grandson with
her. We were all bouncing around in
her car going 80 mph down gravel roads towards the farm. It was interview time.
“You're
from
*****
At
the farm, we were greeted by a dog that pissed on the car. I was amused.
After
unloading from the car, I declined their nice offer for me to sleep
inside. I went on to unload my pack
on the hillside. I asked the family
where I should set up my tent.
I
turned around just in time to catch the dog draining his entire industrial
farm-bladder on my backpack, consequently on my down sleeping bag. Here I realized that no matter where I
set up my innocent tent it would undoubtedly be a victim of this friendly
dog. I proceeded to set up the tent
for his urinary pleasures.
*****
Inside
they insisted I eat some lunch.
Should I tell them now that I don’t eat meat? Too late, slap and there it was--a leg of lamb. It was like a turkey drumstick, just 10
times bigger. It was like some
classic caveman serving. I was
stuck. She stabbed a whopper of a
knife into the limb and told me to get to it. I tried cutting off just a small piece.
“No
need to be modest here on the farm,” said the Grandma.
With
that, Grandma slapped about half of that damn stub on my plate, gristle, fat,
tissue and all. My mom would have
loved it. My mom, a petite lady,
who used to smile showing her pearly whites, as she crunched chicken gristle
with ease. My mom would then go on
to snap the bones and suck the marrow out, all with great pride and
pleasure. I downed the lamb with as
much water as I could drink. Then,
I was off to work.
*****
Of
course, on the way out to the barn my friendly farm dog was writing his name on
my tent. Every corner of my hexagon tent seemed to have been hit.
I
was shown a barn for sheep. Leaving
sheep in a barn for long periods of time will accumulate layer upon of sheep
poop. Rainey, and I had the lovely
job of removing all the shit out of the barn.
The strongest ammonia
lift I had ever smelt. Rainey went
on to tell me how people had actually died from shoveling shit. Sometimes, that much ammonia from the
sheep shit can reach poisonous and toxic levels.
I
amused myself with a riddle while working.
It went something like this:
What
does one think about while shoveling sheep shit?
The
answer is:
What
does one think about while shoveling sheep shit?
I
know, oh, so highly amusing. Well,
it was amusing to me on my ammonia-sheep-shit high. Three hours of shoveling sheep shit, I
do not know which was worse, the shit or the small talk with someone who had
never left the hills.
Unfortunately, Rainey had learned about
“Did you ever meet Bruce
Springsteen?”
*****
I
tried to make the best of my time while shoveling sheep shit, "Rainey, how
do you say 'I shovel sheep shit' in Icelandic?"
“Ich
mochta tay Kea Skeet.”
"Okay,
okay, how about cow shit?"
“Ich
mochta tay Koowa Skeet.”
While
I was shoveling all that fecal matter, I was wearing these huge rubber
boots. Sometimes, as I was
diligently shoveling my fair tonnage of sheep shit, some morsel of shit would
break loose and drop all the way down into my boot. Of course, I would be in mid-stride with
my heel up allowing the poop to slip under my foot. I would then discover the poop while
bringing my heel back down in the boot.
As
the time went, I started to become more and more concerned about my tolerance
to high concentrations to ammonia.
Fortunately, the grandma called for us, freeing me from the burgeoning
ammonia cloud. It was break
time. We were off for lunch.
Remember
that leg of lamb? Well, it
hadn’t shrunk that much. My
poor stomach.
On
my lunch break, I decided to call my parents. The following is a close transcription
of the conversation.
“Hey,
Mom and Dad,” I chimed.
“Where
are you?” they asked in a cheery chorus.
“
Of
course, my answer coming from someone with a lifetime of pranks, jokes and
numerous other activities to torture my parents’ souls, what does “
“No,
where are you really,” they giggled.
“Mom,
Dad, I really am in
“
” was their collective
stumped reply.
I
was sure they were just looking at each other, wondering which parent was to
blame for my activity.
I
then heard the heavy muffle sound as a hand fumbled to cover the
mouthpiece. Eventually, I heard the
peeling sound as the hand came off the mouthpiece.
“Are
you having fun, son?”
“Oh
yeah, it is great,” I offered.
I then added, “I’ve been shoveling sheep shit!”
*****
I
went on to tell my parents the necessities. I told them that I was fine, I was eating
well and that I had enough money to get back home.
After
the phone call, I got to sit and watch Icelandic TV all night. There was some show in French that was
translated into Icelandic and then dubbed in Dutch. God I was feeling dumb.
******
Whoa,
hard work makes you sleepy, so, at, god, this is embarrassing, 9pm I headed to
my tent. Great, I was fucking
farmer-sleepy but no sleep—damn sunlight. Add to all this a little dash of
homesickness and you better strap yourself in for an emotional ride.
*****
Was I homesick? I’d been putting it off for a
while. How could I be homesick in
the middle of the coolest place? I
mean, it seemed very exciting to be here.
Here I was, 5 degrees from the
26
I
awoke after a rough night of sleep.
