Ice #1 : Velkominn

better days

ICELAND JOURNAL #1 : VELKOMINN

I landed at Keflavik at 6:05 a.m. on March 31st.
An old jet plane set its tiny wheels down on the world´s
shortest airstrip, on Iceland´s southwestern tip.
For most of the night, from the plane´s tiny window,
I marvelled at the odd-shaped moon that followed me
all the way from Boston to this North Atlantic destination.
Overcome with this lunar beauty, I finally pointed it out
to the young Finnish woman seated adjacent to me.
She laughed. "It is only the light at the end of the wing,"
she explained, blushing on my behalf.

The airport was larger than I expected and I walked
forever looking for a baggage carousel. Others picked up
their suitcases and headed off, until I was the only one left
by the carousel. Not again, I was thinking...remembering
Austin last June. Then one of the flight attendants came
by, recognized me and said, "Your carousel is the next
one, there!" and pointed farther down the way to where
another merry-go-round was in motion with nothing on it
but one lonely black suitcase. I thanked her and as I went
to grab my bag, she had that look in her eyes that said,
fondly, "Oh my, another dimwit from the Americas."

I looked for the Customs line. Some of the signs are in
English and some are not. Where did everybody go? There
was a turnstile of sorts near a duty-free store the size of
a Wal-Mart, and I went through it noisily, my suitcase
banging and my carry-on bag getting caught in the gears.
Once through, I walked down a hallway and saw only a
young man in a doorway and I said, "I go here?". (Why is
it that, when we are in a country where they speak a foreign
language, we speak English as though it were our second
language? Do you do this?) The fellow motioned me through
the doorway and, to my amazement, I was standing outside
in the crisp morning air just as a woman I care so much about
came up to me from the side and, sliding her arms tightly
around me, said, "Baseboy..." My Disa. Our cheeks stuck
together with tears. When we stopped kissing and hugging
and were walking toward her red car, I looked around furtively,
then leaned and whispered to her, "I am in your country illegally."

The 45-minute drive to Reykjavik was the equal of a grand prix.
A narrow two-lane highway across what appeared to be the
desolate surface of the moon, covered with freshly-fallen snow,
and no one slowing below 80km, Disa showed her Shirley
Muldowney side. We got into Reykjavik in record time and
slithered her red Renault Twingo into a tight parking spot on
Grettisgatta, the narrow street outside her apartment, named
after one of the heroes of the sagas. Her place, which she
owns, is magnificent, three floors above the street and looking
out across Europe's northernmost capital city and the sleeping
volcanic mouth of the snow-crowned Esja. Disa easily pinned me
like a butterfly to the frozen ground of the Valkyries.

After coffee, a walk through the city. Narrow streets with cars
parked facing both directions, schoolchildren with lively red faces
throwing snowballs across at one another, and the silence of
snow. "Spring makes an attempt," Disa tells me, "and then winter
takes back the world until spring tries again." Today, winter has
taken Reykjavik back. Those children...they seemed to me to have
a kind of strength in their eyes, perhaps educated and tested by
the trials of living in the far northern Atlantic, and richer for it.

We stop at the record store, an old house run by a hepcat with
spectacles and his hair all loved off. He brings us an espresso as
we look through the limited selection, the average cd going for
$35 if my math is correct. There are local jazz artists, some
classical discs, a table of Jamaican discs including Jackie Mittoo,
even one Hank Williams cd. From there, we visit the city´s tallest
building, Hallgrimskirkje, a church named after Hallgrim, a poet
and a priest. Across the streeet is a statue of Leif Eiriksson.
This enormous church would be a great place to hear a vocal
concert, the acoustics so fine, like ancient hands holding sounds.
I sailed a few notes into the tall spire...

Later, we peruse the waterfront and the old hotel ballroom
where I´ll perform next week, then stop in the Grey Cat, a
small street-level artists´ cafe where they have bookshelves
by every table. They read here, are extremely hip that way.
We have tuna with cucumber, a hommus and pita dish, and more
of the rich black coffee. Across the way by the harbor there is
a small shack with a big sign that says TAXI, like it´s a novel
concept, and in the windows there are large color posters of
Humphrey Bogart, Gary Cooper, and Montgomery Clift. All the
cars going by make a clatter, their tires spiked with traction nails.

Coming back up from the waterfront, through charming one-lane
streets, Disa diverts me to the Icelandic Phallological Museum.
Any idea what this is? Reading from the city guide, "the museum
brings together the penises of all the country´s mammals so that
they can stand up and be counted (and yes, a human sample
has been organized courtesty of an elderly patriot). Be sure to
take pictures so the people back home will believe you..." I am
quoting from the tourist literature, honestly. I notice this all day,
the somewhat stoic and serious demeanor of people, only to find
this playful mischief lurking at every step. It is no wonder why
they choose to hold chess championships here...so much of the
play is in silhouette, once abstracted.

Tomorrow we head up to the cabin two hours east into the
mountains past Hveragerdi and Selfoss and near the little town
of Fludir. There is a hot tub there. We will be staying for three
days. Disa has all kinds of delicacies packed for us to eat. I am
taking my guitar. There is wine, a bottle of Jack Daniels, some
romantic music. This lovely Icelandic princess has plans for me.
I don´t think they involve others. I will make time to post again
when we come back down out of the mountains to Reykjavik.

That bit about the Phallological Museum... they do seem to have
a unique definition of "patriot," wouldn´t you say?

I feel at home anywhere, but most of all in Europe.

Takk, bless.

DL