Iceland 2025 — Day Two

After sleeping untill 10:00 a.m. I was in need of refreshment so I headed back to the pool:

I met Ingimar in one of the hotpots where he told me interesting stories about his exploits in NATO. And of course he knew my old blog pal Kristín. By the time I was thoroughly cooked Ingimar had started to repeat his stories. I left the pool and went to The Bokín bookstore where it was very tempting to curl up with a book on this sofa:

Despite the snow there was still some Halloween spirit:

I stopped into the National Theatre box-office to get tickets for three plays, but one was sold out. One that wasn’t sold out was The Kjallarakabarett. A fan dance set to The Monster Mash was especially amusing on Halloween:

And the Lighted Hoop routine was sublime:

When I walked home costumed revelers were promenading down Bankastræti:

Iceland 2025 — Day One

I missed experiencing the all-time record snowfall in Reykjavík for October by a couple of days, but there were still ‘traces’ of it here and there:

The bus ride in from the airport took two hours, usually it is only 45 minutes:

But there was beauty in the snow:

I stopped in to the Norræna húsið and enjoyed a tiny espresso and carrot cake in the bistro while basking in the view of the white city through the picture windows:

The pool was glorious (sunny and 25° F., no wind) and afterward stopped in at Garg, a minimalist bookstore—a story for another day. I had Plokkfiskur and rye bread at 101 Reykjavík Street Food::

As good as my own, just different. After wrestling with a balky electronic keypad for my apartment door (touchpads and cold weather don’t mix) and picking up groceries at Kronan, I thought I’d call it a day. I wanted to go out, but I haven't had any solid sleep in three days. I’m nodding out as I write this so I’d better st

Sharon’s Icelandic Adventure

Sharon receives a warm welcome on her return to Iceland…


Sharon Spotbottom character ©2006 by Karen Heathwood, used by permission.

Waiting for the Eternal Now

Hverfisgata, Reykjavík, 2023

I am leaving for Iceland today, my 10th trip in 26 years.

No special agenda this time. I’ll be catching some musical acts, to be sure, as well as theatre and morning soaks and chats with the locals in the geothermal-heated outdoor pools. Looking back on some images from my previous Icelandic trips, I was struck with the feeling that ‘ordinary’ scenes are just as memorable as ‘special’ ones. My sojourns there have become an ‘alternate reality’, not exactly an escape but, rather, a chance to let existence wash over me without any preconceived notions about its meaning, and without those notions overwhelming my direct apprehension of the Eternal Now.

Daily updates start on tomorrow and continue for the duration of the trip.

What, Me Worry?

Reykjavík (click to embiggen), I'll be staying right behind the small church in the dead center of the image.

Traveling to Iceland is, for me at least, always an adventure tinged with foreboding.

Here are just a few of the million things that, in my fevered imagination, could go wrong:

1. The plane could crash (not likely)
2. I could crash on my way to the airport (more likely)
3. There could be an air traffic controller shortage (already here)
4. There could be an earthquake (very likely, hopefully harmless)
5. There could be a volcanic eruption (very likely)
6. I could be bitten by a mosquito (not likely, but possible)
7. The weather will be rotten
8. There could be a flight disruption in KEF (somewhat unlikely)
9. They won’t let me into the country (not likely)
10. My favorite swimming pool will be closed (already happened, hot pots remain open)
11. They will kick me out of Iceland Airwaves for taking pictures (???)
12. I could get beaten up (not likely now)
13. Icelandair could cancel my flight home (not likely, but it happened to me in 2009)

Now that I’ve enumerated my fears, I feel better about the trip.

Death Shop

Living in a town that makes a big deal out of Halloween is a bit out of the ordinary but, as of late, not that strange. The prevalence of death imagery seems to be on the rise these days, and not just in October.

Fossil fuels are the remains of dead life, and motorcycles have been referred to a ‘suicide machines.’

Hmm.

Draw your own conclusions about Coca-Cola.

