I want you to know one thing:

All love begins with the redolence of destiny,
and ends with malodorous reek of reality.

Ever since Jesus begged from the cross
“My god, my god, why hast thou forsaken me!”
The word “forsake” has never lost its edge.
We may say “sad” and mean a thousand things,
But “forsake” conjures across the millennium
All of those things lost and cast aside:
Possessions, people, places,
All a line on an imaginary map
Drawing us back to our first memory
of loss.

It could be that a handful, a hundred
Human lovers could forsake us,
But one moment without God’s touch,
And we are drowning in endless seas.

On that day when God left you, did
You not cry out, like a mother with a
Lifeless infant in her arms?
Arms raised in agony, and breast bruised
With pain and protestation, did you
Not pull up your roots, and blow out the
Flame of faith that could not endure that
Cold vacuum, with grief in its wake?

But,
if you followed,
if you held on to
That line of grief that plays out before you
Such that the pain of loss becomes sweet,
And seen such as it is:
That every pains draws you deeper into Love’s arm,
And that Compassion had opened its lips to
Drink the poison of your grief.
It is our loss that feeds our love,
And as long as you live this truth is promised you
Without anything expected in return.

It’s been over a week since we returned from Iceland.  I am now sitting in the Phoenix Sky Harbor airport, a pit stop on the way to Albuquerque for sacred time with my father.  As I flew from Sacramento to Phoenix, I read Doug Lansky’s “The Rough Guide First-Time Europe.”  The wanderlust bug has bitten me full-force, and I now officially ready travel books the way middle aged women read Danielle Steele novels.

What happened in those last few days in Iceland?  Well, the Sunday following Club NASA was spent in complete and total detox.  I don’t think we left our the apartment or changed out of pajamas the whole day.  We were beginning to get ready for the journey home, and I was actively yearning to be back home.

On Monday, we went for a horseback riding tour outside of Reykjavik.  I have not been on a horse in about 20 years, but it sounded like fun.  According to a program on YouTube, Icelandic horses have not been crossed-bred for over a thousand years, and therefore have developed a few unique characteristics.  They seem smaller than most horses, but have beautiful manes and a particular gait between their walk and trot known as a “tot.”  At least that’s what we found out when we began our riding.  Some poor Norwegian man and his daughter were on the tour, and his horse just would not cooperate.  The constant cries of “Nei, Nei!” as the horse stopped to eat grass and everything else in sight was comical.  And then it would gallop to catch up with us.  Thank goodness he was of good humor, because the existential despair of the whole situation would have defeated a less good-natured person.

In the days since returning, I have occasionally missed the energy of Iceland and its beauty.  The people, the alcohol, the landscapes, the alcohol, and the waters all reflect the ancient spirit that dwells in the place.  In combination with Iceland, it has awoken in me my desire to travel frequently and deeply, investigating the heart and spirit of places and how the reflect the space and presence within myself.  Takk fyrir for all those we met, all the things we saw, and the gifts–physical and spiritual–that continue to remain with me. 

Takk fyrir, too, for all the alcohol — I’ll send you the dialysis bill.

In Star Wars lore, the Sith Lords represented all things dark and perverted.  In order to save the evil Sith empire from complete destruction, the Sith Lord Darth Bane instituted what was known as the rule of two: Two there should be; no more, no less. One to embody power, the other to crave it. Through this ancient code, the Sith remained undetected and grew in power, accumulating arcane knowledge and dark powers.  Only when the apprentice destroyed his master could there be a new Sith Lord, and a new apprentice could be chosen.  For aeons they remained undetected, until one fateful night in Reykjavik the newest Sith Lord, Darth Croatia, sought a new apprentice, and by a strange twist of fate, found a suitable servant in our traveling companion Jeff, whom he tried to make his Sith bitch.

When  I awoke the morning of day three of Pride, Jeff was nowhere to be found.  This was only a little bit disconcerting, because Jeff had developed his own schedule.  I started to compose yesterday’s blog entry, a process that ended up taking most of the days.  Part of that is because it is written in fits and spurts, and other because it takes a fair amount of time to figure out how exactly to interpret the day’s events into a coherent narrative.  As I was writing, Patrick got up and started to check his Facebook.  At around noon, Jeff finally walked through the door.  His story is so fantastic that I feel compelled to write it down for posterity.

If you read the previous entry, you know that Jeff had already had an encounter with a character that we dubbed the Sith Lord.  Our narrative begins with that first contact.  The first night of Pride we went to Barbara following the Opening Ceremonies.  Jeff, of course, was continuing his UN sanctioned efforts to spread world peace (of ass).  During our walk to Barbara, I counseled Jeff to use the power of the Law of Attraction to visualize what he wanted.  This proved to be an unusually challenging task, as we swung from one fantasy visualization to another.  My powers of concentration were not vast enough to hold the number of different options that Jeff was looking for.  Let’s just say that what Jeff wanted to settle on was your standard Viking with blue eyes.  It was with this thought in mind that Jeff, Patrick, and I went into Barbara.

Barbara was, of course, starting to get full, and after a drink or so we headed to the dancefloor.  The music was that strange Icelandic blend of Michael Jackson, Top 40, and Pall Oskar that I had come to enjoy.  We were dancing near the DJ’s table, and we noticed that there was this dark haired man looking in our direction, and more specifically, at Jeff.  He did not look Icelandic, but more Slavic, and he did not have the blue eyes.  The law of attraction clearly did not speak English in Iceland.  Finally, Patrick went over to this dark-haired gentleman, and brought him over to speak with Jeff.  Patrick, his job as international pimp finished, and I left the bar shortly thereafter to come home.

Now you know how Patrick unwittingly introduced Jeff to the Dark Lord of the Sith.  The Dark Lord of the Sith took Jeff on not one, but two, adventures.  The first adventure occurred on the night of opening ceremonies, and the second occurred on the second night at Club London-Reykjavik.  Both involved strange magic and dark side powers that resulted in Jeff swearing off of alcohol and complaining that his body was going into shock.  It also involved us recognizing that one of his colognes that he brought clearly had Sith pheromone in it, and consequently, he would switch to a Sith repelling scent instead.  And now back to our main narrative.

With Jeff escaped from the Sith Lord and restored to the Light Side of the Force, we decided to head to Bonus to get groceries prior to Pride.  Pride started at 1400, and we wanted to watch it from the safety of our balcony.  We picked up some additional supplies and headed back to the apartment.  Steini let us know that he would be coming by with Brian and his girlfriend to watch Pride, and then we would be heading down to the concert.  I set up my camcorder to record the parade from one of our windows, and we settled in for the parade.  According to Kathy, our contact with Apartment K, pride in Iceland was fairly small in comparison with US Pride celebrations.

I don’t know what her definition of small is, but Reykjavik Pride was not small in my opinion.  The main street of Laugavegur was packed with people, and the parade involved several floats.  The dykes on bikes started off the parade, and from there, several different groups marched.  One of the most interesting thing was the number of gay supporters in the parade.  In the states you might have PFLAG, and perhaps some corporate floats that probably have straight people on them, but in Reykjavik, there was a number of groups that seemed to be in support of lesbians and gays, but not actually gay themselves.  The overwhelming presence of straight supporters was very heartening, and seemed to be a hallmark of the Iceland Pride experience.  Steini and Bryan had pointed out that one of the big part of Pride were all of the people out to support it.  In fact, I saw a large number of young children holding flags and waving them.  Later, as we were leaving the apartment, I noticed that even the Christian bookstore had Pride flags in the window.

The Pride Parade has passed by our apartment by around 1500, so we headed out to follow the parade down to the Pride Concert.  The place was packed with people — I think at one point I heard that there was something like 70,000 people there.  Viggo and Violetta were MCing the concert; we heard them over the A/V system as we walked down to the plaza where the concert was being held.  Steini guided us to the front of the concert where we could clearly see the stage.  The next couple of hours was filled with mostly awesome music from Icelandic artists, including a couple of performances from a German group called Robotron.  That performance almost destroyed my eardrums.  The music was described as disco punk, and it sounded like heavy metal thrashing, ear-splitting industrial sounds, and screaming all rolled into a package that made my ears bleed.

