Ice #2 : The Test

better days

ICELAND JOURNAL #2 : THE TEST

The drive from Reykjavik to Snussa, the summer home,
is about two hours eastward over a mountain pass. First,
we stopped to visit Disa´s father, Gudmundur, at his place
outside Reykjavik. Aagot, Disa's mother, was at work this
day, so Gudmundur had us all to himself. He was ready
and waiting for me.

After looking at some photos and paintings of boats he´d
worked on in his days as a fisherman, and explaining how
he came to have a Salvador Dali painting on his living room
wall, Gudmundur began bringing these little bowls of food
to the table in the living room. There were also glasses,
and bottles of beer and schnapps. To eat from the secret
delicacies in the little china bowls, we were to use two-pronged
miniature forks. Napkins at hand, very formal ceremony...

No beating around the bush here, I could tell that I was
being asked to walk the gauntlet. This was a good-natured
test of my ability to be a good guest and a worthy companion
for daughter, Thordis. In the first bowl was the putrefied shark,
the whole idea being, if the Canadian can´t handle the shark,
we´ll just stop right there. This shark had been buried in the
ground in tin foil for six weeks. It was explained to me, as my
tall glass was being filled with beer and my tiny shot glass with
schnapps, that the longer you chewed the shark the more flavor
it released. This was said with a thinly-veiled chuckle. I chewed
four or five times and, as the so-called flavor hit the roof of my
sinuses like a geyser of poisonous horse radish distilled in piss
and rattlesnake venom, I near-fainted. A rifle shot of lager beer,
an assaultive throatwash of schnapps, a tissue to the eyes, and
I was ready to continue.

Second up, as Disa translated, was the sheep faces. Faces?, I asked,
wanting to be sure of the spelling. Yes, faces. These morsels tasted
like roast lamb in comparison. I had another hit of beer and schnapps
to clear the palate for phase three. The third delicacy was, if I
understood correctly, made from the innards of the sheep, an
intestinal pate of sorts, very sour and with bits that didn´t seem to
break down with chewing. More beer, more schnapps, my head now
seesawing and the Dali painting beginning to take on extra dimensions
and reaching its twisted hands toward me.

Gudmundur, I said through Disa, what else have you got for
me? Why, of course, the testicles of the ram. Give me a spoon, Disa,
I said, as Gudmundur filled my glasses once again. While we paused,
I quietly placed the lid on the bowl with the shark in it. The scent,
if you can call it that, was beginning to activate my schnappiness.
In a soup spoon, I took three of four of these tender ram bits
and threw them like chunks of coal into the furnace of my mouth.
With each bite they exploded with flavor. Friends, it could have
been the beer and schnapps - and also the previous items the
ram testicle tidbits had to be compared against - but I found
them delicious. My rosy-cheeked face was lit up now, and dear
Gudmundur raised his glass, skol!, and we downed another
half-glass of beer and full shot of schnapps as I realized that
I´d passed this test of Viking manhood.

Gudmundur sat back now, pulled a slim pack of Icelandic
cigarettes from his shirtpocket and offered me one. They
were thin as wire, these cigarettes, reminiscent of Indian
ones, and more decorative than tobacco-related. Gudmundur
spoke to Disa and she translated to me, then I´d answer and
she´d relay back to Gudmundur. Seems that I´d impressed
the old man a little at least, and that he could now allow us
to carry on into the mountains together. We finished up the
cigarettes and, just as we were about to rise to go, he brought
out a jar with pieces of something floating in a white goo.

Oh, God, Disa...what pray tell are these?
"He is saying that the shark you ate was kindergarten shark,"
she tells me. "If you eat what is in this jar, you will have gone
to university and gotten your degree."

Gudmundur opens the final jar and, deftly, spears two morsels
with his fork, then buries them in his fisherman´s mouth,
shrugging as he chews, as though to say, it´s nothing, nothing at
all. He then lifts the jar and waves it under my nose. I almost
pass out from the fumes. "How long was this buried?," I ask,
figuring for sure they´d misplaced this shark for years, maybe
they´d dug it out from the last volcanic eruption, maybe even
from the time of the Sagas. "Eighteen months," Gudmundur
says, with a wink.

Okay, let´s do her! Get the beer and schnapps! Squinting, I
fork my masters thesis of shark and jam it into my tonsils,
quickly flooding the area with stinging lager beer and then
another detonation of schnapps. Mucous is coming out of my
eyes! Or, is it lava? Tears are pouring from my ears. My mentor,
Gudmundur, is slapping his knees, laughing so hard that his eyes
have disappeared like raisins into the happy wrinkled porridge
of his face. Disa is beside me, appearing ready to apply artificial
respiration at any moment. I take another liberal honk of beer,
let loose with a whooping word or two not printable here, then
take another wash of lager, and I am through to the other side,
I´ve made it! Disa kisses me on the cheek, uttering something
in Icelandic and, the weird part is, being so drunk on Icelandic
spirits, I undertand every single word.

Gudmundur gives me a mighty hug as we leave, his eyes slivers
of delight as he waves goodbye to us. We pull out of his driveway
and head into the mountains where the threats to human life
-- earthquakes, volcanoes, glacier avalanches -- will seem
minor by comparison.

DL