No shortage of shoppers:

Or Ghost tourists:

The Millionth Print

Twenty Years Ago on FITK

“The first million prints are the hardest.” - Old photo lab saying

I make photographic prints. “Just print ’em, don’t think about ’em…“ I’ve said it to myself after another day of dealing with thousands of images. Weddings, birthdays, scenery, rites of passage, portraits, even a little ‘art’. It’s easy to start thinking that everybody is taking the same pictures, over and over, but they aren’t. Every person has a story, as does each picture. They may not be the most interesting tales, but they are a part of that person. Some stories, of course, are sad.

About the time of my millionth print, the counter person came back with a special, rush order. “Memorial Service”, no charge. It wasn‘t from a regular customer, it was from a pro who usually used the big lab in the suburbs that specialized in wedding packages. He needed a 16x20, mounted, of a bride in her wedding dress. I printed it; it was stunning. An attractive, healthy woman in her mid-twenties, with an obvious joy in her expression, not just because it was her wedding day, but because she enjoyed being alive. I packaged the order and brought it up to the counter, where I got the more of the story:

She had been on her honeymoon, out west, when the horse she was riding was spooked by a snake; she was thrown and died instantly. The paper had the obituary. Recent grad in a health service field, working at a major hospital, married, and now gone. The photographer said that no one from the family had seen any of the wedding pictures, that the album hadn’t even been started, and that he brought this negative here so that there would be at least one picture of her at the service that showed her at her finest hour.

Some days are better than others. Some days you just go through the motions. Some days you forget right away.

And some days you never forget.

AI-generated image used to preserve privacy

Lady of the Lake commented…

You brought me to tears Professor. Thank you for this post.

Thanks Given for Large Favors

Twenty Years Ago on FITK

When I worked with bands in bars in the late 70's and early 80's, there was one holiday that you did not want to work.

Thanksgiving.

Think about it.

The only people who went out on Thanksgiving were people without friends or family, or who were outcasts from same. Not a pretty crowd. That being said, if you did well on Thanksgiving you would probably get asked back to play—for Christmas night!

The worst was a place called The Cabooze. Here's a hint to judging drinking establishments: If the name of the place has some vulgar reference to liquor in it, you'll know exactly what you're getting into. Truth in advertising, you might say. A bar full of losers, loners and misfits- a sure-fire recipe for holiday frivolity.

This reminds me of some of the other fine watering holes in this area, past and present:

The Viking Bar (West Bank) had a consistent clientele for the last thirty years, the same crowd, and they aren't looking any better after thirty years. They've added appropriate live music awhile back- blues, blues and more blues. 

Palmer's Bar (West Bank) was the champ. Open for Breakfast, 365 days a year. No food served. If you just couldn't wait until 10 or 11 a.m., you can go here. Professional drinkers only, amateurs and dilettantes need not apply.

Moby Dick's (downtown) was so hard-core that, as legend has it, any A.A. member having a “sobriety pin” could swap it for a free drink—and the wall behind the cash register held dozens.

I've been fortunate. I managed to avoid being sucked into that mælstrom. So I give thanks for that, and wish the best for those who have not, those who are doing their "bit" to keep decadence and despair thriving.

UPDATE: All these places have since closed.

4 Comments:

Blogger lab munkay said…

Only place worse than a dive bar on a holiday is a rehab center. "Please please please keep me from working another one." Next year I'm slipping brandy in the sweet potatoes. Happy Thanksgiving Batty.

Blogger Kindredband said…

Catharine's dorm is very close to the Viking Bar. It's been closed for a long time, with “Gone Fishing” displayed on the marquee. After I told her about some of the great bands I’d seen there, Eleanore said it was sad to see it slip into decay.

Reposted

A Parish Chronicle

               This is the music you remember when you live to be 100

    ******** AN EXCLUSIVE WORLD PREMIERE REVIEW ********

A Parish Chronicle (Innansveitarkronika)
By Halldór Laxness
Translated by Philip Roughton
Introduction by Salvatore Scibona
Archipelago Books, 2026

My other identity, my real world identity, is that of a mild-mannered administrator of a website devoted to the English translations of the work of Icelandic author Halldór Laxness, 1955 Nobel Laureate in Literature. When I started that endeavor fifteen years ago there were few English translations of Laxness titles in print and references to him were scattered about the internet; some had already disappeared due to link-rot. That site, Laxness in Translation, is now the preeminent English-language internet resource about the man and his works. Many thanks to Archipelago Books for my advance reading copy.