Pall Oskar also performed during the concert.  Throughout our stay in Iceland, we have continuously heard this one particular song called Ég Er Eins Og Ég Er, which translates into “I Am What I Am.”  Jeff made the connection that this song was one he had heard before, and I later discovered that it was a song from La Cage aux Folles.  Every time Pall Oskar performs everyone goes crazy, but this song seems to drive everyone wild.  Steini explained that this song is kind of the Gay Pride anthem in Iceland, but it also speaks to anyone who is feels like the don’t want hide who they are.  We rocked out to Pall Oskar’s performance and then headed back to the apartment to relax prior to the big party at Club NASA.

When we finally made it to Club NASA it was probably around 0030, right before our VIP passes stopped allowing us to line jump.  We got into the building and checked our coats, and headed inside the club.  Club NASA was well-named, because the heat in the room felt like I was underneath a space shuttle about to take off.  Pall Oskar was DJing, and he started off his first set by playing “Gay Classics.”  We were magically transported in Pall Oskar’s way back machine (with glittery pants and jacket) to the land of ABBA, the Village People, and the Weather Girls.  We danced until sweat started to pour down our necks, which was about 5 minutes in.  And then we kept on dancing.  I wasn’t drinking, so I was intent on just enjoying the music.  Surprisingly, the night also included a couple of live performances for Hera Bjork and Haffi Haff, both of which were very enjoyable (and in English).

Pall Oskar took the stage, now changed into a black suit (with sparkles!).  Naturally, we listened to the same songs that we had already heard, and I was getting good at faking the sounds by trying to focus on the vowel sounds and end of words.  Luckily, Pall Oskar tends to hold his notes for a while which allows me to feel like I’m singing along.  Patrick and Jeff were near the front of the stage, and they were reaching out their hands to Pall Oskar.  At one point, he actually touched them, and they looked very very excited by that.  I don’t think Patrick was planning on ever washing that hand again.  I joined them up front and got to see Pall Oskar up close.  I think at one point he made eye contact and I said to myself: “I am never going to wash my face again.”

Eventually, the party at Club NASA got down and dirty with Pall Oskar inviting people onto the stage and starting to spin some house music.  The crowd on the stage was shaking their groove thing and we all started getting down.  Patrick and Jeff had been appearing and disappearing all night to go cool off in the Front Lobby, and they reappeared at this point, and we started dancing to progressive house.  Shirts were coming off left and right, and the entire stage was full of people, all of whom, it turned out were straight.  The other thing is that Icelandic straight guys get pretty flirty, and so it’s really hard to tell what exactly is going on until the moment they draw the line.  It’s like the riddle of the Sphinx, except it’s the riddle of the Straights: “What goes to bed at 4:00 AM, walks on two legs in the afternoon, and teases you with its third leg at Club NASA?”

The other dark side of this evening is that I finally got to see what happens when Icelandic people get a little bit out of control at a club.  They get beat down faster than a fat girl on “America’s Next Top Model.”  I think I noticed someone with a bleeding nose, one overly enthusiastic young guy was getting thrown around like a rag doll (he just jumped up again, like a weeble wobble), and I got slammed from behind when two people got pushed from the stage.  One of the guys responded by jumping back onto the stage to beat down the person who pushed him.  This was the same guy that was taking drinks from everybody, including Steini, who was not pleased with losing the rest of his beer to this person and let him know it.

That pretty much is how the evening ended, with Patrick asking if I was ready to go.  I was a little bit bummed about leaving, but it was probably a good idea.  We — of course — stopped for pizza, and got back to apartment.  We had a good talk about the evening and the trip in general, and we feel asleep as the sun began to rise again on our second to last day in Iceland.

The Icelandic hot dog.  How do I begin to sing the praises of this most satisfying of foods?  How do I begin to describe the wonderful flavor of this consummate culinary creation, this paragon of pork presentation?  These hot dogs are so good that I now consider the words “tveir með öllu” (“two with everything”) a form of praying.

I awoke at 6:00 AM to the sound of someone entering, an unknown voice and Jeff’s voice.  At that point, I had only been asleep for 3 hours, but I was now wide awake.  As Jeff’s conversation with this mystery person continued, I noticed that there were not one but two voices.  Hmmm.  Now, Jeff can talk a good game, and probably deliver on it, but two people seemed a little bit more than he could handle.  Then I realized that, based on the conversation, these two men were straight.  Interesting.  Patrick started to stir, and he asked what was going on.  I gave a general overview of the situation.  Patrick had to urinate, so he went to do reconnaissance and relieve himself.  He came back with a brief report.  Eventually, the two straight Icelandic men departed, and then we got to pounce on Jeff to get the story out of him.  I will not elaborate on said story here, because the character henceforth known as the “Dark Lord of the Sith” shall come up in another entry.

Today’s adventure involved puffin watching.  When Patrick saw the pictures of puffins at the BSI Bus Station, his face did this very cute thing.  He kind of purses his lips and makes this very endearing growl like sound.  It’s the sound he makes when something is very cute or adorable.  It’s usually reserved for small animals, and puffins fit in that category.  Steini wanted to come with us so he came over around 1300 or so.  I learned from Patrick that he had a date planned for that evening, so it was no surprise that he was a little nervous when he came by.  We immediately began trying to pull information from him about this person, and Steini did not disappoint.  It was a great example of using the internet as a dating tool, one that I wholeheartedly recommend.

We headed out early for the tour because Patrick wanted to purchase a 66° North jacket.  We started our march to the Reykjavik Old Harbor, stopping at the store.  We found a wonderful jacket for him, one that was different from the one that I had or Jeff had.  It has this cool little hood, and actually has a part that covers his face.  He looks like a ninja when its fully zipped up.  So with his brand new and super-warm jacket, we headed down to the Harbor.  I paid for our tickets and shortly after we walked to our boat.  Jeff was a little bit afraid of getting seasick, and when we boarded he looked a little worried.  It settled down once we made our way out to the sea.  It was a short boat ride from the harbor to the main puffin island.  Once we got there, we were a little bit surprised that there weren’t a hundred puffins sitting on the beach drinking tea and waiting for us to arrive.  However, Patrick quickly spotted puffins flying in the sky, and we started to try and take pictures of them.  This is a quite difficult, actually, and we weren’t very successful.  Finally, we noticed that some puffins were floating out on the water and we were able to take snapshots of them on the water.  They were very cute.  We watched one of them try to take off from the water–he was unable to take flight.  As Patrick said, he looked like he was bodysurfing.

After about 45 minutes, we started to head back to the Harbor.  After we disembarked, Steini lead us to a hot dog stand that he had been going to since he was a kid.  Like I said, there’s nothing quite like an Icelandic pylsur.  Two were very satisfying.  We then made a quick stop at a WC and then headed back to the apartment.  Steini departed to get ready, and Jeff and Patrick laid down for a nap.  I decided to do the sun salutations and opening asanas from the Ashtanga first series, and then laid in a shavasana that was part active imagination, part nap.  I then curled up on the couch and slept for a little bit.

I woke up a little bit cranky–the usual outcome when I’ve had little sleep.  Steini was on his way over, and we were all in boxers or shorts and t-shirts.  When Steini arrived, we talked with him about his date, including trying to give first date advice.  All of this advice was entirely inappropriate and unhelpful, exactly the type of advice designed to be ignored.  Of course, you can’t do much when your friends are telling you when you can finger someone (am I right?).  We also had some semi-serious discussions about gay relationships and coming out.  I felt like I was missing all the good discussions, since all of my toilet and shower activities seem to overlap with particularly interesting topics.  Nevertheless, we had a good time and left pretty late for our next event: the Gay Cruise.

