Guð Blessi Ísland

Another fine, albeit breezy day. Picked up my Airwaves wristbands, my bike, and stopped in to Þjóðleikhúsið for my Saturday night theatre ticket:



I wouldn't dare miss a production with my favorite, usually half-naked, Icelandic Actor, Ólafur Darri Ólafsson:



My next stop was a riotously chaotic bookstore where I had a delightful chat with Sveitakall, seen here in all his glory:



We got to talking about a certain Icelandic author and we checked the shelves, but there wasn't anything I was really interested in. "Why don't you come with me, we'll go downstairs see if there is anything there..." We went through a back door and down an elevator, then down a hall with several identical doors. He opened the last door and behind it there was a room packed with shelves of "the good stuff." First editions, mostly in Icelandic, and much more. Still, the books on the shelves were not quite what I wanted. "I've got this box," he said, "there may be something in it..."



OMG!!!

After I regained my breath, we negotiated a fair price and I left the store with my treasures. Another swim 'n soak at the neighborhood pool, then a little web cam appearance for all my fans, a few minutes at Friða Frænka and some supper. I dined in early because I had seen a poster at the Háskóla Bíó for a movie I wanted to see and I'd read about:



It is a documentary about the Kreppa and last winter's protests and also about the lives of three of the people involved: a policeman, a trucker, and a witch. Not being able to understand Icelandic, I watched the movie at a certain distance, but the humanity of those involved was clear enough. The protest scenes were very intense, reminiscent of Haskell Wexler's Medium Cool. The evocative musical soundtrack was composed by Hilmar Örn Hilmarsson

Of course, this story isn't over yet, and may not be for a long time. As an outsider, I really can't comment too much on the film. I'll leave you with a link to an Icelandic blogger's reaction: Google translate is pretty sketchy in Icelandic, but the second paragraph is clear enough:

I wept
I wept when I watched about the police against protestors
I wept when Stulli and his wife had (a) Móment when he was going to Norway
I wept when Eva Hawke was to pack down (closing her shop)

Having met Eva once, and, having followed her blog, I almost wept myself.

Guð Blessi Ísland

Nótt og dag og nótt

Wednesday: rain. All day. Not exactly a deluge, but one could get quite wet with no trouble at all. There was a show at Faktorý (formerly Grand Rokk) in the evening, so I wandered out in my raincoat. As I strolled to the club I was tempted by the sight of this tableaux to get my own  Icelandic "souvenir:"


Reykjavík Ink, Tattoo Parlor

I have been in this club many times, but never when it felt so “tropical” (heat and humidity) as it did last night. I’ve been meaning to catch the techno/goth trio Samaris for some time (they don't tour much, being in high school) and was duly impressed by their spooky vibe:



It did rain off and on throughout the night but by Thursday morning the weather broke clear over the "hood":



I was out and about: the pool, Friða Frænka antiques, Nautholsvík, and, when it started to sprinkle again, I headed for the safety of Kríngland, the big shopping center. I was tempted by some sushi, but knew I would be going out to eat later tonight:



My destination—Dill! Not the herb (although there was plenty of that in the food) but the restaurant in the Alvar Aalto designed Nordic House in Reykjavík:





Seven courses of food and six courses of wine (plus a little Icelandic IPA thrown in.) This “warm potato salad” was nothing like my mother used to make:



Finally, two courses of dessert, including this delight “made with blueberries from Þingvellir”:



Of course.

The Gift

Fríða Frænka, an Antique Shop in the lower two floors of a house on Vesturgata, is a pleasantly over-stuffed collection of curios, furniture and household items.

The pack-rat genes that must be sharing my DNA have led me to this place every time I've been in Reykjavík. The mix of things here is more toward trash than treasure, but, like the shop's mythical namesake (Aunt Friða), it seems to be more of a celebration of the ordinary rather than the exalted.

Last Tuesday, while browsing through piles of broken and/or obsolete housewares, I wandered into a room that at one time had been the kitchen of the house. There on the pantry shelves was a pile of various fabrics: towels, cheap linens and out of fashion bolts of cloth. Being married to a weaver, I have absorbed some knowledge of textiles; when we travel together we inevitably end up in yarn stores and craft museums. Imagine my joy at finding an old Icelandic handwoven rug, with subtle hues from natural wools and organic dyes, a weft-faced weave done in a variety of traditional Scandinavian patterns. It was a bit dirty, had been mended at spots, and the colors on the face had faded somewhat; these flaws only added to its charm. Speaking with the shop's owner, Anna Ringsted, we discussed the piece, its possible origins, and negotiated its purchase.

The next day, on my bus ride to the airport, I noticed that the golden afternoon sunshine on the moss-covered lava formations had painted the whole panorama with the exact same colors as that rug, a rug which was now a gift to my wife, but not really from me. It was a gift from some long departed weaver, a gift of Iceland itself…