The unifying thread in this short novel is a small parish church in Hrísbrú, Mosfellsbær, near Reykjavík, Iceland. The church in question was slated for demolition and the parish congregation was expected to relocate to a new one in a lower valley a short distance away. The church had fallen into disrepair, was dismantled and then (in a surprising turn of events) a new one arose. Several intertwined threads merge to form a satisfying climax. A reader not familiar with the intrigues of Icelandic church politics might be baffled by this story arc, but this chronicle deals with more fundamental issues than theology. The conflict here is between the locals and those outside forces working for the destruction of this humble place, in the process effectively erasing the identities of the people who lived there.

What can a story of a small parish church in rural Iceland possibly offer the worldly reader?

The book opens with a discussion about the bones and, in particular, the skull of ‘Iceland’s national hero and chief poet’ Egill Skallagrímsson. Those remains may have been interred at the first church in the parish in the 12th century although he was a heathen.

Are you still with me?

Further chapters elaborate on the history of the place, introduce the farmer Ólafur (and his bed-ridden wife, Finnbjörg), travails with Priest Jóhann and his maid Guðrún, parish council chairman Kolbeinn, ash-collector Láki and his son Stéfi, and the machinations that ensue when the order to demolish the church is given (an order which had been made a century earlier!) Laxness even refers to himself as the narrator “Inky” in numerous side-stories making for an incredibly rich panorama in such a short book.

I recently participated in a Zoom meeting with the book’s translator, Philip Roughton. During the session he told the story of how he had become intrigued by Icelandic literature while he was doing research for his masters thesis. He was struck by how time and time again features of the countryside were related to historical events by his guides—some of those stories had been written down many hundreds of years ago. In a similar vein, A Parish Chronicle is an intensely local book where most of the story takes place within a few miles from where Halldór had grown up and, later in life, had built Gljúfrasteinn, his home for 50 years. While A Parish Chronicle is fictional, the characters in it were no doubt based on histories of the locals. Laxness and his keen powers of observation are evident in all his novels (this book is no exception) with characters and situations richly drawn; anyone that has grown up in a small community will find much here to smile about. The first draft of this book was made in Rome in 1963 and finished in 1970 as a ‘memoir-novel.’

In 2015 I took a bike trip through this area where I photographed a picturesque church sitting on a small hill. I had no way of knowing that it was the church in this story:

Mosfellskirkja, 2015

Still, many believe that God’s wisdom and long-suffering achieved a certain victory in this matter here in Mosfellsdalur, even if it took some time, and the world might well take notice of this, although there may may in fact be something to the viewpoints of those who think differently.

The world would do well to take notice of this slender volume.

Highest Recommendation.

The First Church of Wendell

Twenty Years Ago on FITK

Junior confirmation.

Not Sunday School. Not exactly bible study per se, although there was plenty of that. Junior confirmation meant being stuck in a room with a dozen other kids, and the Assistant Pastor, Wendell. Wendell was a bit of an odd duck; this was evident even to us, the unconfirmed rabble. Wendell liked to talk about sex. Not in a medical way, or even a social way (and certainly not in pornographic detail), but in the terms of good and evil. Well, mostly evil. Well, almost all evil. Now I am sure that I had the same interests and fantasies as the other boys (and some of the girls) but I had never quite connected them to evil. I thought that you would find a girl you like, hit it off somehow and then etc. and etc.. It made sense to me. Wendell did not share my enthusiasms so I struggled with his interpretation of God’s law.