As I think I mentioned in a previous entry, I am not one for “doing Pride.”  Going to all these events for Reykjavik Pride has been very, very fun, though, and is making me rethink my aversion to Pride events back home.  Clearly, Reykjavik Pride puts a lot of thought into its events, and it is very much appreciated by its gay and straight residents.  Steini, Jeff, Patrick and I headed out.  Steini was accompanying us because we were on his way to his date (go Steini!).  We left him about halfway, and then headed down to the harbor.  We didn’t leave ourselves a lot of time, and Jeff was fretting that we weren’t going to make it.  With the equanimity generated by vodka and tonic, I told him that everything was going to work out.  We made it to the ticket office, and there were 5 tickets left (whew!).  We paid, and then headed on to the boat.  We launched shortly after we boarded, leaving me feeling both vindicated in my vodka-induced wisdom and the fact that we weren’t standing around waiting for the thing to start for an inordinate length of time.

Because I know that there are various visions of what a gay cruise could be, I will say that this is not one with a buffet (but they did serve beer).  The boat was pleasantly full.  We grabbed some drinks and headed up a deck, where we could enjoy the wind and the views.  People were in a festive mood, and we ended up meeting Daniel, who figured into Jeff’s first night out at Barbara.  We chatted with Daniel for a bit, and then hang around the ship, talking amongst ourselves and dancing to the relatively out-dated club music.  Other passengers were also providing entertainment, as two others guys put on fisherman’s gear and started performing near the bow of the ship.  Eventually, we started to circle back to the harbor, our one-hour tour coming to end.  I was sufficiently inebriated to still feel the gentle rocking of the ship while on land.

Now back in an area with a selection of bars, we headed to a bar with Christmas theme (go figure).  Christmas music playing over the speakers and elves working the bar put me in an appropriately festive mood.  We had connected with a guy who was the DJ at Barbara the first night we were there, and he was buying rounds.  I partook–minimally–of this generosity.  We then crawled over to another bar that was seemingly miles away (it was uphill and I was intoxicated).  This bar was tucked away in such a way that you would never know it was there without knowing it was there.  It was like the magical land of Narnia — just around the corner if you know which coatroom to walk through.  And given the fact that this was a leather bar, I might very well have seen an S&M Mr. Tumness, or at least a naughty little satyr.

There were no twisted woodland fawns, but there was a pornographic movie playing on a TV screen and a doorman dressed all in leather.  If C.S. Lewis had been a disciple of Tom of Finland, he would have written a book about this bar called the Leather, the Whip and the Porno.  We did run into Steini and his date, which seemed to be going quite well.  We dutifully interrupted their chat and introduced ourselves.  We also found Daniel and a person that I understood to be his ex-boyfriend.  His ex-boyfriend (Gunnar, I think) and I began an in-depth discussion regarding learning Icelandic, and I have to marvel at how overly philosophical I get when I’m tipsy.  (I also have a “maudlin” setting and collection of really great dance moves that is a train wreck waiting to happen)  After another drink, we headed back the way we came (how redundant) to arrive at Club London-Reykjavik, the site of the Boy’s Dance.

When we arrived, I ducked into the WC and Patrick handled the coat situation.  The coat room was not staffed, so Patrick worked the room like a pro.  We headed upstairs, to what seemed like a fairly sparsely attended party, given the number of gay people in Reykjavik.  We saddled up to the bar, me for my last drink of the night.  Once again, we ran into Steini, and although this was not surprising given the nature of the evening, it seemed like we were stalking him.  I waved hello and we headed towards the dancefloor area.  The DJ was slowly warming up, it seemed, for the big event.  The first few songs were pretty tame and little underwhelming.  But just like I would back at home, I rode the wave of good songs and not so good ones and stayed on the dancefloor for most of the evening.  We met up again with Daniel and Gunnar, and we danced along to European and American hit songs.

Eventually, I noticed that Jeff had disappeared, and that Patrick and I were ready to leave.  We grabbed our coats and headed out into the night air.  In typical fashion, we grabbed pizza, and I found, much to my dismay, that my credit card was declined.  I suppose that WAMU had decided that, even though they knew that I was in Iceland, the steady stream of credit card transactions were becoming suspicious.  I don’t blame them — a bunch of small charges at bars begins to look like a pattern of fraud (or alcoholism in the making).  Luckily Patrick had his card, so we paid, ate our once slice there, and took one a piece back to the apartment.  We talked about the night and, sans Jeff, turned in for the evening.

I will say that so far this experience in Iceland has been amazing.  Although I would not know what to do with myself if I moved here–all places and spaces have their good and bad points–I must say that seeing a different perspective on how to live life and live love has been a wonderful experience.  Plus, I’m starting to get the whole Icelandic perspective of how to not be personally insulted by words or actions.  And with that, the second day of Pride faded into the bliss of a good night’s sleep.

Last night, we went to Opening Ceremonies for Iceland Gay Pride.  We awoke relatively late (1100-ish) to a rainy day in Reykjavik.  Patrick’s cold went from small to drenching the bed sheets, and so it was up to Jeff and I to do the grocery shopping for the day.  We were also charged with finding the VIP passes that we had reserved online.  During the planning phase of this trip, Jeff and Patrick decided it would be easier to purchase passes to allow us access into all of the main Pride events without having to carry cash.  Sound enough in principal.  I also knew that sending Jeff and I out together would allow us to achieve a detente from the events of yesterday.  So we grabbed our book bags and headed out into the misty weather.

Jeff and I agreed that we would grab the VIP passes first.  Patrick and Jeff had guessed that the passes would be at Barbara, based on the fact that it was the “official” club of Pride.  A quick trip into the very quiet bar revealed that, no, it was not, but we were directed to the right place: the basement of Mikli.  In hindsight, this was the second most natural location at which it could be.  After all, it had a picture of Pall Oskar wearing a shirt saying “Dirty Queer.”  So we headed into the basement, and were attended to by a wonderfully cheerful Scottish woman who had immigrated to Iceland 9 years ago.  Once she had confirmed that our names were on the list, she proceeded to hand over our Pride goodie bags.  We were also able to select a t-shirt from a couple of different styles and colors.  I grabbed a white one for Patrick and a black one for myself.  The goodie bags contained a boa and a wrist rubber wrist bracelet (think: LIVE STRONG), as well as a Pride program.  It wasn’t exactly the most extravagant bag of stuff, but it was a nice gesture.

From the basement of Mikli, Jeff wanted to go to 66 North to buy a knit hat.  I think that he wanted to wear it on a glacier tour.  So we headed over to the store.  Once we were there, I felt vindicated when Jeff also considered buying a jacket.  He has called my new Askja Light Jacket a “sweatshirt” on more than one occasion.  So we selected for him a nice blue jacket along with an orange and grey knit hat.  We also discovered that you can buy 66 North t-shirts, so I picked up one for Patrick and Jeff got one for himself.  I wanted one, but they didn’t have my size.  I hoping that when we go back they will have one in my size (so that I too can have a t-shirt that reads “Surving at 66 North” or something similar).

After 66 North, we attempted to once again locate the equivalent of Sudafed.  Icelandic pharmacies are, apparently, a little bit different then ours.  While ours are filled with tools of self-help and healing (read: pills), these pharmacies seemed mostly concerned with carrying a wide range of beauty supplies and liquid soaps.  I have to note that one of the things that strikes me about Iceland is the paucity of bar soap.  Our wonderful hosts at Apartment K provided us with a body soap called “Neutral,” to which I have the reaction of “Mildly Dislike.”  The stuff is an insipid, scentless gel with little cleaning power.  Now, I’m not against shower gels or neutrally scented products.  I’ve taken showers with chickpea flower when I was studying basic Ayurvedic remedies.  But this stuff just simply doesn’t get you clean (it doesn’t make you more dirty, either, which might be it’s intended effect).  I guess I should also note that, since we don’t have a loofah or a supply of washclothes, shower gel doesn’t work that well.  Note for next overseas trip: pack bar soap or a loofah.  Probably a loofah, since it doesn’t add to the weight limit!

