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.