Wendell used every Saturday morning trying to convince us that we’d better shape up, and in a hurry too (the rapture, you know) and that meant moral purity which meant no dancing, no touching, no impure thoughts and no sex. Wendell said he never even kissed his wife until they were married. The only problem with his weekly lecture was that he wouldn’t shut up about sex, so naturally my surging hormonal system was put on full alert. If I wasn’t thinking about sex when class started, I certainly was by the time it ended. I think the vulgar term for this process is called a “mind-fuck.” 

The next year we all graduated to Senior Confirmation, taught by the regular pastor, who actually was a very nice person, who could talk about some other Biblical issues and made a point of showing us the better aspects of Jesus’s teachings. Wendell, along with some other like-minded families, left the church to start a new church with what he felt was his more pure theology, in the next suburb. It wasn't really called the First Church of Wendell, but it was different. I managed to be confirmed, left our church a year later and I eventually (10 years later!) overcame his indoctrination.

Wendell is almost certainly retired now. I wonder what his confirmands had to endure?

Comica said…

I haven’t read the Bible in the longest time, but Professor, do you recall which book states that sex is a sinful act? It must be in there, but I’ve forgotten where…

I find it utterly strange that Wendell didn't even participate in osculation with his wife until they were wed. I'm fairly certain kissing is alright during courtship.

Then again, I'm no theologian.

Willey Sunday Morning

In 1932 Nancy Willey wrote a letter to Frank Lloyd Wright, requesting that he design an affordable home for her and her husband Malcolm and their family.

This started a process that rejuvenated Wright’s career and left the world with a small house that (after restoration) remains great. We were offered a chance to tour it yesterday (after being on a mailing list for two years) and it was well worth the wait. Steve Sikora (wearing hat in image below) and his wife purchased the house in 2002; it had been abandoned for years. He put together a team of contractors and craftsmen and it was finished in 2008. The complete story is on The Willey House web site, and details of the restoration is on the Frank Lloyd Wright website. This is the living/dining area with one of FLW’s un-sittable chairs at the dinner table:

And this is the view at the same location looking outward:

No FLW garden would be complete without one of his “sprites”:

The bathroom even had a trippy infinity mirror (left). Stafford Norris III, the chief carpenter/contractor, was also on hand (right). He used copies of Wright’s original plans for the restoration and furniture construction:

Steve described the house as “lightly lived-in”, used for friends and family and events. It gives the house an organic feel, unlike a museum or re-creation. Wright touches are everywhere, and the feeling of being surrounded by a masterwork is palpable. Who knew Wright could do cozy so well? And the cypress throughout! This open house was just a teaser, a full guided tour is two hours and can be arranged through the Willey House site (restrictions apply.) There are a lot more photos at the links above.

Pontoon Boat

As long as I have been posting here this pontoon boat has been in the river down the street from my house.

Tetsu Ko looked pretty good twelve years ago, but it’s starting to decay now. I’ve never seen it in use and from the growth of the reeds behind it, I think it hasn’t been out for a long time. This dock is only about a quarter mile above a dam, I would think that you would want this rig to be in tip-top shape (and have a spare motor) before taking it for a spin. There is talk of putting in a lock at the dam, if it were installed you could take this boat to the Gulf of Mexico.

Or is that the Gulf of America? They already have a flag.

Having a Rave-up

Twenty Years ago on FITK

Certain musical performances have an ability to remain vivid in one's memory- they may not have been by the most polished act, or even especially good, but they have a certain characteristic that makes an indelible impression. As a lad of 15, my musical heroes were the English band The Yardbirds. Listening to their music now, I'm struck by how crude, how raw and almost unformed in structure it was.

Because retailers were beginning to realize the profitability of targeting the huge teen market, our city's largest department store (Dayton's) decided to hold a series of summer concerts in their auditorium. The third concert in the series was The Yardbirds, and my friends and I were giddy with anticipation. We purchased our tickets and waited for the Saturday afternoon concert.