When we asked at the counter for a nasal decongestant, we were given the option of buying a spray or a chest application.  Neither were what Jeff or Patrick wanted (or would want), so we left.  We then stopped in the natural food store, where I picked up some Yogi Teas that were designed to alleviate the suffering associated with illness.  The interesting thing about the store was that it was pretty much like any other health food store I’ve ever been in.  It’s good to know that, even internationally, natural healing stores look exactly the same.  (And pretty much cost the same — a woman in the queue spent something like 10,000 ISK on a selection of items that fit into a small brown bag)

Since we had far more packages than we expected and we had not yet been to the store, we headed back to the apartment.  My poor darling was in bed, still sweating out his fever.  Fortunately, he was starting to feel better, so we decided to head out to shop together, and grab some lunch.  I was in charge of selection, so we stopped in a Scandinavian restaurant, figuring that this would be the first time we would actually eat in a vaguely Icelandic eatery.  I ended up having a delicious sherry mushroom soup and a chicken sandwich with french fries (very Icelandic).  Afterward, we ended over to my favorite cafe for hot chocolate, and then started to make our way back towards Bonus.  We stopped in Dogma, because I wanted to get a “Eg tala ekki islensku” (“I don’t speak Icelandic”) t-shirt.  They also had some pretty racy t-shirts, one of which was so over the top that, although I laughed, I could never wear in the United States.  Let’s just say it involves choosing a vowel to finish a word, and the correct answer is “Nagger.”

We finally made it to the supermarket, were we stocked up on provisions.  We now have no reason to eat out for the remainder of the trip.  Well, not really, but we do have quite a bit of food.  We picked up hot dogs, an Icelandic mainstay.  We also found crunchy friend onions, which are a common topping on hot dogs.  After finishing our shopping, we headed back to apartment.  I forget what time it was, but I think we were once again pushing 1600 or so.  It might have been later.  All I remember of the intervening period was doing some reading and editing while Jeff and Patrick disco napped.  Patrick was feeling very tired, so I am glad he got the time.  I woke them up at 1845, since we needed to be at Pride by 2000.  The only hurdle to overcome was getting a taxi, but thanks to Skype, that was quickly handled.  So at 1945 we were off to the party!

We arrived at the theater.  In the few Pride events that I’ve attended, I’ve only ever gone to the pre-party (San Francisco), the parade (again, San Francisco), or the community event afterwards (San Francisco and Sacramento).  But I’ve never gone to an “opening ceremony.”  We grabbed drinks at the bar and headed into the theater.  It was festively decorated with pride flags, and was clearly set up for musical performances.  Eventually, the lights dimmed, and a man with a guitar took the stage.  He started playing, and everyone immediately recognized “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.”  A cheer rose from the crowd, as the man’s voiced floated over the applause.  He made his way through the song, slowly and beautifully, and the crowd erupted in applause.  (I realized later that this man was Bubbi Morthens, who is evidently an incredibly well-known and respected Icelandic artist)  He then began to speak in Icelandic, at which point I could only sit pack and enjoy the gentle cadence of the language, and the next two songs.

After Bubbi left the stage, a man and a woman took the stage.  They were the MCs, Viggo and Violetta.  Viggo was dressed in a white suit with flamboyant eye make-up, and Violetta was dressed in a cute white dress that looked positively “Sound of Music”-esque.  Viggo immediately launched into something in Icelandic, but Violetta quickly followed up with English (thank goodness!).  It was totally hammy and over the top.  After a brief introduction, they began a musical routine that was just INSANE!  It started off with something like, “You’ve all heard of Cinderella, who find her prince.  But that’s not my story.  I’m a FAG HAG…”  It just went off from there.  All I can say is that it included snippets from various musicals, involved Viggo taking off his clothes to reveal a leather outfit worthy of “Rocky Horror” and a double headed dildo wielded by Violetta to attempt to get Viggo to live with her “somewhere that’s green.”

After this rousing performance, the Director of Pride took the stage.  A distinguished, middle-aged man wrapped in a huge Pride boa, began in Icelandic, briefly switched to English, and then proceeded to make a speech in Icelandic.  I was almost brought to tears when he spoke in English.  Without remembering the exact wording, he began by pointing out that gay rights was a human rights issue, and that the essential question was the right of all people to dignity.  How different that is from our perspective in the United States.  In the US, gay rights is first and foremost a religious issue.  Any question of the rights of gay people to have the same rights as heterosexuals in inextricably tied to the fact that the Bible, Koran, Torah, etc. considers it a sin.  Although we propose a separation of church and state, the church as insinuated itself into the politics du jour.  In Europe–or Iceland at the very least–the issue of gay rights begins with the foundational concept that all people have a right to their dignity and part of dignity is the right to have intimate partnership in this life.

It was at this moment, listening to this man talk about gay rights as human rights, that I realized two things.  One, that I would gladly live in a place where this was true.  Second, for that very reason, I needed to be more diligent in acting in my own country for the human rights, including equality for gays and gay couples.

The show proceeded on, including a performance by the Creamgirls, a duo from Norway.  They came out in black face, and proceeded to lip synch their way through Donna Summers, Tina Turner, Grace Jones, and a hilarious skit with Whitney Houston and Macy Gray as a coked out mess.  They were, to quote Christian from Project Runway, hot tranny mess.  At the end of their performance, one of them said, “And I give up my pussy for free to all you lesbians.”  Hot.

After an intermission, we came back for Pall Oskar’s performance.  What to say about Pall Oskar?  First off, he is the cat’s meow in Iceland, a well known singer and DJ.  He had been in the business since 1993, I believe.  His music is all over the map in terms of style and genre.  And he’s very cute, in a boyishly Scandanavian way.  He was introduced by Viggo and Violetto with a great deal of hooting and hollering from the crowd.  Pall took the stage dressed in a sparkly rhinestone outfit that we later dubbed a mix between Liberace and Neil Diamond.  He immediately launched into music that was obviously well-known to the crowd.  As it was all in Icelandic, we could only, as they say, go with it.  And go with it we did.  We shouted, we clapped, we grooved in our seats and on our feet.  He performed several up tempo numbers before bringing the energy down a bit with a harpist, singing an English version of Charles Aznavour’s Comme Ils Disent (“What Makes a Man a Man?”).  The energy picked up for the end, and we danced in our seats to Eurodisco mania.

The rest of the night involved coming back to our apartment for two hot dogs a piece (with onions!), and heading back out to Barbara, the official club of Gay Pride.  Patrick and I bailed early, grabbing pizza and having some heart to heart time before crashing into bed at the earliest time yet for us (0100).  The abrupt awakening this morning will need to wait for another post.

The Blue Lagoon, I am here to report, is neither really blue nor a lagoon.  First, in order to be a lagoon, it must be cut off from a larger body of water.  The Blue Lagoon is fed by geothermal vents and, therefore, does not qualify for said title.  Second, it is really not blue.  It is this incredibly milky color that somehow looks blue.  Consequently, I do not believe that is should be called the Blue Lagoon — it should be called Hot Soothing Milky Water.  Which, by coincidence, would also be an amazing name for a prostitute.

I digress, however.  Today was the Blue Lagoon, in all its milky hot splendor.  Perhaps one of the most known tourist attraction in Iceland, it is located approximately 40 km outside of Reykjavik, and is best accessed, it seems, by bus.  We woke up late-ish.  We’ve been slowly peeling the time back to about 9:45 AM, which is respectable.  A little bit of researched revealed that the first departure that we would be interested in taking would be around 1 PM.  Thanks to the  magic of the Internet, we were able to book the tickets online with little hassle.  It also included hotel pick-up, which was very nice.  So with the adventure of the day solved, we turned our attention to checking email and catching up on the events of the previous day in America.

