Ice #9 : Aurora Borealis

better days______www.coopradio.org
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I grew up in Saskatchewan, where the northern lights
are enough to make a child believe in all mysteries. If
space were one enormous grand piano and the angels
blew their trumpets into its open body, the aurora borealis
is the humming you´d hear, the resonance of invisible
strings sending harmonics into the heavens in the form
of floating and swaying ballerinas of light. Well, if the
northern lights visit Saskatchewan, they must live in
Iceland, this place where so many old mysteries are
kept alive.

Iceland is about the size of Cuba, only with less than 3%
of Cuba´s population. About 85% live in the big city here.
Downtown Reykjavik, where Disa lives, is known as 101,
after its postal code. It is a compact area, sometimes
referred to as "Europe´s coolest hotspot," and is filled
with shops, music clubs, coffee alcoves, cd stores and
galleries. In his book, Waking Up In Iceland, John Sullivan
wrote of 101, "You can get to most destinations by means
of a short, sharp sprint. A trip to the single state-run
liquor store in town can be done in under a minute with
the right shoes and a favorable wind. However, if the winds
are traveling against you at speeds greater than those at
which you are moving forwards, you will be pushed rudely
backwards. In these conditions, it´s best to stay at home
and order pizza." There´s only been one night so far where
pizza would have been the safe idea; instead we battled
the 101 wind for Thai curry.

Disa´s made sure that we´ve taken in quite a few of the
island´s secret and special places and now, settling into
Reykjavik for the long Easter weekend, I am content to
explore 101. The Sugarcubes played in town the same
night I played at the Borg, and since they and Bjork have
captured international audiences, Iceland has become
something of a little volcano, sending a few sparks into
Europe´s and North America´s musical spheres on a semi-
regular basis. Music has played a significant role in drawing
attention to Iceland and making tourism the number two
industry behind fish products, ahead of farming. There are
tiny cafes which morph into clubs by night where, once
musicians set up their gear, there´s room for only thirty
or forty bodies to sardine their way in, the tables moved
out of sight to make a dancefloor possible. The excitement
of it makes me think, though I´ve never been there, of
how Liverpool may have felt toward the end of the fifties.

Reykjavik has everything larger cities have, but seems to
have just one of them. There's little here that could be
called superfluous; there´s just not room for that in 101.
Oh, by the way, they do have one McDonald´s downtown.
Just one. This may be due to the fact that Icelanders are
obsessed with hotdog stands; they are everywhere, and
if you order eina med ollu, "one with everything," you
get a long European weiner with two kinds of onion, a kind
of yellow mayonnaise and a pungent mustard to die for.
Disa took me to a flea market yesterday down by the docks
and afterwards, in the rain, she took me to the "best
hotdog stand in Reykjavik," where we stood in queue under
a green umbrella for this treat. Eina med ollu is also,
she tells me, a phrase used to describe a woman who never
learned to say no.

On March 1st, 1989, a day known as "Beer Day," it became
legal for Icelanders to buy beer. Prior to that, only a weak
beer was allowed to be sold in bars. The only way to make
this weak beer palatable was to mix in stronger spirits, the
resultant drink being known as bjorliki, meaning "like beer."
This became a favorite national drink for years, until it was
banned in 1985. With the ban, mock funerals broke out all
over Iceland. Since March 1st, 1989, the country has been
making up for lost time, apparently. Weekends in Reykjavik
are nothing short of a party of liquor, flesh and pleasure.
Because of the high price of bar drinks, folks get leathered
up at home first. The city gradually builds momentum on
Friday and Saturday nights, with midnight seeming to be
when things kick into the next gear and 2:00 a.m. being
about when the iceberg breaks in half and geysers of steam
blow from the city´s collective skullcap. The surreal, even
somewhat depressing movie, 101 Reykjavik, might be
worth a rental as it is set in the 101 area of downtown
Reykjavik that Disa lives in.

We traveled to Disa´s parents for an Easter dinner yesterday,
Saturday. First we stopped at her sister´s and brother-in-
law´s place in the countryside. Anna has a new Bosendorf
piano in her loft studio, a magnificent instrument she bought
in Vienna which was lowered in by crane through an overhead
skylight. She played a beautiful solo piece for us, then Sigge,
her hubby, joined her for a clarinet-piano duet on Gershwin´s
Summertime. Very impressive. Music seems to be everywhere
here. Off to Gudmundur´s and Aagot´s for dinner.

Things are looking very festive. The table is covered, lit up
with candles, wine and seafood salad of lobster, prawns
and crab. There are baby potatoes, cooked red cabbage,
bowls of mixed vegetables, and two different lamb dishes
with separate gravies. Tumi is there, Disa´s nephew, who
took photos of my performance at the Borg and is digitizing
them to disc for me. Gummi and Asta, Anna and Sigge´s
children, are there as well; Gummi is a little shy and plays
clarinet like his father, and Asta represents to me the
quintessential Icelandic teenager with piercings, a wool
bonnet, five-toed circus-colored socks, and a burning
desire to get a little tattoo on the sole of her foot. What
kind of tattoo? A supermarket bar-code, of course!

Aagot has created a moist, homemade chocolate cake for
dessert with whipped cream and a fruit compote. Winking,
Gudmundur brings out the cognac. Gummi´s off to play on
the computer. Asta has friends to go and meet, so gives
me a hug good-bye. Enormous photo albums are brought
out, pictures of summer visits to the eastern fjords and
also a trip to the south of France the family made for
Disa´s 40th birthday.

Disa is the designated driver. We all hug and say goda
nott, blessbless, and I even get a kiss on the cheek
from Disa´s father. Disa relates to me that Gudmundur
had at one point leaned over to her and said, "Albert fellur
vel inn i hopinn," meaning "Albert fits in well with us." I
feel at ease with Disa´s family.

The drive back into Reykjavik makes it look like a city of
a million people, the lights spread out to the horizons. We
can´t see the aurora borealis this night, but I can still hear
the harmonics in the night wind. It´s the radio station from
high in outer space, where the music and the old mysteries
remain safe.

Driving into 101 it´s almost eleven o´clock. Being a long
weekend, the party is only starting. Later I step on to the
balcony for a smoke, and see below a car filled with youths
speed into a parking lot and come to an abrupt stop. Three
silhouettes leap out hurriedly and run into the shadows to
answer nature´s call, leap back in and head back down old
Laugavegur to where the dancefloors are.

I take a deep draw on a Camel. I´ve been here eleven
days. Sometimes I feel homesick. Other times, mystery
of mysteries, I feel like I´ve come home.

DL