This piece was originally published as a post on Stillman’s blog, The Reykjavik Chronicles.
It was the first time since arriving in Iceland that Id been able to see the brilliant blue Nordic sky. That morning I made an executive decision to wear shorts, to commit to the beauty of the morning and will the skies to hold out. It was a gutsy move to be sure. But I am very brave about such things.
After a trip for my second Icelandic hotdog with everything (hotdogs, or pylsa, seem to be the only affordable food item in Reykjavik; it is a very good thing that they are more delicious than hotdogs have any right to be) and a stroll to the grocery store and local market, it was time to make the twenty minute trek to Downtown Reykjavik.
I was still in search of “real” Iceland, and was happy to find that Reykjavik is a different city in the daylight.
The downtown streets were packed. Glasses clinked, shop doors barely closed before they were swung open again, tourists and locals lounged outside of bars in the cracks of sun not blocked by the buildings. The city felt alive and vibrant and hummed in a way that it hadn’t in the rain.
Yet, as I walked with our group, I still couldn’t shake the lingering feeling that I hadn’t left the U.S. at all. That maybe I was only in an Icelandic neighborhood in Seattle; the plane ticket was a big scam and I’d circled the globe only to be set down in a secret airport in the Emerald City.
Honestly, the greatest cultural shock I noticed was the little metal lip jutting up from the bottom of every doorway. I’m not sure why this exists other than to trip tourists and give the locals something to laugh about as they try to sell these embarrassed Americans two hundred dollar sweaters and ten-dollar beers.
What I really wanted was to dig beneath the gleaming surface of the city. To have a genuine connection with a local, to establish some form of intimacy with someone, anyone. To prove to myself that there was more to the city than met my hotdog-consuming, American eye. The only problem was that establishing a connection with strangers is near the bottom on my Social Skills Sheet.
I spotted the local bookstore and thought that would be a great time to pop in and see what the locals were reading. That is, after all, why I was in Iceland in the first place, wasn’t it?
Staring blankly at a wall of Icelandic translated fiction, I was approached by another human being.
“Can I help you find something?” asked the store clerk. My heartbeat quickened. This was it: my shot at communication. It was about books. I knew about books. This was my time to shine!
I’m not great with new people. New people may or may not be interesting, or interested in me. There is a risk involved that my brain, so far removed from its hunter-gather ancestors, processes as terror on the same level as it would a charging saber-toothed cat. Except, whereas my ancestors would have grabbed a spear, I make eye contact for an uncomfortable length of time and then slink away.
I don’t seem to be able to realize that these are people I will never see again. Somehow that makes it more threatening. I have one impression for the rest of my life. I would never be anything to them other than that first impression.
“Yes,” I said after three solid seconds of silent eye contact. “I was looking for Icelandic Science Fiction,” I said. “If that exists,” I added, unsure if I was asking for something impossible.
He smiled. “Science Fiction? Oh, I’m not sure; we are so realistic. A lot of murder mystery, though.”
I nodded vigorously. I was doing it! Real human interaction was happening with someone from a different country. The saber-toothed cat was no longer charging but nuzzling the back of my hand. What else did he know? What more could I say to him?
“Yeah, I’ve heard that it is very popular here,” I said. Yes, so far so good. That was an adequate response; it shows interest and a passing knowledge of Icelandic culture. “But I was wondering if you had anything set in the near future, or anything close to that genre?”
He was engaged. His tastefully styled blonde mustache bounced a little as he considered the wall of fiction. He grabbed a selection from the shelf, handed it to me with a casual wrist flick. We were already on such great and casual terms!
“That one. That one is excellent. Very excellent. One of my favorite authors.” The book was LoveStar by Andri Snaer Magnason, which concerns a mega corporation based in Iceland that has a program that chooses who you are supposed to marry (I’m guessing this is a commentary on the genetic projects happening in Iceland which track lineage to make sure there are no incestual cross-overs). Sold. Thirty dollars? Sure, Sold. I didn’t even need to trip on a tourist-trap door lip.
I asked about the translation process briefly, but I couldn’t think of much else to say and didn’t want to ruin what had been a perfectly excellent verbal exchange, so I left.
Before I did, I fleetingly imagined myself being the type of person that would ask to pick his brain over coffee sometime (this is a good time to note that all Icelandic coffee is expensive and all of it is excellent). Instead, I crawled away, feeling lukewarm about the whole affair. But I had a book and had met a very nice man with a mustache. Two big steps forward.
Hours later I would get what I was searching for: real intimacy. Much more intimacy than I was expecting.
At around 11pm, ravenous from drinking on an empty stomach, a few of us stepped into Pizza Royale — one of Reykjavik’s many pizza shops. The pizza chef was a gruff looking, barrel-chested man. Well, to be more accurate, barrel stomached. I think barrel chested is really just another form of the word “large” that sounds more polite and masculine.
He gave short answers to our questions and was not a particularly warm cashier.
Then his wife entered the kitchen. He stopped what he was doing, hugged her tightly, and shared a deep kiss.
It was a very romantic exchange and the group of us were ready to purchase anything he suggested. Two liters of coke with the extra large? While we do not want it and will not drink it, we will buy it from you.
But that wasn’t the end of the intimate exchange.
As most of the others were chatting, looking out the window, and waiting for the pizza, I snuck glances at our chef. He looked haggard and sad. His wife appeared at the edge of the kitchen again, and he went to her. All two hundred fifty pounds of him.
I looked away. I looked back.
He was there, in her arms, his head resting in her bosom. She was stroking his bald head while he squeezed his eyes shut as if fighting off some deep sadness threatening to overtake him.
I turned away, not wanting to pervert the moment by gawking at it.
He finished baking our pizza and we retreated to a grassy hill that overlooked the bay. We were surrounded by couples who were nested together, exchanging kisses and exploring with their hands.
It was midnight and we sat, eating our greasy pizza, listening to Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire” performed on acoustic guitar by a love-struck Icelandic man.
I ate the sad man’s pizza under a sun that was hanging just above the horizon, and thought I had witnessed in that pizza shop was far more intimate than the exchanges of saliva occurring on the hill.
I felt I was a little cowardly and a lot confused about the world. Just when I thought I knew something, a pizza chef almost cries in his wife’s embrace.
There was so much more beneath the surface of the city, and there always would be. Because a city is made up of people, not buildings and restaurants. And people have more depth than we give them credit for. There is a tendency, I think, to believe that we are the only ones who think or feel deeply about anything. I believe the world is filled with barrel-chested, crying men.
At one in the morning I walked back, alone, through the still breathing streets. I shivered in the shade. My shorts, my one brave act of the day, turned out to be a mistake. But I thought that was okay.
I rubbed my arms and watched the drunk people stagger from bar to bar. Each one of them was a poet, a pizza chef, a lover, a musician — and so much more than I would ever understand.
Comments are closed.