Promptly at 12:30 our intermediary bus arrived to take us to the bus station.  It was an easy enough thing, and when we got to the bus station, we provided our confirmation numbers and received our tickets.  After a short wait, we boarded the bus to the Blue Lagoon.  As we rolled along the highway, the countryside showed the vastness of landscape.  We drove by the beautiful ocean, and I was once again struck, as I was yesterday, about the deep soul of the place.  William Butler Yeats once said, in the poem “Lake Isle of Innisfree”:

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

My lack of familiarity with Icelandic poetry (save Beowulf)  means that I don’t know what the closest analog would, but I suspect the sentiment would be the same.  There is a deep connection between a people and their land.  Perhaps this explains the Icleandic thought process that Steini has talked about (see “The Tavern.”)  In a subsequent conversation, he asked us why Americans are so afraid of words.  I presumed he meant our fear of being honest and direct in our speech.  The land of Iceland is so rugged and windswept that it doesn’t brook long meandering speeches.  It demands a clarity and directness of speech equal to its terrain.  The softness of the moss is like the softness of its Þ and its ð, so subtle that they are barely distinguishable.  The rocks are like their double consonants, rougher and requiring more force.  The two floats effortlessly in this langugage.  In the book, Geography of Bliss, Eric Weiner quotes Bill Holm, who wrote a poem regarding the Icelandic language.  In the poem, he wrote:

You must sit down to speak this language,
It is so heavy you can’t be polite or chatter in it.
For once you have begun a sentence, the whole course of your life is laid out before you.

I like these lines, and the make even more sense once you have seen the land out of which this ancient Viking-like tongue arises.

The question of a language and its connection to people will have to await, however, for we arrived at the Blue Lagoon.  After disembarking, we headed through the check-in procedure which involves the acquiring of a technologically advanced wristband.  Feeling like Aquaman, we glided through the turnstile and headed towards the Lagoon.  We encountered a group of German tourists who clearly did not understand how things worked.  Most of the men in the group attempted to head in the women’s locker rooms.  I will never understand the minds of most tourists in foreign countries.  In Cambodia they call foreigners barang, a word that suggests they need to seriously pick-up the clue phone.  I’ve found that in most situations–unless you are on fire or being chased–the best thing to do is to stop, look around, check signage, and move forward.  In the case of these tourists, a simple look at signage would have provided all the data needed.

Once we had separated the males and females, we trekked upstairs to the men’s locker rooms.  The locker system here is somewhat ingenious.  Once you choose a locker and place your possessions it, you scan your bracelet against a reader and it permits only you to open it.  How cool is that?  After a quick shower to rinse off any impurities, we headed outside with our towels.

There it was–the Blue Lagoon in all its milky goodness.  The day’s air was chilly, so we quickly walked into the water, which was slightly more comfortable than lukewarm.  The floor was somewhat sandy, with patches of slippery.  As we continued to walk into the lagoon, we found these patches of hot water.  We would find ourselves, over the course of the next hour or so, hovering around these hotspots like a crack whore looking for a score.  Eventually, we found the source of all the hot water goodness and played in that area.  The Blue Lagoon also provides a silica mud mask, which we liberally applied to ourselves.

In the milky goodness of the waters, I felt stress melt away.  The mask made my skin soft and supple, and the water soothed my entire body.  It was like Eden with a good facial.  The pool was filled with people from all over the world, and both Patrick and Jeff availed themselves of the male biodiversity.  I, other the hand, did not have my contacts and was denied this pleasure. (Patrick, bless his heart [and in saying that, I am emphatically not adding the typical unspoken judgments common in the American South] only packed one contact lens for me.)  Consequently, I had to settle on somewhat lurid and bombastic descriptions.  We all, however, took note of a same-sex couple who were strangely interested in photographing each other.  This could only mean one thing: gay men with decent bodies.  Oh god.

As a gay male, I suffer both from a healthy self-esteem and a strong desire for six pack abs.  The latter is in no way shape or  form reflected in my attendance at the local gym or ab blaster classes.  When I find examples of this dedication in the Gay Wild, I adopt a policy similar to the United States handling of the American Bison: shoot to kill.  And not even for consumption, but just to piss off the natives of the Gay Wild.  While I recognize that I am not exactly unattractive–I mean, hello!–I do recognize that I could be more if I just was willing to put in the dedication.  And the time in a tanning booth.

But the other thing that I know to be true is that, usually, those six pack abs and perfect asses–oh, be still my shaking hands and naughty mind–are nothing more than protein shakes and ab work.  In other words, drop them in the middle of the forest with an ax and some kindling and they’d probably attempt to perform a pedicure with them.  Compare this with the Teutonic wonder that I saw in the line at the Blue Lagoon Cafe later.  Ruggedly handsome in the Aryan way, he clearly could knock over a tree with his head, and would like be able to drag it back along with a good size 10-point buck.  See that’s truly attractive–functional good looks and ability.

But I digress.  After a substantial soak and two silica masks, we headed inside to grab some food at the cafe.  It was here that I finally had my first Icelandic hot dog.  And what a hot dog it was!  I generally believe the best hot dogs to be Wahoo Weiners, but this was a close second.  I decided to get it with everything, which included two types of onions, mustard, a special dressing, and something else.  But damn it was good!  I could have easily devoured about three of them, but I had also grabbed some soup and some skyr, which is Icelandic yogurt.  The food was very welcome and very tasty.  Although we had been told that we owed it to ourselves to try Lava, the restaurant at the Blue Lagoon, we decided to head back.  After eating, a second time in the waters just didn’t seem like a good idea.

I whiled away the time reading The Geography of Bliss and listening to music, while Jeff and Patrick played scrabble on the iPhone.  We barely made it on to the bus, due to overcrowding, and got back to the apartment.

Once we got back, Patrick and Jeff headed out to dinner.  I confessed to Patrick that I was struggling with the rhythm of the trip.  Jeff and I had some friction during the day, and its more a symptom of my internal struggles than him personally.  I really enjoy having a rhythm to my days, particularly when I’m abroad.  Although I am getting better at doing nothing, I do like a routine.  When I was in Cambodia, it was get up early, see temples, have breakfast, see more temples, get back, shower, bike to town, have dinner, go back to Hanumanalaya and blog.  When my dad and I visit the Southwest, it’s get up, balloon, breakfast, break at hotel, drive to various photography sites, and then dinner and bed.  Iceland, so far, had almost no routine, and it was wearing on me.  Plus the fact that I am, in a way, deeply introverted and really need time away from other homo sapiens to recharge.  Although I am incredibly theatrical when I have a crowd, I really enjoy my silence.  It was a blessing to have the place to myself while they went out.  I can feel the rebound internally almost immediately.

After they returned from dinner, Patrick and I ran out for some hot chocolate at my favorite cafe.  We also stopped into a record store to buy two things–50 Top Hits (Icelandic style) and a Páll Óskar “best of” collection.  Páll Óskar is a gay singer who is very popular in Iceland.  So, hot chocolates and CDs in tow, we headed back to the apartment.

Tomorrow brings the beginning of Iceland Gay Pride, and maybe some additional adventures.  I am thinking of doing horseback riding, and Patrick is excited about a Puffin Tour.  His face positively lit up at the idea.  Let’s see what tomorrow brings!

Click here for photos.

I have to admit, this Iceland vacation has been fun, but has been missing a key component: activity.  Going somewhere else to relax seems like a waste of time to me.  If I visit somewhere else, I want to be doing something.  With my trip to Cambodia, I woke up early every morning, biked to temples, and probably biked over 40 km a day.  So far, I’ve done a load of drinking and dancing and a lot of sleeping.  I’ve also been eating richly, including more junk food then I eat in a six month period.  Consequently, I feel sluggish, gross, and completely and totally useless.