Today we were building fences with a neighbor. I was at breakfast. The bastard dog started barking
ferociously. Barking at what? I had no idea; the hills were still and
the cows were looking at each other.
The dog continued to bark as if a huge juicy steak were walking up the
property to attack us.
Twenty
minutes later, the neighbor’s car was seen over the crest of a hill. I watched the neighbor get out of his
car and immediately lie on the hillside of the property. He plucked a long piece of grass and
planted it in his mouth. He was
wearing some too-small jacket that you might expect to find at the bottom of a
lost and found bin at an elementary school. This farmer didn’t speak a word of
English, which was just fine.
So
up the hill we went to build fences.
This consisted of taking a large rock and slamming it down on a fence
post until it stayed a foot or so in the ground and then pinning barbed wire to
this post.
Okay,
let’s get this straight real quick.
This work was not easy. Yeah
farm work was not supposed to be easy.
I know that, but damn, does it ever stop? Up went the rock, and SLAM came down the rock, up, down,...up
down, ahhhh.
So
the old rugged farmer would stand behind us, following us slowly as we moved
along the fence. Busting my back
with Flintstone rocks, I wondered if I should feel pissed that Ol’ Rugged
was just watching.
Clank, only 4 inches into the ground,
and the fence post would not budge.
Fuck it. I had already king-konged
the hell out of that fence pole.
The poll wasn’t moving.
The fence poll was stuck. It
was the stuck fence post. It was
defined as the fence pole that was stuck.
The boy and I gave up on the fence post.
Ol’
Rugged, grabbed the rock, and I witnessed the most amazing strength of a
farmer--his arms of Hercules hidden under his jacket. He brought that rock down as if it had
been dropped from the moon and had been gaining velocity all the way down to earth. WHAM,
did he pack just one punch? Hell
no! WHAM, WHAM, WHAM, the strength of titanium suddenly seemed like a
joke to me. WHAM, WHAM, he was going to strike oil with that fence pole, WHAM. I was waiting for sparks, smoke and
flames to come off the rock, WALLOP,
WALLOP. He drove that pole like
a Viking--like a Mammoth. When he
finished, he turned, lit a cigarette and walked to the next pole. What a damn joke I was. And all along, there I was, tink, tink, hitting on the pole. How embarrassing.
All
day, WHAM, tink, WALLOP, tink, until
I no longer had shoulder sockets, but rather fused joint. I was done. Please let me sleep.
27
After
making the damn Great Wall of Iceland across the hillside, it was time to head
back to the farm. Our next task was
the farm-iest. We had to bring the
cows home. Yes, we were bringing
the cows in, how cool! Rainey was
in the barn as I got to try out some cow calls. I was so excited--how dairy!
“Aaaah,”
Rainey called from the barn.
The
cows didn’t give a shit about my call. Rainey yells and the cows immediately
turn their big fat heads.
“Aah,
come quick!” yelled Rainey.
I
was being summoned. Ol’
Rugged came drifting behind me.
Now,
I had shoveled shit, roamed the farm hillside, ridden a tractor, and tried
calling the cows home. As far as a
farm experience goes, I had had quite a tour. Now, like some bad
family-goes-to-the-farm movie, I was staring down at a lamb, which was, at that
very moment, having birth. It is
the truth, I swear. I could not
have paid PBS for a better farm experience. Yes, I was going to watch a farm animal
give birth for free!
As
Rainey looked a little overwhelmed, Ol’ Rugged came in and went to
work. Ol’ Rugged grunted at
my city-boy astonishment. Ol’
Rugged went on to grab the mommy lamb by its legs and without any emotion,
presto, he flipped the lamb on its back.
Okay, all the romantic magic in regards to birth was lost when I saw the
lamb’s stretched crotch--“meat shot”!
There
was a baby lamb’s head and one leg poking out of the lamb’s genitalia. All the mucous was like congealed
“Hmmmph,”
was the last thing Ol’ Rugged said as he simply stuck his hand up into
the lamb.
“Arryeeek,”
went the lamb.
Did
Ol’ Rugged stick just his fingers up into the lamb? Did he stick just his hand in to the
lamb? Try his whole forearm! I could see the shape of his hand
against the lamb’s stomach wall.
“Grackarrrk”
went the lamb as its entrails were twisted and knotted.
Sloop, out came Ol’ Rugged’s
hand, along with a mucous flush.
Ol’ Rugged couldn’t quite get a good grip on the other limbs
of this baby lamb. Ol’ Rugged
nodded and Rainey, obediently, dropped to his knees and dove his hand into the
lamb's uterus.
Slosh went the lips as Rainey’s
lubricated arm went into the vulva.
Rainey wasn’t enjoying himself. He dug deeper into the cavity. Rainey was moving and twisting to get a
better angle. As Ol’ Rugged
was wiping his arm off, he was directing his intern, Rainey. Rainey was becoming frustrated. Though, surely know no one was as
frustrated as the poor mama who was still making it clear with her death cries
that she wasn’t having any fun.
