- a Disgruntled Citizen saw my Free Walking Tour guide's sign (for us travellers) held high, and wrested it from her hands so she could carry it up the street. She only gave it back when our tour guide explained she wasn't protesting anything. (I then joked to a nearby American couple that we could perhaps rally around a cry of 'More rights for tourists!')
- Getting to Harpa, the beautiful glass opera house, was bracing. The wind by the ocean was out in full force, so that I had to walk at an incline towards the beckoning hexagons. I must admit I felt so enacted upon by the weather that I had second thoughts about persevering through to my destination. The streets were clean and relatively free of foot traffic, so the only thing that made this rain-free day unpleasant was the constant needling of the wind into my flesh. Once I got there I was swallowed up into a warm, translucent cavity which offered a glitzy facet of the city - one a budget traveller like me had little other opportunity to see.
- pleased to have been guided by Nomadic Matt's travel guide to Iceland, I found myself in a charismatic cafe with eclectic furniture which offered pretty views of the colourful houses across the street. Hipsters attuned to the content of their laptops representing scarce sightings of locals as tourists were all but taking over. It didn't matter because the food was good. But there was something unsettling about Reykjavik Roasters, which ultimately led to not lingering: it was the offensive signature misogyny of the new Eminem cd. I was dismayed at the majority male staff, assaulting our ears with the most unfeminist Icelandinc soundscape I could think of. Grr.
- Trying to get closer to an insider's experience, I took a 3-hour 'Elf School' run by a religious guy called Magnus. The content of Magnus' lecture was interesting, but he became verbally sexually invasive to one of the German women he would exchange banter with, and I received an unwanted touch on the upper part of my breast when I requested a photo. Inwardly angry, but, like so many, feeling like I had to carry on as normal, I came to the conclusion that between the café incident and this now groping, it was safe to say that Iceland was still very much a patriarchy
- I should have remembered my short-lived friendship with an Icelander called Árni over the internet. We were both part of the facebook group for 'film-philosophy' and he seemed imaginative and clever. Little did I know that Árni would prove ignorant and hostile when I attempted to discuss Larsson's Millenium Trilogy. *Sigh*
- Anyway, there are signs that Iceland is being given new life by enterprising immigrants who've newly settled on its shores. The first cafe/restaurant I really took to was run by a former Brooklyn native, decked out with maritime themes in its paintings, and a loveably oddball eclectic style. I loved it so much, I almost didn't make it to the Free Walking Tour in time.
- back to that tour, the woman in charge (Dīsa for short) entertained us by sharing that she took showers for as long as it takes to listen to a Beyoncé's cd, demonstrating scrubbing her underarms while wrapped up in the emotions of the songs.
- my second official tour happened on the second-last day of my trip, a Golden Circle exploration of some natural highlights just outside the city. The tour guide was fond of making jokes, and two stuck with me:
a) If you want to get a job where you lie all the time, become a politician or a weatherperson.
b) Iceland's water is the source of that unpleasant sulfuric smell, so don't ask if she* farted.
(*Imagine 'she' being pronounced in a tone that represents higher status for women than in non-Nordic countries - almost with the playful affection one might have for a brother.)
Would I go to Iceland again? Absolutely.
- Getting to Harpa, the beautiful glass opera house, was bracing. The wind by the ocean was out in full force, so that I had to walk at an incline towards the beckoning hexagons. I must admit I felt so enacted upon by the weather that I had second thoughts about persevering through to my destination. The streets were clean and relatively free of foot traffic, so the only thing that made this rain-free day unpleasant was the constant needling of the wind into my flesh. Once I got there I was swallowed up into a warm, translucent cavity which offered a glitzy facet of the city - one a budget traveller like me had little other opportunity to see.
- pleased to have been guided by Nomadic Matt's travel guide to Iceland, I found myself in a charismatic cafe with eclectic furniture which offered pretty views of the colourful houses across the street. Hipsters attuned to the content of their laptops representing scarce sightings of locals as tourists were all but taking over. It didn't matter because the food was good. But there was something unsettling about Reykjavik Roasters, which ultimately led to not lingering: it was the offensive signature misogyny of the new Eminem cd. I was dismayed at the majority male staff, assaulting our ears with the most unfeminist Icelandinc soundscape I could think of. Grr.
- Trying to get closer to an insider's experience, I took a 3-hour 'Elf School' run by a religious guy called Magnus. The content of Magnus' lecture was interesting, but he became verbally sexually invasive to one of the German women he would exchange banter with, and I received an unwanted touch on the upper part of my breast when I requested a photo. Inwardly angry, but, like so many, feeling like I had to carry on as normal, I came to the conclusion that between the café incident and this now groping, it was safe to say that Iceland was still very much a patriarchy
- I should have remembered my short-lived friendship with an Icelander called Árni over the internet. We were both part of the facebook group for 'film-philosophy' and he seemed imaginative and clever. Little did I know that Árni would prove ignorant and hostile when I attempted to discuss Larsson's Millenium Trilogy. *Sigh*
- Anyway, there are signs that Iceland is being given new life by enterprising immigrants who've newly settled on its shores. The first cafe/restaurant I really took to was run by a former Brooklyn native, decked out with maritime themes in its paintings, and a loveably oddball eclectic style. I loved it so much, I almost didn't make it to the Free Walking Tour in time.
- back to that tour, the woman in charge (Dīsa for short) entertained us by sharing that she took showers for as long as it takes to listen to a Beyoncé's cd, demonstrating scrubbing her underarms while wrapped up in the emotions of the songs.
- my second official tour happened on the second-last day of my trip, a Golden Circle exploration of some natural highlights just outside the city. The tour guide was fond of making jokes, and two stuck with me:
a) If you want to get a job where you lie all the time, become a politician or a weatherperson.
b) Iceland's water is the source of that unpleasant sulfuric smell, so don't ask if she* farted.
(*Imagine 'she' being pronounced in a tone that represents higher status for women than in non-Nordic countries - almost with the playful affection one might have for a brother.)
Would I go to Iceland again? Absolutely.