Until today, that is: The Golden Circle Tour.  2009 Personal Friend Remix edition.

Our Icelandic friend Steini offered to show us some key Icelandic cultural sites, including the Geysers, Þingvellir, and Gullfoss.  Personally, I was thrilled that we were finally “doing” something.  We started off on our trek, heading out to the beach and the Pearl, which had a man-made geyser.  It also has an awesome observation deck, which allowed us a panoramic view of the city.  While Steini, Patrick, and Jeff headed to the left, I headed to the right, which provided a view of the ocean.  While viewing the grey vista of the sea, slightly misted through haze of rain, I felt a tug on my heart that I recognized.  I continued to stare at the vista, trying to listen to this feeling from my heart.  It remained elusive, and I could not go deeper into there.

From the Pearl, we headed off.  The Icelandic countryside is so vast and windswept.  Desolate is a word that comes to mind, but I think that sounds very negative.  Instead, it seems rich—deep and full of memory.  We drove through the countryside, and finally stopped near Nesjalaugar.  It was beautiful set of walking paths with faerie rocks all around.  The moss that covered the rocks was incredibly soft and spongey, and it felt like I was stepping on a trampoline.  It was very cool.  As I walked around, I found several amazing rock formations, and interesting patches of grass and flowers.  Like with many sites that we visited today, it would have been great to stay there a little bit longer.

From Nesjalaugar, we headed  to Þingvellir, the site of the original Viking Parliament.  When Patrick asked Steini where the building was, Steini drolly replied, “We’re Vikings; we met outside.”  We wandered around the park.  I found this cool rock formation that a had a cleft in it.  When I looked at the surrounding rocks, it looked like there was a face in the rocks.  I loved it.  Took a few pictures here, and read about the Viking Parliament.  There was also a tourist site, where we stopped in.  They had quote s from various Viking personages.  After a short stop inside, we headed onto the other side of Þingvellir, which had a beautiful view of a small stream and a waterfall.  We took some pictures, and were promised some additional views of waterfalls.

We piled into the car, and headed off to the geysers.  I have to admit, I was expecting this to be an amazing  and exquisite natural phenomenon.  While it was cool to see water come shooting out the ground, it was kind of a large burst of water, and then some silence.  I wanted to catch a picture of it.  Unfortunately, the timing of this was difficult, as it would just happen and subside.  I think it was either Patrick or I (or both) who compared it to sex.  A lot of foreplay and then a quick explosion which leaves everyone feeling less than satisfied.  Plus it burns when it gets in your eyes.  Lots of similarities!

From here, we headed to the waterfall.  This was EXQUISITE.  Totally awesome and amazing.  It was pure, pure roaring energy and force.  The pictures tell a much better  story than my words could.  We took quite a few pictures, and I had Patrick film me doing some awkwardly improvisational yoga poses.  I wish that I could shoot a whole yoga video there.

After the waterfall, we came back to Reykjavik.  Patrick immediately began making a dinner of butter chicken and Masaman curry.  It was delicious.  We had some naan bread as a side and a strongly tannic Merlot.  It was very tasty.  After dinner, we settled into uploading and reviewing our pictures.  I started to feel a little antsy, and decided to take a walk.

Unlike in Cambodia, I have had a lot of free time on this trip, and I’ve subsequently been able to check my email from work.  I know this is a bad idea, but it helps to pass the time.  Unfortunately, there’s quite a few things going on at work that have me a little less than thrilled.  During my walk, I had some time to think about it.  After listening to one of Pema Chodron’s CDs, I have really begun to notice the way that I spin narratives about situations, images of situations and possible outcomes.  For example, for one particular work issue, I visualized myself coming in all hell fire and brimstone, telling everybody to do their work (with various expletives), chewing out the students, and then being unceremoniously fired after confronting everyone.  It definitely smacked of the dramatic.

I played out quite a few other scenarios before realizing that I was engaging in some serious wheel spinning.  I had to laugh at myself.  How useless the mind is in actually solving problems!  At the same time, our wisdom can be right while our ego refuses to act.  I think I’m currently in the middle of that reality.  I need to act consciously from what is in front of me, not in the realities my mind is spinning to justify action or inaction.  Once again, the yoga teacher is incapable of implementing his own teaching.  However, I don’t think I’m in bad company—it once again just proves that I’m human.  That’s a good place to be.

A day elapsed between the “Tavern” and now (Monday 3 August), and I am not sure how much there might be to tell!  Yesterday was another wake up at 1330 day.  This time, though, Jeff acted as our alarm clock, hopping into bed and demanding that we go to lunch.  I was, I think, still intoxicated and completely unwilling to get up and go do.  However, I dragged myself from bed and showered, only to find that Jeff had now fallen asleep and Patrick hadn’t woken up.  I took this opportunity to go for a walk around the sunlit streets of Reykjavik, and a walk down on the Saebraut.  I found the most amazing place to do yoga.  I really would like to be able to go and shoot some video down there – Viking Vinyasa Yoga.

After a short walk I headed back to the apartment to find Patrick and Jeff now up and about.  We left the apartment around 1600 and grabbed some lunch/early dinner, and then went back to the apartment.  I, frankly, enjoyed the downtime of just hanging out before another night of drinking.  Sunday is generally a low-key pub day, but today is a holiday, so more pub action was in order.  I watched the second season of Dexter while doing some more editing, and attempting to get the “Tavern” entry finished.  I think I set a personal record for commenting on the level of light outside — it was 2330 and not even dark.

We returned to Bar Bara (or Barbara, take your pick), and ended up chatting with a Canadian returning from the out games.  We were determined to not make it a late night.  So, instead of 0600, Patrick and I arrived home at 0300.  We crawled into bed and fell right asleep.

Patrick and I keep joking that we want to move here.  I don’t know what motivates that comment.  I think part of it is the newness of the place, the friendly attitude of the people, and the sheer blood-alcohol ratio that this place inspires.  It is a bit of an international gateway, but so, I think, is any foreign country.  Siem Reap in Cambodia swarmed with foreigners; Reykjavik seems to attract the European and Canadian set looking for a short getaway.  It’s like recycling, on an international level.  They come in, they drink, they leave.  I think that being abroad also allows us to feel more free in our choices about what we can or cannot do.  Siting in a fully furnished apartment, overlooking the city, and not having to go to work feels a lot better than what the reality would be.

At the same time, though, and as Act said, you have to grasp for your dreams.  What would my dream be?  I love what I do — Education — but I don’t always love how I have to do it.  That is, perhaps, what Icelanders might mean about honesty.  I think that we have so many barriers to communication in the US — afraid that we might get sued for defamation, harassment, etc.  There’s a need to be appropriate, yes, but perhaps if we were allowed to say what we feel without taking it personally we might all be saving a lot of money on anti-depressants and therapy.  As for myself, I think I would love to be able to do what I do while  feeling less personally invested in what I do — to be able to separate self-identity from work.

What would it be like, say, to move to Iceland, teach yoga, and work in education, and go out partying every weekend?  It would be no different than my life now (well, except for the partying).  The only difference is that I would be able to disconnect from all the perceptions and current issues that “I” face in California.  Those quotation marks are deliberate.  Wouldn’t it be easier to just simply stay in California, and pursue a course of honesty and hard work and hard play while still saying, “I will never be diminished by what others think?”  Does it truly require a move across oceans and countries to accomplish the simple task of being truly happy?

*Sigh.*

I must begin by stating two truths: the first is that it is 5:39 AM; and the second is that I have not yet been to bed. The third truth may be that I am incredibly intoxicated, but by what and by whom is entirely up for questioning. I welcome your thoughts on this entry as I ponder: “Was I in the spiritual tavern, or the physical one; and where is the dividing line?”