Then something happened.
“Can
I help?”
Out
of surprise, we all turned around.
Rainey and Ol’ Rugged turned around. I turned around. I didn't see anyone one behind me. I didn’t need to turn back around
to know whom Rainey and Ol’ Rugged were looking at. They were looking at me.
Damn
you mouth, yeah, damn you. Rainey
withdrew from the hot spot.
Ol’ Rugged stepped back.
They were both behind me now.
Defeated,
I approached the lamb and dropped to my knees. I realized that my body, especially my
mouth, was set on destroying me.
At
this point, you know, it was just the vagina and me. I stared right at the vagina. The baby lamb’s head was somehow
wiggling. Each wiggle would allow
for more vaginal mucous deposits to come squirting out. What was I doing?
Somewhere
else, I wasn’t really there in
that barn. No, I was somewhere else. I was up in the mountains. I was surrounded by redwoods. I was walking around with some beautiful
hippie girl. We were gathering
berries for our post-snuggling snack.
Somewhere else, I wasn’t in a barn about to violate a sheep with
my city-boy hand.
I
made my hand into some pointed, hand puppet shape and inserted my hand between
the baby lamb and the vaginal wall.
Maybe
I had created a vacuum. Maybe some
muscles contracted, but the lamb’s cavity instantaneously swallowed my
arm up to my elbow. My lower arm
was caught for a minute. I sat
there forgetting what my task was.
I had flash backs to the art museum with the aquarium filled with 40
lbs. of innards, all moving around.
“Arrrhk,” shrieked the Mother Lamb.
“Gak,”
started the baby Lamb.
“Aaah,”
cried the city boy.
All Creatures, great and small, my
ass!
I
felt things that no man should ever feel.
I felt the baby Lamb moving inside.
I felt a rippling uterus, a ribbed cervix and a whole bucket of mucous. It was hot, it was tight and it
wasn’t good.
Blackberries,
raspberries, currants, and blueberries, what a nice snack my beautiful hippie
girlfriend and I were going to have.
“Ah,”
I let out as I pulled on the baby lamb.
I
had succeeded in pulling out the baby lamb an inch more. Ol’ Rugged sized up the new
status. Ol’ Rugged grabbed
the baby lamb by the skull and just pulled. The baby lamb came slowly, like a cork
slowly being pulled out of a wine bottle, until finally everything cascaded
out: Baby lamb, mucus, and after birth.
I
was noticing the webbed effect the mucus was giving my hands when I spread my
fingers. I also noticed exactly how
deep I had ventured to wedge my arm into the Lamb--it was right where the mucus
ring on my arm was.
You
really don’t slap a newborn on a farm. To get the baby lamb breathing,
Ol’ Rugged grabbed the lamb by its hind legs and then, like snapping
freshly washed sheets in the mountain air, he whip-lashed the baby which
effectively dislodged the plug in its mouth. After much snorting, the baby was
breathing.
We
stood around watching the mom licking all the molasses off its kid. Ol’ Rugged looked at me and, out
of character, made a rather funny looking face. He mumbled something and started
chuckling. Rainey translated for me
and said that Ol’ Rugged was making fun of the face I had made when I
stuck my hand up into the lamb.
Yes, I had earned more Icelandic brownie points.
I
spent the rest of the evening trying to wash the smell of lamb mucous off my
arm and hands.
28
Over
a couple of days, I had completed a crash course in farm life. It was now time for me to go. I learned that the next day there would
be a bus that could take me back to
So,
the next day, Grandma dropped me off at the bus stop. I thanked her for taking in a city boy.
I
got on the bus, and damn this small island, “Ah, Craig, brother
man,” chorused my Swiss friends.
Damn it. As the reader might remember, the last
time I saw our Swiss friends I was trying to initiate a threesome. These Swiss travelers were the last
people I wanted to see.
“Hey,
American boy, come sit with us.”
We
caught up. I didn’t sense any
weird you-asked-me-to-have-a-threesome sexual awkwardness. So, all was okay.
*****
“Excuse
me, are you American?” asked a forty year old professor fellow who was
wearing a tweed sports jacket.
I answered
acknowledging my nationality. Off
this fellow went to say how great it was that I was visiting
“It
is so great that you are visiting a country of true Viking blood, not like your
Indian-raping country.”
With
that, his tone took a dramatic turn.
“We
took this country from no one. You
raped and murdered your country from Indians,” he professed.
Ah,
sir. Now I saw that he had been
drinking out of a bottle in a brown paper bag. I obviously didn't want any trouble, so,
I tried to be as civil as possible.
The louder he became, the more attention he was getting. He continued to verbally attack
Now
he had begun to sing. He had really
become involved in his singing; he had stood up, swinging back and forth
raining bourbon on all of us in the back of the bus. The rest of the people on the bus
started yelling at him letting him know that he was a loud and annoying
drunk. We were amused.
The
bus driver’s assistant confronted him. He sang even louder in her face,
spraying bourbon all over her. I
was told that now he was singing about buggering young lads. Whoa.
