I don't think I've ever dodged as many advances before than I did last night. My favorite came in the beginning of the "Runtur" at Bar 11 from a hardly-18-year-old blond Icelander, who said to me: "you're so beautiful I could yell like Java the Hut!" and proceeded the whole night to intermittently scream out "I'm still yelling!" across the entire bar to me. Then came an aspiring pilot -- "if you'd like, I can take you flying over Iceland" -- and a bar owner -- "just show them this picture and they'll let you in, no cover & no queue; it's a pity, though, that the most beautiful girls always have boyfriends" -- among others. The sea-faring Brit Chris with the penetrating gaze promised to "protect" me from all the drunk Icelanders, but then proceeded to practically try to rape me on the dance floor, my lie of "sorry, I have a boyfriend back in Sweden" only providing a short-lived break. The most fun of the night actually came after the pub crawl was over, when Jason -- the Canadian who works as a cook at the hostel and ran that night's Runtur -- and I escaped the last glitzy bar and headed to Sirkus. Jungle-themed on the outside, packed to the brim on the inside, Sirkus provided the music and everyone provided the dancing. After waiting about 20 minutes outside with a crowd of lovely, drunk Icelanders, some of whom Jason knew, and giving Jason one of my gloves which he wore all night (and still has), we entered the smoky, dark bar. After taking a sambuca shot together -- bringing back great memories of Prague -- we took to the dance floor. We danced, and danced, and, well, danced. We even danced on top a small, circular table in the corner for god knows how many songs -- it's truly a wonder we never fell down. Beer was spilled all over me and my throat burned from all the smoke, but it was just good fun, great fun.
We walked down the deserted 4 AM streets back toward the hostel, and ended up sitting down on the steps outside a small bar, closed since midnight, and listened to people happily sing Icelandic songs accompanied by a piano. It was an otherworldly moment. It felt like walking down a dark street on Christmas Eve and seeing a family gathered around a piano singing Christmas carols together through a lit window, no cares in the world. You stop and listen, smile at their joy, but also at the very fact that you're separate, at the joy in your own life. You are merely grateful you got the chance to share that one moment.
Sitting there on those steps, chatting and freezing with the one glove on, everything felt right. It was four in the morning in Reykjavik, I was tipsy in the most lovely way, and everything was perfect. The piano was played and people sang and the candles flickered and I smiled.
I paid for that moment with this morning, or should I say afternoon, when I finally pulled myself out of bed. The headache was worth it, though.
Hot dog in my stomach (the Reykjavikians live on these things), I wandered downtown toward the docks to check out the Kolapartid flea market, where I bought a scarf and Icelandic sweet bread, Kleinur. I had wanted to try the hakarl, or rotten shark, but with the hangover I just couldn't face it.
That brought me to Prikid cafe, a downtown mainstay, where I sit now with an empty glass of latte and a half-full (definitely not half-empty) glass of water. I have to tear myself away now, though -- I have a ticket for the 6 PM screening of Lim, or Glue, an Argentinian film being shown as part of the International Film Festival.
Jacket on, to the streets I go...
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