Waltzing With Disa

They have moved the Phallological Museum to eastern Iceland.
You now have to drive five hours from Reykjavik to see the preserved
penises of all the animals who live on this island. The old guy who
volunteered to provide the first human specimen continues to survive;
he´s in his late 80´s now. I suppose that such a pledge could, in its way,
keep you clinging to dear life.

We went to the National Museum of Iceland on Monday, as modern
a museum as you´ll find. Some 1200 years of artifacts, texts,and artwork.
Because lava and ice preserve things so well, many of the items remain
in near to their original condition. Items included ancient farm tables and
chairs, stitched quilts and murals, masks, shields, swords, harpoons. There
were pages from the Sagas and Snorri´s Edda, as well as parchment from
the first Icelandic census - one of the world´s earliest - taken in 1703. In
breaking down the group percentages, after farmers, wives, fishermen,
children and so on, there were paupers, vagrants, vagabonds and what
they called "landless pranksters." Now, that´s what I want to be when I
grow up!

Yesterday, Disa tried to kill me by taking me on a long bike ride around
the entire circumference of Reykjavik´s shoreline. We started out in warm
weather. Soon it is pouring rain and there´s a fierce head wind which - at
full pedal - allows you to more or less stand still while your hair travels
at 20 mph in the opposite direction. Disa´s already 100 meters ahead of me,
so there´s no danger of her hearing the curses that I´m screaming at her, haha.
And to think, I wanted to begin the ride wearing only a t-shirt and fleece
vest. She shook her head and reminded me to always dress for two seasons
in Iceland.

We escape the rain and re-enter the sunshine. I´ve learned that no matter how
overcast it is here, if it´s not raining they call it "sunny." If that´s the case, this
has to be the sunniest place on the entire planet! I have now lagged 150 meters
behind - my excuse is that the seat is too low and I can´t extend my legs as I
would like - and my butt and surrounding areas so sore from this torture
device they call a bicycle seat that I´m considering volunteering to make a
pledge to the Phallological Museum myself.

Up ahead, I see Disa dismount at the edge of a precipice overlooking the open
Atlantic. She is standing on a small wooden platform with a railing; there is a
pole atop which are two bullhorn speakers, and on the side of the poles there
is some kind of antiquated push-button device. "Do you know what this is,
baseboy?," she asks in her sing-song voice. She calls me Baseboy, her own
word for a man who loves and coaches baseball. "No idea," I tell her. "It´s a
dancefloor in the middle of nowhere," she says, smiling. With that, she
presses a button and this scratchy old Icelandic song begins playing
through the speakers. With the Atlantic tide detonating below us and our
legs still a little rubbery from the ride, we waltz to the music we hear.

DL