The
bus came to an abrupt stop. An unscheduled stop. A stop in this no man’s land. Now the bus driver had stood up to
approach the drunk. The bus driver
was storming down the aisle of his
bus. The bus driver and the drunk
spat words at each other. Then, in
a very unfriendly manner, our singing host was told to get off the bus. Get off where? I just left a farm in the middle of
nowhere 20 minutes ago. This man
would be left out to die. Surely
this was just a threat. I hadn't
seen any other cars or animals since leaving the farm. The bus driver barked again. Our talented guest then gathered up his
belongings and walked to the door of the bus.
In
the door well of the bus, our entertaining drunk turned around, waved to us and
then just let himself fall backwards out of the bus. Slosh,
he fell right into some Icelandic swamp mud. The bus driver threw out the
drunk’s brief case, sending papers sailing up like some kind of bad snow
scene. As the bus drove off, I
looked out the rear window at our departed guest. With papers falling around him, I could
still hear the drunk singing as he was smearing snow angels in the swamp mud.
29
I
was circling into
*****
I
arrived at the campsite in
At
the campsite, I was glad to see Seth’s tent. I set up my tent close to his,
conveniently farthest away from where the Swiss had set up their tent.
After
setting up my tent, I was visited by the Swiss,
“Hey
we’re going swimming next door.
Ya wanna come, bro’?”
I
declined. I had previously planned
to spend this Independence Day with Linda and her friend, Lilja.
“Hey
bro,' we will go downtown together before we leave, right?” the Swiss
inquired.
“Oh
yeah,” I convinced them.
“You
know one last rowdy night together--we’ll get laid!” they
announced.
“I’ll
be there,” I replied as they left.
*****
Later
that afternoon, Seth showed up. We
caught up on our travels over a bowl of Ramen. I warned Seth that the Swiss were on the
grounds. We promised to watch out
for each other so as not to be left stuck with them. Furthermore, we made plans to look
for each other later that night downtown at the Independence Day festival. Seth gave me a go-lay-an-Icelandic-girl
pat on the back. I was off to meet
with Linda and Lilja.
*****
Linda
picked me up at the campsite in her Mom’s new Honda. Linda almost crashed
laughing as I impressed her with my new Icelandic,
“Ich
mochta tay Kea Skeet.”
"You
shovel sheep shit. Yes, very good,
Craig..."
*****
We
arrived at her parents' place. All
of Linda's relatives were there for the independence day celebration.
“Craig,
show them your Icelandic,” insisted Linda.
Please, Linda, isn’t this getting a
little silly? I thought.
Linda was persistent. So, there I stood in front of a whole
generation of Icelanders. I was
introduced and then in their native tongue I massacred out the phrase, I shovel
sheep shit. I went on to show off
by adding the variations I had learned: Cow shit, goat shit, and horse
shit.
Lilja
and her sister showed up and I wished the Icelandic family a good evening and
excused myself.
*****
Where
was the sailor boy? Nowhere to be
seen. It was just three hot
Icelandic girls and me, yes! What I
thought was only a mere fantasy while back in
For
the independence celebration, we ended up downtown on a hillside with 30,000
people all watching the Icelandic bands.
“Craig,
isn’t that Baldur down there?”
Linda asked me.
Sure enough, about 10
yards down was the Music fest producer, Baldur. I was afraid that Baldur would recognize
me as the crack "journalist".
I didn’t want him to see me.
I stood behind the girls.
Over the next twenty minutes, out of coincidence or some sick sense of
humor, he somehow was moving closer.
Before I realized it, he was directly on our right flank. I had the girls in between Baldur and I,
but I was still so nervous. Was he
playing games? Did he know I was
there? Did he care? Was he loving every minute of it? Well,
my Budweiser fantasy was definitely wearing off as the girls kept updating me
on Baldur’s coordinates,
“To
your left, and closer,” they would giggle.
I
couldn’t take it anymore, “Baldur,” I announced, trying to
act surprised to see him.
Small
talk ensued. He asked about my
"article". I asked him
about band contracts. I was so glad
that I had confronted Balder instead of letting his presence linger. It was all so very torturous.
Linda had seen Curver
so off I went to talk to him. Ended
up that Curver was helping with sound at the show, but he wanted to catch up
later before I left for
This
bar was a screaming fire hazard; it was the size of a living room but it had
more people than a stadium could legally hold. This was kind of nice because it was so
loud that we had to get real close and talk moistly into each other’s
ear. Of course, guess who showed up at the bar? Her X-boyfriend. He was plastered.
“Quick
put you arm around me,” Lilja requested.
Ah,
well, I don’t know, I… Hell yeah!!
Okay
I felt kind of stupid. But, then
again, there I was in a bar in
After
a while, we left. Lilja and I went
back to my place--my tent. We
parked and talked. I was
half-talking, half-listening and half-trying to figure out how I was going to
make my move.