(The above paragraph was written upon coming back from the bar, and proves two things: one, alcohol makes anyone existential; second, mixing alcohol and Rumi or Hafiz quotes only proves that you’re a jackass.  The rest of this entry is written post-mortification, but hopefully captures some of the drunken splendor of the evening, mixed with post-Laundry ruminations.  Enjoy.)

We awoke this morning at 2 in the afternoon — a rather strange time, but not for those who have retired at near 4:30 AM after a long flight and a long thirty-hours or so. The morning began, at least for me, a little lazily. I lolled in bed as I listened to Patrick and Jeff begin their afternoon banter about getting packed up and getting ready. Our first apartment was really only temporary; we were always planning to move to one other apartment after the initial one. Little did we know, though, that the new tenant would be arriving as we were preparing to leave. So, without a shower, I dressed and assisted with the grand moving out.

Kathy, the proprietress of Apartment K, met us at our current apartment. She spoke English with such fluency, it was not a surprise that she was actually an American who had married an Icelandic guy, and emigrated here to Iceland. We chatted a bit before we packed our stuff in her vehicle and moved over to our permanent digs. Our new apartment was larger, with a nice little kitchen, a beautiful balcony, and a laundry room. It very much reminds me of my first apartment in Columbus. We dropped our stuff off, chatted a bit more with Kathy (who is wonderful by the way), and proceeded to do what we always do: unpack the computer equipment and get on the Internet. Luckily, Iceland is very wired, so we have apartment wi-fi, and enough adapters to keep all of our computers very happy. Thank god for almost all power supplies having the ability to stepdown a wide range of power inputs!

Eventually, we left the apartment and made our way on to the streets of Iceland. It was bustling along quite well at the mid-afternoon hour. There was a fair amount of tourists as well as Icelanders, differentiated mostly and sometimes only by word choice and accent. The buildings, as Patrick tells, are brightly painted for psychological effect. I can definitely say that it works — I felt exceedingly cheerful. Because of where we are staying, there are quite a few fashion shops and other high-end stores, making me feel like I was on an Icelandic edition of Project Runway.  As we walked, I mostly kept silent while Jeff and Patrick talked.  I like observing places and seeing how they tick, and then I interact once I’ve observed.  Patrick is quite the opposite, jumping into situations with the exuberance of a puppy.

The weather proved chillier than I would have suspected, so following lunch (at a Mexican restaurant) we ducked into 66 North.  It is the equivalent of North Face, with prices to match.  I purchased a nice Polartec fleece windbreaker, and instantly felt snuggly and warm.  Revived by my new and exceedingly soft outer layer, we continued our trek through Reykjavik.  On the way back to the apartment, we stopped for a hot chocolate at a local café.  It was extraordinarily tasty, deliciously rich, and very, very satisfying.  We returned to the apartment at what I would have sworn was early afternoon.  It was likely 1930.

We had already made plans to go out with Steini to experience a local gay bar, so Patrick and Jeff disco napped, and I took advantage of the downtown to do some blog writing.  I was also online, so Steini and I had a short chat via Facebook.  Steini and I established that he would be coming around 2115, and that he would be bringing his best friend.  At about 2030, Kathy showed up to settle the bill.  We paid her in cash (which makes me feel better, since there won’t be that surprise charge on the credit card), and talked a little bit more about her and her husband’s business (Apartment K).

Everything that happened up to this point pales in comparison with the night that was about to begin.  Steini and his friend Bryan arrived by taxi, which can only mean one thing: drinking had already begun.  When I was introduced to Bryan, it was made clear that his name was unpronounceable by non-Vikings. Evidently there is some inflection on the final N that requires you to nasalize it to such a degree that it’s like sneezing it out.  So we settled with Bryan, and began to do what all people do: discuss the exchange rate.  It’s like the weather—it’s the one thing we can all talk about.

Fortunately, we began to get buzzed.  Bryan and Steini were hilarious.  I think the Icelandic people are pretty blunt. Steini summarized the entire Icelandic outlook nicely when he gave us the following nugget of wisdom: “You see, I could go on a TV in Iceland and tell Bryan that he’s an asshole, and we’d still be great friend.”  Icelandic people have no problem calling it like they see it, and clearly don’t take it personally.  I can imagine an angry Icelandic conversation being like: “Fuck you!” “No, fuck you!” “How’s your mother?” “Good.”

After we had gotten slightly drunk, we headed off to Bar Barbara, a gay club in Reykjavik.  Evidently, this bar is not named after THE Barbara (you know, Streisand) but a play on the idea of Vikings as “barbarians.”  Whatever.  Barbara is described by the Grapevine as a lively bar for local gays and lesbians.  I would describe it as a house with a bar inside of it.  It was relatively uncrowded when we arrived sometime around 2330.  Bryan was three sheets to the wind, Steini was rapidly getting there, and Patrick, Jeff, and I were determined not to be left in the harbor.  So we began drinking.

How best to narrate the next 6 hours?  The amount of alcohol consumed, in retrospect, makes my kidneys want to put themselves on a transplant list to prevent future abuse.  But the drunkenness does not change the interesting conversations.  One of the things I noted in my Cambodian adventures is that meeting people from other countries can be a very revelatory experience.  In the case of this evening, the series of self-inquiries and evaluations began with Steini’s comment, “You American think you’re free – you’re not fucking free.  You don’t speak from your heart.”  I think I’ve heard a statement like that before, and it has always struck me as interesting.  What does it mean to not speak from your heart?  Does it mean that you always speak truth, no matter how uncomfortable?  Do you pursue your dreams, even if it means failing?  Is it a question of being too polite and restricted – required to say one thing to be acceptable?

I posed these questions to a Palestinian-Icelander (go figure) named Act (I think).  He told me about his interest in acting and how he had to struggle with his fear of failure, but he still needed to do something he was passionate about.  In the book Geography of Bliss, Eric Weiner argues that Icelanders are very happy people partially because they do not fear failure.  They are willing to try things and see what happens and don’t see it as a reflection of their personal ability.  Perhaps that is what it means to “speak from your heart.”  Perhaps the heart and the ego are those things that are diametrically opposed?  The (my) fragile ego wants to be satiated and protected, which might mean that I speak too carefully, allow myself to get pushed around, but also that I hover between knowing what I truly want and doing what I think is expected of me.

Act’s conversation with me was very enlightening.  Alcohol at the very least lowers the defensive shield of the ego, and so I was at least receptive to the wisdom of this young man.  There was also Steina, whose name is the feminine form of Steini’s.  Her name also means “rock.”  She is going to be in the Gay Pride parade as Carrie Bradshaw from Sex and the City.  She wants to come to California to study in our university system, and come back to Iceland.  How great is that?  She gets to enjoy the benefit of our education and put it to work in her own country.  In a way that could be seen as selfish, but I think it’s brilliant.  Then there was a beautiful Icelandic woman with dreadlocks and her African-descended husband.  A young gay man and his best friends who loved and supported him; that was only weird because one of his friends professed to be straight but proceeded to give me a massage and seemed strangely flirtatious.  But perhaps he was just drunk.

Speaking of drunk, I eventually made my way to the second floor which is where the dancefloor was.  Feeling that there was no better way to both process the alcohol and enter into the realm of ecstatic emotion I decided to stay and dance.  The DJ was mixing a weird combination of 80s, 90s, and current music that contained a lot of Michael Jackson (go figure).  I had a great time.  I wasn’t there to be anything to anyone, so I got to enjoy the movement of my body.  My mind, for reasons unclear, was drawn to dedicating my dance to the divine.  So I tried to uplift my dancing, not for myself, but for the energy that is everywhere, complete and whole and without limitations.  At one point I noticed that the blond dreadlocked woman was looking distressed.  Patrick explained that she was upset because someone spilled a drink on her.  I gave her a huge hug – it seemed to be what was needed.  I think she appreciated it.

