This is Iceland then. Iceland is my favourite place I have ever visited and it combines the following two elements: a marvelous oceanic climate which ensures you will never leave the house dressed in fewer than four layers and endless landscapes of desolate, empty nothingness. I’m not sure which I prefer actually, the cold or the nothingness – but it’s pretty close.
So we arrive there on Tuesday afternoon and we collect our bags and on the way out from the airport there are policemen with sniffer dogs and I can’t pretend that I’m not a little worried so I whisper to Scott, do we have anything on us, and Scott says I don’t think so and then we get past the dogs and there’s more security so we are randomly chosen for some more checks and while I have my bag scanned for the 4th time it occurs to me that maybe white males in their 20s traveling from a European Union country are considered a huge threat to the Icelandic law and order, but I suppose you have slim pickings of who to stop and search if 80% of your tourists are Scandinavian or British, those well-known high threat groups.
Then we get the bus to go to Reykjavik and notice for the first time that a) the country is covered by permanent mist blending land, sky, animals and people into one huge blur and b) nobody has any curtains in their windows or if they do they leave them open 24/7, presumably getting a kick out of being watched by anyone who passes by.
Then we get to the hotel, and I’m very pleased as we get Nickelodeon on the TV, but sadly during the 4 days that we’re there they don’t play Sabrina the Teenage Witch once, which would be unheard of anywhere else in the Western hemisphere.
Then we decide to go out and have dinner and the temperature is 3°C so we dress up like normal people would, in jumpers, coats, gloves, two pairs of trousers, boots and wooly hats but when we leave the hotel we start getting funny looks from the locals who have deemed it adequate enough to walk around in t-shirts and hooded tops only. I make a mental note that when I move to Iceland I have to dress down to blend in.
Later, back in the hotel, I suggest to Scott that we play an exclusive soundtrack of Bjork while we’re in Iceland, but he refuses on the grounds that he hates her, so we put on the Icelandic music channel on TV instead, which plays a combination of misspelt international hits (You’r Beutiful by James Blun) and local painfully trendy Icelandic bands. Mysteriously, they don’t play Bjork once in the 4 days and the only time we hear Bjork while we’re there is at a tourist shop that sells Good Girls Go To Heaven, Bad Girls Go To Iceland t-shirts. I am starting to believe that Bjork is hated in her home country or she is massively unpopular or not considered cool enough or maybe people just don’t give a shit.
Anyway, this is Day 1 in Iceland and I will post more stories where things actually happen later, but in the meantime you can look forward to:
- Reading about our visit to the blue lagoon and our quest for the perfect picture that will form the basis of our Christmas card this year
- Reading about our visit to the best gym in Iceland and in the world and how it contributed to me wanting to move to Iceland
- Reading about our visit to Reykjavik’s only gay bar which contributed to me thinking that I’ll just have to be celibate when I move to Iceland
- Seeing many more pictures
Also, this following week will be fucking amazing for the blog, because I will also be posting the shortlist of finalists for the Best Looking Reader competition for you to vote. And I’m not going to say much more about this right now, but I can say that the shortlist includes:
One contestant from New York, USA
One contestant from Sydney, Aus
One contestant from Christchurch, NZ
One contestant from Doncaster, UK
One contestant from somewhere in the US, but I’m not sure where
One contestant from California, USA
Finally, here is a non-Iceland related story. On Saturday, when I get back I go to Tesco to do some shopping and as I’m browsing the magazines there I see a naked picture of a band on the cover of Kerrang. Kerrang is a music magazine for pissed off teenagers that features bands like Linkin Park, Slayer and My Chemical Romance. I have never had an interest to buy this of course, but this time the biceps of the guy on the cover outweigh the £2.10 price tag, so I stick it in my basket. The band is called The Dillinger Escape Plan, and when I get home later I go on their myspace to check out their music and realize that they’re too angry for me / I’m too old / I don’t suffer from teenage angst anymore.
In any case, the lead singer is still hot and I want to sleep with him please, mainly because of his immense paleness, huge arms, stupid look / blank stare and the fact that he has issues. All extremely attractive qualities - in that order. And here are a couple of pictures of him:
I have 15 songs by Elastica and I've played them 135 times
I have 3 songs by Electric 6 and I've played them 25 times
I have 2 songs by Electronic and I've played them 11 times