So,
with American slickness and arrogance, I undid my seatbelt buckle with one hand
while I reached over and undid her seatbelt buckle. Smack. Mmmm. Mmmmmmm.
Okay, not that I
don’t like first base, but I like second and third and, of course, who
doesn’t like home base? So,
we ended up just kissing, nothing more than straight kissing. Not that Lilja was required to do
anything else, but I had blue-balls the size of
30
The
next morning, I swore to myself that it wasn’t even worth it; kissing
alone was more damaging and teasing than anything else. So, I decided to eat breakfast, spend
the rest of the day forgetting about girls, and to just do some writing.
So
while chewing on some mushy oatmeal in the commons cooking area at the
campsite, I was completely ignoring the girl sitting all by herself. I wasn’t even thinking about her
most perfect breasts. Nope, I had
made a resolution. I was just going
to keep to myself and attend to my mushy oatmeal. Craig
sit down now! What the hell are you
doing, haven’t you learned by now?
I
found myself walking over to her.
By now, I was just plain pathetic.
What did it matter? She was
packing to leave anyway.
Sue
was Canadian. Great, another
half-ass country. She was keeping a
conversation and damn she was funny.
Of course, she was packing her stuff to leave. Then, suddenly, she was all packed. She informed me that she had to catch a
bus around the island.
I
walked her towards the city bus which then would take her to the cross-country
bus terminal. I sent her off
reminding her to visit the great penis museum when she got back.
Well,
I went back to my tent. I found a note from Seth. He had left for the airport terminal and
was nice enough to leave all his extra food. I nibbled on some of his crackers and
remembered that I had planned to go in to town and write more in this here
journal. So I grabbed my stuff and
headed off to the inner city bus.
Well,
what did you know? The city bus had
circled around and had picked up Sue.
I only got to talk to her until I arrived at my stop downtown where I
departed.
*****
All
the way to the coffee shop I was thinking how unfortunate it was that she
wasn’t just unloading her supplies instead off packing up her
supplies. I knew I would be at the
café for a while so I ordered a tumbler of coffee and started writing.
What
if she wasn’t going around the island, what if she was staying in town
for a while? Whoa Craig, you finally get to really talk to a girl and you just start
getting plain stupid. What are you
going to do? Are you going to leave
right now and chase her down at the island bus stop? Please, how cheesy. Craig, just sit down and drink your coffee,
you can masturbate all about her back at your tent later tonight. Hell, if it makes you feel better, go
into the tourist trap bathroom right now and masturbate. Go on, buddy.
Was I lonely? Was I pathetic?
I grabbed my stuff and
took off for the city bus stop. What are you going to say Craig? Hey, wise guy, you are just going to
look like an idiot. I was now
heading for the island bus terminal.
This is dumb, Craig. Stop!
I
arrived at the island bus terminal.
I got off the bus. I had arrived
at about the same time that her bus was scheduled to depart. I walked into the huge bus terminal
lobby. Ha, Craig, she isn’t here.
Don’t you feel STUPID, ha, ha. Man, oh Man, everyone in the high
heavens are getting a big kick out you.
You stupid mortal.
Okay, she wasn’t
in the terminal, but for the better or the worse I saw her already on her
island bus. Okay, now what? She hadn’t seen me, so I could
technically just turn around and avoid any embarrassment. I could also go and
desperately try to convince her to use her bus pass later.
Let's see, first, it
was pathetic that I had chased her down to the bus terminal. Okay. It would be just as pathetic if I turned
around after running all the way to this terminal. So, all options resulted in me being
pathetic. I was just as pathetic if
I turned around with no chance of getting any action, as I was by getting on
the bus and convincing her to stay with the small chance of getting some
action. Craig, you just being there is pathetic. You might as well try to get some
action.
I
walked towards her bus and got on.
I simply sat down next to her, leaving open the chance for her to mace
the hell out of me. I don’t
remember exactly what this Canadian said.
I pleaded my case to
her, “I guess I couldn’t convince you to stay a couple of days if I
promise to set up your tent?”
So
the bus driver unloaded Sue’s gear and we were left to walk back. We headed to the city bus stop. I had no idea that she’d actually
do it. Now what?
*****
We
ended up back at my campsite. She
held me to my offer; She sat and watched me with glee as I set up her tent.
It
eventually got late. Out of some
camping protocol, she invited me to bring my sleeping bag into her tent.
“Is
that jism?” Sue inquired. To
which I was instantly embarrassed and in love.
So,
there I was in her tent making out.
It was about time that I got some action. As things progressed towards sex, I
realized that at this moment I should consider retrieving the condom back in my
tent. If I went to my tent for my
condom that meant 5 unsexy minutes digging for it at the bottom of my
multi-layer backpack. Even if the
condom itself could have convinced me to utilize its effectiveness, I couldn’t
have heard its muffled wisdom from under the wads of thermal underwear and wool
socks. Furthermore, knowing my
luck, I might step out to retrieve the condom only to return to Sue's tent and
find that the randy Swiss fellas had taken my place. I chose to proceed without the condom.