The day came and when we traipsed through the housewares to the auditorium, we discovered that the show was sponsored by Yardley's of London- I suppose they thought that the crowd would be filled with screaming girls. Instead, it was about 90% young male guitarists. There was a local band opening, playing cover tunes from top 40 radio. A model/spokeswoman from Yardley gave a sales pitch to the bewildered crowd and handed out samples to the 40 or so girls present. Then the lights dimmed, the curtain opened and…

We were used to seeing bands with electric guitars, an amplifier for each, and a polite display by young men in suits. Jeff Beck, the lead guitarist, had mountains of amplifiers, a scruffy leather jacket, and was LOUD. Our minds were suitably blown.

Later on, of course, all rock music was loud, with feedback and distortion; it was played by toughs, and later still, by punks and even a few psychopaths. But The Yardbirds were the first.

We were a little disappointed, however, for the regular bass player had been replaced by some young upstart with the name of Jimmy Page.

Vintage Market

My home town had a "vintage market” last weekend, a chance for hoarders to prove how little their junk is actually worth.

It wasn’t all junk, of course, we did manage to snag a classic Navajo style rug, woven with regional wool, natural dyes, and in great shape for about a tenth of what it would have cost in Santa Fe.

I looked at a vintage Konica III film camera, absolutely beautiful and in working order and priced under $100. Not getting back into film now, however.

There were a surprising number of young people there, and even some cute kids (see image below.) A few vintage cars in need of painting were parked in the city parking lot, very interesting but, then again, I’m not getting into antique cars either. (See images below)

Chillin' with Phil and Maria

TWO Icelandic media events in ONE day!

Now that I am less than a month away from returning to Iceland, I find that the frequency of Icelandic references that impinge on my consciousness are increasing. Seeing as the temps here reached the high 80s yesterday some Icelandic chill was definitely appropriate.

I consider Phillip Roughton to be the top Icelandic to English translator alive.

The Icelandic Roots genealogy group sponsored a Zoom meeting with him yesterday concerning his translation of the Halldór Laxness novel Iceland’s Bell (Íslandsklukkan). I've been a a fan of Phil’s since I read it back in 2003 when it was first published and have followed his literary efforts ever since. The meeting was well attended with over 30 members from around the world, most of whom had actually read the book. Roughton had, in his navïeté, started this translation while still in college, only later to learn that some Icelandic scholars considered it to be untranslatable. Fortunately, he persevered (for 9 years!) and the world is a better place for his efforts. He was aware of my Laxness in Translation site (he called it “beautiful”!) after I gushed (like the fanboi that I am) over his efforts.

Maria Alva Roff is also a translator and is also old blog-pal of mine. We’ve interacted numerous times over the last 21 years and met in person several times, most recently in 2022. Yesterday I listened to a podcast she did with Anna Liebel in 2023 about “burn-out” in Icelandic society. The podcast takes a while to get going but by 10:00 one gets to the Icelandic portion. It is always a treat to hear Maria’s insights about Iceland.

The Letter

Twenty Years Ago on FITK

Long Prairie Minn
Nov 21st 1909

Dear Dauter Rose
After so long a time I will write you a few lines
would have written sooner but my fingers
ever so sore I couldent write verry well I
dident want to worry you you so I dident let
you know how bad they wer. one is
well and the other too are nearly healed
up havent lost a days work with them
although it was quite painful the first
to weeks but no one knew it but myself
I am thankful I still have my fingers
and me no one was to blame for me
getting them hurt.
I will tell you all about it when I
see you. Dear Rose dont worry about
us for we are all well and I wish
you wer. dont let any thing wrry you
and see if you cant get well and strong
again for it makes me sore at hart to
have you away and sick allthugh I
know you have a good place to
stay and the best of care and I
am verry thankful for it and I send
my best regards to those people who
took sutch good care of you.
what every you do dont work till you
get to tiard and if any thing comes
up to worry you dismiss it from your
mind as soon as possible. I think it
was horrid for anybody to write you
sutch letters as that one you sent to me and
if I would have got hold of it, it never
would have neen sent everything seames
to be all right now and I guess I have got
them streightened all right again I will
tell you all about it wen I see you and then
you will see how foolish the whole affair was
Lots of Love and the best of wishes,
Ever your Father
E.E. Cowdery

Written by my great-grandfather, transcribed by