Tíu Dropar
My last day in Reykjavík, my last day in Iceland, is going to be low-key, I have no choice in that matter, as I have to admit, I am exhausted. I don't want to think about I'm leaving in the morning. I don't want to leave and it's exhausting to even think I'm leaving in the morning.
I arrive by air back to the capital in the morning, from Vestmannaeyjar, feeling fresh and not hanging over from excess. Clear-headed from an early walk on the docks, all clean and washed down, so I'm thinking, there is missing this rank of a fishing port, a familiar smell. The sea has a smell, and I cannot believe this opportunity is laying in my lap, quoting that, apropos of everything that every port has its own name for the sea. Vestmannaeyjar's name for the sea is what? Someone write and let us all know.
The town still quiet and asleep this morning except, well, that's just how it is in mid-afternoon; like a Sunday. Today is Sunday. I count the pairs of shoes in the hall as I leave the guesthouse and they add up to no scores, explaining a good night's sleep. Let's not temper the reputation of Þjóðhátíð though. I'm hoping, for the teenagers' sakes, that the festival is not a bust for them. Dan hits it on the nail, Oh the hormones. Will give up a bit of good night's sleep if it means oh god, at least someone's happy tonight. I do have ear plugs.
At the docks I catch sight of Stafkirkjan, the Norwegian church donated to the town after The Catastrophe. About to walk over and confirm it is one of those rather small, rough-hewn timber churches, the timber again and again and again over the years they paint in tar to prevent rot. I'm remembering this detail from a trip to Norway as a boy. I go to wander over and check it out, and then, hmmm, it is just too far to get there. About two blocks.
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| Gray on gray |
So here I'm in Reykjavík in the late morning now, and it is busier, but just tourist-busier. I take a seat at the window of a restaurant across from Hallgrímskirkja. The cathedral is the landmark of the city. If it's not apparent, the Icelandic architect Guðjón Samúelsson takes a very geologic aspect of the land while designing it. The facade of the church mimics the basalt columns in near every Icelandic landscape and he captures this detail very well. I remind myself that there is a Sunday afternoon organ concert series there, I am keen to go to and also ambivalent about.
Down Skólavörðustígur, I pass an art gallery with strange Aggie Zed-like figures hanging in the window. I'm glad they are not open.
Just wandering around with no plans and intending not to come up with any. On Laugarvegur here's my favorite café again, Súfistinn kaffihús and bookstore, oh goo, somewhere to just hang out in, I go in because it's a new friend. The address is Laugarvegur 18, Reykjavík 101. The "101" is an important point. It's the "in" zip code to live in, here in Reykjavík. There's this movie, "Reykjavík 101, at Bíó Paradís. I will, eh, well, never get into the story, but I'm staying in the theatre because it has so many stars and I'm loving this sunk cost fallacy. The musings about committing suicide are revolting and offensive, not funny. I'm hoping they name the nameless baby "Pepsi". Ok, so the café is a bookstore (bóka+kaffi), and I'm buying coffee and maybe a CD. The barista remembers my having a lattè breve, and he gladly puts another together again, and meanwhile I look it up in Wiki and am shaken to find it an entirely American invention, not Icelandic invention at all. Just an observation. It's a lattè but with Half-and-Half, not milk. So, I'm writing a bit on some blog page that isn't this one, and what's this? on a last postcard, discovering it with an address and a stamp, but blank, without the personalized and tailored story on it. On my list of addresses, everyone else has an "X", meaning?
I'm on my way to a concert as I'm noticing I have five minutes to get there and it's a five minute walk. For some oblivious reason, certainly it'll be a free concert. About the concert, and this is entirely a reflection of me in the moment, neither the cathedral, nor its organ nor its guest organist from France, ok, maybe because he is French has something to do with it and because it's a cliché to not like the French, and as soon as the music begins, I see I'm losing interest and I'm not following the sound or the nuances of 5275 pipes playing, and oh, here's a jolt, I'm paying attention now, to those last four chords playing fortissimo possible e formata. I don't think I hear it anymore, music, that is. Ok, not putting that quite right. The Bach fugue is challenging and I'm enjoying figuring it out. Everything else, I'm still not paying attention, and then the four last chords, and concluding to the conclusion that when Skálmöld ("Lawlessness") plays this organ, that heavy metal Viking band at Þjóðhátíð, the concert is evil. Here's their 2014 concert schedule (as of 4th August).