*****
“I
hope you don’t think I’m a slut,” commented my new Canadian
“partner”.
“Well,
I hope you don’t think I’m a slut, either,” I responded.
“I
know you are a slut, I was just
concerned about me.”
“If
it means anything, I know I’m clean.
But, later, if you want, I could get the condom that’s in my
tent.”
“You
had a condom?” Sue responded with surprise.
“Yeah,
but it was at the bottom of my pack and I thought it would be kind
of…”
“I
have always wanted to do it with a condom on,” exclaimed Sue with excitement.
Sue
goes on, “I have never gotten to have sex with a condom, what’s it
like?” Sue asked me as if I
had been to mars.
Sue
went on, “Yeah, I’ve seen ‘em but that’s about it. Like once, I was driving up the
I
told Sue I needed go to the restroom.
I rushed into a stall and immediately started scrubbing and pouring
mouthwash over my member. In my head,
I kept hearing Sue,“ I have always wanted to use a condom.”
I
realized how stupid this was. I
figured that it was too late and I had already exposed myself to every disease
on the sex circuit. I concluded
that I might as well not worry about it and just get laid again.
31
The
next morning when I was heading to the camp bathrooms,
“Hey
Texan boy…”
Guess
who? Yep, it was the Swiss.
They
went on, “Tonight is our last night.
Tonight we go party?”
Wow,
this was going to feel so good, “Oh, I don’t know if I can
fellas. See, I met this girl and
well…”
“Ah,
no way. Way to go. What is she like?”
“She’s
got these huge dreads and…”
“Ah
yeah, the girl with the hair. I saw
her at the campsite yesterday. She
is good looking. You--you and
her? You dog.”
Of
course, then there were hi-fives all around.
The
Swiss go on, “Ah well, we understand. We’ll stop by when we
leave…”
32
Sue
and I had stayed up late talking and fucking. The next morning we woke up and went on
a day trip to some waterfalls and a geyser. I was so worn out that I just kind of
staggered through all the scenery.
All in all, I was proud that we had actually left our sinful little den.
*****
“Craig…”
Later
that afternoon, I was woken from my slumber.
“Craig…”
Someone
was calling for me at my tent.
“Craig…”
Hans’ friend Linda was calling my name.
I
had started to wonder about her. I
was too tired to put on any clothes on.
So on my back, I just unzipped a flap of Sue’s tent and stuck out
my exposed naked torso. I came out
from the tent like some mechanic coming out on a creeper from under a car.
Oops. My new guests, Linda, Linda’s boyfriend,
and (you guessed it) Lilja were standing at my own tent looking for me to come
out. They were still standing in
front of my tent, tapping on it, when I came out of Sue's tent.
“Craig,
who is it?” asked Sue from inside our tent, of course, with great timing.
With
surprise, the Icelandic search crew immediately turned their heads from my tent
to find me, half-naked, sticking out of Sue’s tent.
I
was so fucked. I knew I was
fucked. I think I even slipped out
a little laughter as I started my pathetic damage control,
“Ah,
hey, I was going to call you guys...”
Shit.
Sue
knew all about Lilja, but, well, no one knew about Sue. Big surprise, conversation was short and
Icelandic search crew made haste to leave.
I really felt bad. I was so
busted.
*****
The
next day we got up with the idea of going swimming. Off Sue and I pranced to
swim. Needless to say, the Swiss
never came by.
So
we went into the swimming facility's lobby, Sue went into her changing
area. A ways down, I entered the
Men’s locker room. I went
into the changing area. At first, I
saw some ladies changing. Did I
realize that I went in the second door to the changing area for the
ladies? No. Actually, smarty-pants me, literally
started thinking, wow, Europeans are so
liberal, no hang ups about nudity here. Excuse
me, naked lady. Don’t mind
me. I am from another country. Oh, sure I feel a little weird changing
in front of you, but I can respect your country's liberal approaches towards
nudity.
I
mean, I was well into the locker room.
I was really thinking Icelanders were the coolest. Of course, not knowing that every good
and naked lady that I passed, went waddling and flapping for a towel to cover
herself. Man, no hang-ups with nudity, such a
mature country, I went on thinking.
Sue
spotted me, “CRAIG!!! What
the hell are you doing in here?”
At
that immediate moment, my brain released all the information it was withholding
from me. My brain was holding back
information like: How there was not a single male, how all the ladies, and I
repeat, all the ladies were looking at me with a lot of disgust and
surprise. Oops, damn you brain,
damn you.
Sorry ladies, ah, don’t mind me. I totally felt as if I were
I
immediately turned around and kind of tried covering my eyes while walking out
of the disrupted locker room.
Later
after I changed in the appropriate locker room and I was in the pool, Sue was
not letting the
Sue
went on bludgeoning me, “‘A liberal country,’ you’re
such a dumb-ass, Craig…”
33
So
we splashed around some and then quickly returned to the tent.