Later, I left the bar and took a walk down to the beach.  Halfway there, I burst into tears, and I have no idea why.  Overly emotional because of my intoxication; overly emotional because of my dancing?  I have no idea.  Rumi is fond of using the tavern as an image to show the religious insobriety that comes from being love drunk with God.  But the earthly tavern is not the same as the tavern of the heart.  To be drunk is not to be enlightened; it is merely to have the mind bent in a particular way.  But at the same time, there is a fine line where we can leap the barrier of our ego-bound personality into the vastness of the infinite.  Once there, we can learn how to appreciate the space of openness that can teach us how to live more authentically.  Perhaps these tears were the same as those at the statue of Vishnu in Angkor Wat, as unbidden and authentic.  Or perhaps I was just a sloppy drunk.

The beauty of the Icelandic landscape lit by the 0530 light was breathtaking, the water of the bay lapping softly on the rocks.  The rest of the day was short – pizza and water at a local place, and then to bed.  It’s like night never came and went as we walked back to the apartment in the growing daylight.  Crawling into bed at almost 0600, I turned over a fell into a sleep, but not before attempting to write this blog.  Did I have a spiritual experience or just a drunk experience?  In the end I don’t think it matters – what does matter is that maybe, just maybe, I might be able to speak more from my heart from having had the experience.

Link to Photos

Australians have a well-deserved reputation for being some of the greatest people on the planet.  Warm, funny, devil may care, and usually very attractive.  John F. Kennedy Airport has a reputation of being one the worst airports on the planet, with percent on time arrival and departure numbers that rival the unemployment rates in California.  If Heaven or Hell had similar processing percentages, St. Peter and Satan would still be dealing with the queue of soul from 1350.  Occasionally, JFK can surprise you, but mostly it disappoints (just like the Sacramento Kings).

Patrick and I arrived at JFK after a relatively uneventful flight from SFO.  As anyone who knows me knows, I really don’t enjoy turbulence, so I used it as a spiritual opportunity.  I put my iPod on repeat and played “Baba Hanuman” by Benjy and Heather Weirthheimer.  Figuring that Hanuman was the son of the wind, I prayed continuously to him.  When we hit turbulence, I thanked Hanuman for remembering to be mindful of my spiritual practice.  There wasn’t a ton of turbulence, and I did sleep most of the way (fitfully, but slept), so the red eye passed by uneventfully.

When we arrived in New York, we started to head for the AirTrain before we realized that we were walking way from Starbucks.  Patrick and I detoured back and received our usual reinfusion.  I was very cranky on account of the early hour and the fact that, quite honestly, I’m very high maintenance.  I’m also highly independent, and traveling with someone, even the one I love invokes in me two responses.  The first is annoyance that I have to tend to the needs of someone else.  The second is annoyance that, through years of parental training, is I don’t know if I’m making someone happy, so I have to ask incessantly, “Are you okay?”  Chalk it up to several Nutcrackers gone wrong and one disasterous vacation to the Cayman Islands that you’ll have to read about in my memoires.

Starbucks in hand, we wove our way through the labyrinth of JFK’s Terminal 8 to find the AirTrain to go to Terminal 7.  Patrick’s friend who is travelling with us, Jeff, would be meeting us at the IcelandAir terminal.  So we rode the AirTrain around to all the other terminals and arrived finally at Terminal 7.  When we arrived at approximately 8:30 AM we discovered that the counter did not open until 11:30.  So, we camped out near the one power outlet.  I read After the Ecstasy, the Laundry, blogged, and aimlessly surfed the internet while listening to music.  Patrick as doing much the same.  Jeff arrived via bus from LGA, and we made our way to the IcelandAir counter.  While we would have liked to sit together, fate did not permit it.  Tickets in hands, we proceeded through security, where we did some more waiting (the flight did not leave until 2:20 PM).  We grabbed some food and hung out at the terminal.  Jeff is a chatterbox, and my head was quickly spinning at the rapid fire commentary gushing forth from him.  While I appreciate my craziness as much as the next gay man, I appreciate my silence too.

During the long wait I started to edit some writings by a good friend and listened to music.  I had decided that Jeff and I would swap seats so that he and Patrick would have a chance to connect (and I could have some silence).  So when we finally ended up boarding the aircraft, I took my seat near the back of the plane, seated next to two Aussies.  I opened up After the Ecstacy, the Laundry and thought I would be settling into a relatively low key plane flight.

Oh, no.

Where do I begin?  We backed out of the gate, and proceeded to sit for around two and a half hours on the tarmac.  Naturally, the caused extreme consternation on the plane.  Having routinely flown out of JFK after waiting at least 1 to 2 hours on delays, this didn’t phase me.  Being trapped on the plane does have some additional psychological drain, but I was just calmly reading my book and trying to maintain equanimity about everything.  It was right around this point, however, that might seatmate began a string of irrational actions that would persist for the whole flight.

The passengers directly across from me were feeling very ill-informed by the captain, and kept asking the flight attendant for information.  I explained to them that these delays were not uncommon from JFK, that it happens quite frequently, that the airport has planes leave the gate so that they can still say they departed on-time, etc.  As I turned back to my seat, my seatmate suddenly asked me, “What are you so afraid of?”  Cue adrenaline activation in response to bizarre question from a total stranger.  While I cannot recall the exact discussion we had, there seemed to be quite a few cognitive disconnects between what I felt I was saying and how my messages were being received.  My perceptions were reinforced by the fact that this person kept getting up, walking around, sighing in exasperation, and demanding water.  At one point he reached into his bag and took some medication, one of which I knew to be a fairly powerful pain killer.  This erratic behavior persisted during the two hour delay.

When we finally took off, I almost wanted to kill myself because of the incredibly moving amount of turbulence we experienced on take off.  It generated at least a few “Ohs!” of surprise from some passengers.  At this point in my epic journey to Iceland, I had switched to the middle seat because my addled Aussie was getting up every 15 seconds or so.  So, I’m sitting there quite desperate internally, alarmed and at little bit frightened at the behavior of my seatmate, who I’m basically trying to pacify.  Finally, the irony of the whole situation comes to my attention.  I’m reading a book about the spiritual path, and about facing the illusion of reality, and I’m totally stressed about by this situation.

So I decided to beat the living shit out of my seatmate with the book.  It felt good.

Just kidding.  Instead, I focused on the nature of my fear, and how my fear was creating a reality for me with which I was not entirely happy.  My seatmate was obviously intoxicated (by viritue of the rum and cokes that he drank down like he was going in front of a firing squad); in pain (by virtue of taking painkillers); and an absolute ass (by virtue of my judgment, which I permitted to still do as a spiritual being, but not without then saying, “but I still love your essential buddha nature”).  I retrieved my headphones that I had let him borrow (another pacifying action on my part), turned on my music, and finished my book (which was quite good).

By the end of the flight, I had restored some of my equanimity.  My seatmate even apologized for being a jackass, which I accepted.  He also proved that he still WAS a jackass by getting up while the plane was still heading to the gate after we had touched down.  We disembarked and headed through customs–a mere formality compared to some of my experiences.  We shopped at duty free, and popped out into the glimmering twilight of an Iceland summer.  The sun hovered on the horizon, providing some illumination, not quite set, not quite rising.  It was 3:00 AM.

When we arrived at our apartment, we found ourselves right in the heart of the Icelandic Friday night.  A racuous and high-energy crowd shouted, sang, and smashed beer bottles on the pavement.  It was as if it were Rush Night, Gay Pride, and 1999 all at the same time.  We were ushered into our apartment by one of the proprietors, and were all pleasantly surprised by the surrounding.  I showered, and Patrick and Jeff went out for mixers.  We ended up having a drink and crawling into bed at 4:30 in the morning.  I was marveling that the sun was once again rising, and the sound of revelers was still strong outside.  I feel into a deep and immediate sleep, glad to be on vacation, and glad to be off that plane.