Getting my luggage from storage and grunting Barónsstigur Fimm ("5") to the taxi driver. No please necessary, it's what I require, do it. I use takk and já and nei a lot, but never please. I'm not overcoming this not saying please. Seems there's no translation. There isn't one? There's no please in Icelandic. No please pass the salt, just pass the salt, or you reach over the table and get it yourself without comment. So now I'm reviewing every post on this blog and removing the word wherever finding it. Except now wondering, wheneven I use takk, does the Icelander know immediately I'm a tourist? I hear Icelanders use the word, but maybe only to or in the presence of tourists. For them, maybe it's still an unnecessary word and they're inventing it just for us. They say takk all the time, but don't mean it anymore than when a Brit says I'm sorry, but... Of course, they must have a phrase for thanks for nothing.
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Tíu Dropar Café
Since I have nice city clothes and shoes, I'm dressing up for my last evening out, and on Laugarvegur I discover Tíu Dropar, its windows level with the sidewalk, and you step down into the kaffihús slash bar. Is this a wine bar because if it is, I'll just find another bar, but I see the shelf of beer bottles! It's not particularly crowded but will be. Only one word to describe the bartender, who's Icelandic, long ash-blonde hair and wearing a blond fedora: cool. I ask about the Borgar brugghúss's bjórum lined up and numbered on a shelf, and I think, I'll order a Snorri Íslenska öl, Nr. 10, an Icelandic ale. At a bar alongside the street side, enjoying looking up at the passing crowds enjoying looking down into the bar. I'm reflecting on this while in a favorite Iowa City café this afternoon as I write this blog entry, just a few weeks after my visit; it's a café having lots of natural light and serving both coffee and beer, and I'm bringing back to my table an Iowa Pale Ale...
The stereo music turns off and now it's live piano. He's playing covers of familiar tunes, with ease and flourish of jazz.
After about an hour maybe, I ask the tender if the pianist takes requests. Yes, he does, gladly. So I'm now sitting down next to him, asking if he wouldn't (please) play Your Song by Elton John. He's glad to, admits it's a favorite of his, and certainly, he'll play it next. It's a favorite of mine too, obviously, and as I sit here writing this, I ask myself why. It's depressing is the only thing that comes to mind.
Well, he's playing Your Song, takk, and it secretly pleases me that of his hour's playing, it's the only song eliciting an applause of clapping. Your Song. And it's my song choice! Never ever before, am I the person requesting the song to play and here's an audience clapping appreciatively for his playing my song. ME. That just never happens.
How to spend my one 1000 krónur note. Beer is always more than 1000 krónur. Sigh. The entire trip on a new card with a chip, and the only cash I have in my pocket is for a tattoo ("20,000 krónur, in cash") and beer at Þjóðhátíð ("they'll serve the beer faster").
The piano player sits down with me, and I'm asking, not at all like me to do, can I buy you a beer? but a perk of playing here is the free beer. He has a zillion times more talent than I. Even though I have near 12 years, I never can just sit down and play anything without having the music. I know I have no ear (and now, I cannot hear music much anymore or at all). And the conversation, nothing is etching into my brain, he's distracting me easily, glad he's giving me a few minutes, before he leaves to mingle with others here.
So what to do with a 1000 krónur note? On the bar are two tip cups, one for "Better weather" and the other for "Cheaper beer". There's only one cup the note shall go.
I'm lingering past 1 a.m. Three beers and feeling alive and without hurry; the luggage and I are ready to go, but not really ready to leave.
Your Song
It's a little bit funny this feeling inside
I'm not one of those who can easily hide
I don't have much money but boy if I did
I'd buy a big house where we both could live
If I was a sculptor, but then again, no
Or a man who makes potions in a travelling show
I know it's not much but it's the best I can do
My gift is my song and this one's for you
And you can tell everybody this is your song
It may be quite simple but now that it's done
I hope you don't mind
I hope you don't mind
that I put down in words
How wonderful life is while you're in the world
I sat on the roof and kicked off the moss
Well a few of the verses well they've got me quite cross
But the sun's been quite kind while I wrote this song
It's for people like you that keep it turned on
So excuse me forgetting but these things I do
You see I've forgotten if they're green or they're blue
Anyway the thing is what I really mean
Yours are the sweetest eyes I've ever seen
And you can tell everybody this is your song
It may be quite simple but now that it's done
I hope you don't mind
I hope you don't mind
that I put down in words
How wonderful life is while you're in the world
I hope you don't mind
I hope you don't mind
that I put down in words
How wonderful life is while you're in the world