Later
on, after our nap, I awoke with some pesky pool water in my ear. I started poking around in my ear with a
Q-tip. Of course, I didn’t
realize this at the time, but I was effectively sealing my left ear away from
reality with a wax and water combo plug.
Later, I discovered that I was losing the hearing in my left ear. So, not only did Sue have to not sleep
and walk on my left side, I had also discovered that now I had begun to lean
more to the right.
Realizing
that the usefulness of my ear had been compromised, I tried to perform some
primitive idiotic surgeries. I
tried sleeping on my lame left ear, hoping the water and wax would slowly slip
out of my ear. I tried spinning
very fast, hoping the centripetal force would guide the seal out of my canal. I dipped my head in hot water. I even tried using a plastic fork, gasp, to retrieve the foreign material.
I
continuously asked Sue to peer into my ear in order to investigate my
condition. The longer the plug
remained, the worse my hearing became.
Due to transduction up my jaw, I could hear myself, but, slowly
Sue’s voice was becoming more and more distant. Her voice slowly began to sound more as
if I were eaves dropping on her through an apartment wall in an adjacent
room.
I
assumed that there was some water or wax in my ear but, my very supportive
imagination kept playing this movie in my head: A rare Icelandic beetle
discovers me sleeping, the beetle checking its surroundings and then slowly
crawls into my ear.
“Frmph,
framph, mmf, urph,” Sue went on, becoming more and more
undecipherable.
Yes,
I had my right ear, but my plugged left ear was somehow making everything hard
to hear. Maybe it was hard to hear
because now my ear and its surrounding area was throbbing. It was as if the plug had caused some
blood vessel to become blocked and now was swollen and distended from the
pressure.
“Thump,
thump,” went my ear.
“Merf,
frumph, umf, derfem,” went Sue.
My
imagination updated me on the status of what was going on in my ear canal. The beetle was laying eggs.
Later,
I was very uneasy as I tried falling asleep. Somehow I must have fallen asleep. I had a dream that I was on my flight
for home. The plane was taking off
from
“Smack,
smack,” went all the passengers with their gum.
I
saw Moms reminding their kids to yawn.
I tried yawning. I had my
mouth as wide as I could make it, nothing.
I tried harder.
“Thud,
thud,” went the pressure in my ear.
Okay
the dream went on and on, each level with more pain and more medical side
effects with the increasing cabin pressure. I think eventually the ear ruptured and
blood was draining out my ear. I
awoke very worried.
Ironically,
now I remembered a memory that I had of when I was a kid on vacation at my
grandparents.
At
my grandparents, I had some weird boil in my ear. There was concern about how my ear might
behave on our return flight. I had
to get a doctor to, get this, LANCE the boil! Oh yeah, that is what a 13-year-old boy
wants to hear. “LANCE”,
as a kid, I immediately had visions of knights with these long 30-foot lances
charging 100 mph at each other and someone then getting “LANCED”.
“Oh
yeah, we can lance it in a jiffy, no problem. We don’t want you going up on a
plane with a full boil in your ear,” the doctor declared.
The
doctor was going to lance the boil. I was quivering. My brother was totally
loving it.
The
doctor, for some sick reason, thought I wanted to see him lance the boil. He had put some fiber optic camera in my
ear. On a larger TV monitor, the
camera displayed my ear, my boil and this saber poking around in my ear. My Mom had released my sweaty hand and
had moved to join my brother and grandma in observing the “entertainment”
on the monitor. The doctor was
trying to hold me still as he was making blind jabs at my bulge. He was becoming politely frustrated.
“Ahhh,
whoa!” let out my brother.
The
doctor had made his move. Everyone
was commenting on the drainage. The
doctor was glad that it was over so he could get me out of his office. So, very quickly he wiped my neck and
ear. Soon after that, we all were
back in my Grandma’s Cadillac.
*****
There I was back in
“Sue,
can you look in my ear again?”
She
joked about seeing some black insect legs.
I tried to be amused.
*****
My
flight would leave in two days. I
was very worried. We decided that
Sue should go on with her trip around the island. This would leave me a day to do some
souvenir shopping and an afternoon to do some public relations damage control
with Linda and company.
I know I would miss all the pleasurable
details of our debauchery in her tent.
We very rarely left that tent--not even for cooking. We would just inch our hands out of the
front of her tent to cook and then dive back into our activities. So, after five days, Sue and I exchanged
addresses.
34
With
Sue gone, I immediately looked up a clinic in
I
had health coverage in
What
were they going to charge me? I
just had to have this ear dilemma
resolved. They could have charged
me anything and I would have paid it.
*****
“Hi,
I am an American. I need someone to
take a look at my ear. I think I
have something (water/wax/beetle) stuck in my ear,” I announced to the
receptionist.
They
told me I would need to make an appointment with an ear specialist. Of course, the specialist was not
available. I convinced the
receptionist that it was not that my situation wasn’t that special and I
just needed someone to remove whatever was in my ear.
A
general practitioner agreed to see me.
I told him the whole story.
