i heart reykjavik

with one comment

In Iceland. The flight/journey was uneventful, despite Y.’s potentially problematic shirt – a black tee with some intense-looking Arabic corporate slogan. (Coke? Probably.)

There’s a tendency for eager young folk like myself to describe their trips in a phenomenally reductive manner, e.g., India: Poverty!, or China: Populous! (Those might be interchangeable; France: Foreign! is probably a better e.g.) I’m no going to do that even though Icelandic women, at least thus far, are a tempting group to stereotype.

Now, how’d this couchsurfing work out?

Weeeellll…. We arrived late, and after buying our (mandatory) guest gift of two cartons of reds for our to-be hostess Sabrina, we hopped on the Reykjavik-bound bus. We were expecting a Jerusalem-y downtown, like a really concentrated spot of happening. Nope: just a lonely gas station on the edge of a hilly, residential neighborhood. We got a map from the woman behind the counter – everyone’s been enormously helpful thus far – and found Sabrina’s street, about a ten minute walk.

We found her green house alright. But the lights were off, and we weren’t about to ring the bell. So, after psyching ourselves up, we simply walked inside, justifying our blatant trespassing by our 7000 krona gift. We could see, thanks to the light from the bathroom-cum-laundry room, which was comfortably messy. We tried the only other door on that floor – a bed, which is good, but with someone in it, which is bad. And the knee that we glimpsed looked like a male’s, which is worse. So after a feverish, whispered debate, we decided to investigate upstairs. (She must be used to this, right? She’s hosted scores of couchsurfers!) We removed our shoes – for stealth, obviously – and gingerly made our way up, trying to avoid those inevitable stair creaks.

Upstairs, in our socks, we found three doors. Sabrina lives with her boyfriend, so that’s one. He has a daughter, so that’s two. And while 1/3 ain’t bad odds, we hightailed it. (Pics of the escapade TK.)

We’re spending the night on the upper floor of the tiny bus station, which has a perfectly comfortable armchair and sofa. I imagine it’s a makeshift employee lounge. Y.’s asleep. Little guy…

And oh, we met Adam and Eva (no joke) who’ve promised us a killer Reykjavik weekend. Stay tuned.

Written by menachemkaiser

18 August at 00:37

Posted in rants

One Response

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  1. cool. I hadn’t realized I could leave seemingly unintelligent and unsophisticated comments on your oh-so intelligent and sophisticated blog. I also feel deeply empowered by the fact that I can reveal who the mysterious and short Y is. This trip smacks of Newfoundland.


    18 August at 11:41

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