out of the blue lagoon…

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After the couch wreck that was Sabrina’s, we needed sleep. Badly. (And a shower; I hadn’t removed an article of clothing since Sunday night.) So we booked a nice hotel at a reasonable rate. We knew it was nice because there was very chic, very curvy, very leather black furniture in the lobby.

And then off to the Blue Lagoon, a spa of sorts, courtesy of nature. It’s a geothermal pool — the water, milky-colored, actually steams, and has something or other to do with lava. (Iceland, whose inhabitants all have impeccable English, is just horrid at those usually-handy explanatory signs that dot landmarks. The message I got: You want to know why the water is naturally hot? Tough noogies. Just go in, shut up, and try not to urinate.) It’s ultra hygeinic — we had our first shower of the trip — and the change room echoed with multi-language male banter. (Unsurprising revelation: Icelanders are not, by and large, circumcised. I’m cool with that, of course, but it’s problematic only insofar as I can’t really help but look. It’s endlessly fascinating to me, like a mythical or extremely rare animal, whose sighting is cause for excitement and even celebration. Y., too, noticed*, though he’s a future urologist, so I suppose he can bank on the ‘study’ excuse.)

The pool itself is relaxing; the water is hot and salty. It’s shallow throughout, so you just wade around, perhaps stop at the small island and purchase a slushie or a coke. Or go to the large barrels holding something suspiciously similar to shaving cream — though saltier — and slather yourself in it, exulting in its ostensibly supreme skin benefits. (My face burned something fierce, though I suppose that might be indicative of some skin-cleansing.) And the surrounding building is beautiful, especially the bathrooms. Actually, that’s been true throughout — this country’s bathrooms are the stuff of home design magazines. (And always thoroughly clean — perhaps the stuff of janitorial magazines as well.) Pooping, if I may be so blunt, has been a pleasure.

We had a small taste of the Reykjavik nightlife, though it’s awfully dead during the week. (The weekends, we’ve been told, are the ne plus ultra of debauchery. Looking forward.) It wasn’t entirely without incident: leaving aside the preambles, we have a bowling date tonight with a 6″1 Brazlian-Finnish exotic dancer named Tsheila. Details TK.

*I’d like to point out that these posts were/are written independently, without any sort of consultation between Y. and myself.  All inter-blog linking is done post facto. We’re in sync, clearly, especially when it comes to genitals.

Written by menachemkaiser

20 August at 09:15

Posted in rants

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