I told the doctor about the pool, the wax, the water, and the Q-tip. When I mentioned the part about the
Q-tip, strange enough, the doctor cringed and shamed me. I acknowledged my poor decision to use
the Q-tip and followed him into the surgical room. The doctor pulled out his otoscope and
very quickly informed me of the prognosis.
I had some heavy wax build up that had been forced on to my
eardrum. The wax had dried to the
eardrum,
“…like
cement,” added the doctor.
The
doctor went on to say that I would need to see a specialist if a good flushing
failed to release my ear drum from the grip of this wax “cement”
build-up.
He
called in a nurse for assistance.
She, too, took a look in my ear.
I couldn’t understand her, but from her expression I am sure she
was a little astonished at what she saw.
The
nurse pulled down this cherry wood box.
She lifted the lid and in plush red velvet, lay this huge horse’s
syringe. Now, I know the nurse
couldn’t understand me, but I know she saw my expression of
astonishment. Shit, shit, shit… At
that moment, my imagination was trying to blur my critical decision making
process. My imagination was helping
me to second guess the necessity of this surely painful ear procedure. My imagination was showing me a movie of
me on my flight pleasantly sleeping, undisturbed and without a concern.
With
the intimidating size of this horse’s syringe, I did not notice that in
the lid there were different adjustable heads nestled in velvet slots. Thank the mighty Lord. The nurse replaced the two-foot amniotic
needle with a fat two-inch nipple thing.
The
doctor-nurse team cloaked my shoulder, filled the syringe with some soapy
water, put a metal tin under my ear, and held my head in place. SWOOSH.
Whoa,
it felt as if the Hoover Dam had broke and was now being channeled through my
head via my ear canal. SWOOSH.
Nothing
came out of my ear. They changed
the head and again…SWOOSH. The shear pressure of this intense water
jet was pushing my head.
Then, somewhere in the
middle of the tidal swoosh, there was a break. Like light coming into a deep mine
shaft, like earthquake victims being discovered in an air pocket under rubble,
something broke from my eardrum.
The
water stopped. Everything
stopped. There was a very long
medical silence in that room.
“What…what
is it?...” I inquired.
Without
words, the metal tin, which was under my ear, was slowly lowered for my
viewing.
“Whoa,”
I was staring down at this walnut-sized hairy earwax abortion slowly sailing
around the metal pond.
In
some way I was proud of it, and in another way, I was internationally
embarrassed. Of course, as I was
considering asking if I could keep this sweet nugget in a zip lock bag, the
nurse very briskly disposed of the wax vessel. This, for sure, avoided any awkward
explanation to the customs officer as I would have tried to escort my new wax
buddy back home for much bragging and victorious bets.
I
looked up at my medical crew, smiled and let out, “Wow.”
This
kind of broke their concerned disbelief and we all kind of admitted that we
were amused. They flushed out my
ear again to make sure it was all cleaned out before I left. Of course, there were some little pieces
of drift wax that came out, but nothing the size of the mother wax battle ship
that had just come out from my harboring ear canal.
The
nurse toweled me dry. I kept
turning my head, alternating my ears to hear the doctor debrief the
surgery. I could hear again, yes!
Money? Yikes, I was so nervous to ask about the
bill.
“So
doctor, ah, how much do I owe you?” I inquired.
I
felt totally bonded to him. He was
the doctor--the doctor that delivered “it” from my ear. The doctor and I, we, had a
relationship.
I
told the doctor that I had Icelandic currency.
“How about
$10?” he nervously asked.
I
slapped the doc $10 with a sturdy handshake. I leaned into the “surgery
room” to see the nurse. I
mimed a “thank you”.
She nodded and smiled. The
nurse went back to polishing her prized horse’s syringe, preparing to
gently put it back in the cherry wood plush velvet lined box.
*****
“Hello,
hello…” I kept talking and turning my head. I was pleased with my rediscovered
hearing. I had left the clinic and
I was skipping back to the campsite.
35
It
was still just noon and I was cured.
I was relieved. I now had 24
hours left in
I
caroused around the Icelandic tourist shops but it was so demeaning. I thought maybe I’d buy a sticker
or something. Unfortunately, cute
honeymooners buying matching Icelandic wool sweater, some with matching hats,
scarves and even booties surrounded me.
I was going to do this trinket shopping as quickly as possible.
I
would try to look through windows to scout things out so as to minimize my time
inside the tourist zones. I would
spot something through the window, get my money ready, run in, buy it, get out,
and then finally breath. It was a
good plan. I was having minimal
exposure to Icelandic troll key chains, puffin necklaces, Iceland-shaped wood
block clocks and other tourist atrocities.
Everything was very efficient.
Everything was working out as planned until I became caught in a lock-on
glare with the mother of all tourist vulgarities.
What
lay before me was the most epitomized Scandinavian cultural symbol ever. I was slowly pulled in by this
epiphany. In the original plan, I
would have been out of the store by then, but by some kind of religious
magnetism I was slowly being pulled closer. I knew I had to have it.