‘Brauchen Sie Vorhänge?’

... who can chose their own curtains?

I was standing by the counter at the charity shop, searching my bag for my money when someone tapped on my shoulder and said something I didn’t understand. I looked up at the lady shop assistant standing in front of me and replied: ‘Entschuldigen..?’ She repeated herself and held up a bundle of old bedding with an abstract floral pattern. I tried to explain that I was ok, had found all that I wanted, but she repeated herself again and spoke more slowly this time: ‘Vorhänge… Brauchen Sie Vorhänge?’ I saw her eyes flicker down at the rather odd assortment of clothes I was wearing that day and then back at my face and with a kind smile continued ‘…für Weihnachten.’ Now I understood. She was asking if I had any curtains and wanted to give me the fabric… for Christmas. I didn’t particularly want the fabric but it seemed simpler to accept than to start trying to explain something in German and her generosity and kindness was very moving. Besides, I can always find use for old fabric. I thanked her and opened my purse to pay for my other items, only to realise that I had less money on me than I thought. I checked my other purse and all my pockets but all I found were a few coins, not much more than 1. I looked at the lady apologetically and asked if she could keep the things for me while I popped to the bank for some cash, I would be back in a minute. Another knowing smile. It was of course no problem. When I returned and paid the 6 for my pullover and handbag she stuffed a bag full of tablecloths and odd pieces of fabrics and handed to me, all smiling and jolly. We both giggled and wished each other a happy Christmas and as I walked out with my bags, waving and thanking her once again, it occurred to me that her ‘Happy Christmas’ actually meant something. This young Turkish woman has probably made a few people’s Christmases at least a little bit happier.

The event reminded me of something that came up a little while ago in a discussion at dinner with our downstairs neighbours.
We were talking about how hard it is to make a living from acting, and art in general, and why it has to be like that, that someone working in business or banking earns so much more than artists, who often have to work for free and even support themselves with extra jobs to be able to do the work they want.
Why on earth there is such an imbalance between classes and why people accept that a football player can get more in a day than a teacher in a month is a whole other discussion I am not going to get into now.

However, the way I see it, is that we always have a choice. Whether it is fair or not, or makes sense to us, we know that there are certain jobs that pay more than others, and that in most cases the jobs that pay most have to do with business or commerce where there is a high stress level and little room for creativity and making mistakes. If we really want to make a lot of money, those are the kind of jobs we should be aiming for.
If on the other hand we want to work as artists we should know that we might spend a lot of time being broke.
Art is a necessary and vital, but it is also a privilege. Or at least I feel privileged to be able to have a job which I enjoy so much and where I can be so free. Like for many other people in my profession this sometimes means that I don’t get paid for my work and some people don’t think that is fair. But that is my choice. If I need or want something I can’t afford from working as an artist I might have to work on jobs I don’t enjoy as much for a while. It’s all a matter of value.
How many hours do I have to work in order to be able to buy a new coat that I really like, or a cup of coffee every morning, or a pint of beer every night, or a massage, or a subscription to the swimming pool, or a packet of cigarettes, or organic groceries, or a meal out, or a holiday abroad, or a dentists appointment, or quality time with my family and friends, or going to the theatre, or two weeks working on something I find exciting and interesting?

So instead of being fixated on the things we can’t have or afford, look at it this way. You can spend all your time working for money to buy things, or you can spend that same money on time to do the things that you want.
I think it’s important for us to remember that there is nothing that says that we should be able to have all of those things at once. Chose. And be grateful because not everyone is given the luxury of this choice.

‘Oh, so you knew each other before you came to Berlin?’

I admit it is not something I imagined would happen, or that I thought it would be a particularly good idea to live with someone you had been practically married to. And I realise that for the people that shuddered at the thought of having enormous posters of an ex-boyfriend all over town this might sound pretty awful.
I’m not going to go into how it came about that we both happened to be in Berlin in the same time or why we ended up sharing a flat. It wasn’t planned. But here we are. Víkingur and Eva. Sharing two rooms and a kitchen with a bathtub.

We sometimes get funny looks or raised eyebrows when we meet people here and it comes out that, yes we did know each other back in Iceland. In fact, we used to be a couple… for four and a half years actually… but broke up a year and a half ago and now are just good friends and flatmates.

‘ahaaaa… I see’
wink wink and a smirk, even a little nod.
Are you thinking what they are thinking?

In many ways I think this is the perfect living arrangement.
We know each other inside out, have done it all before and we know each other’s habits, peculiarities and insecurities. We have run into our conflicts and know how to avoid them or work with them. We had a long enough time together to have developed a liking for a lot of the same things. We are a bit like an old couple like that, with our ways and rutines and roles.
Víkingur sleeps in the living room where we both also work during the day. I sleep in the bedroom where be both keep our clothes. When we go to bed we can chat through the half open door. In the morning we wake each other up and eat breakfast together. If we feel like a cuddle or snuggle we can have that too and I admit it is very nice to be able to do that sometimes. But that is all it is and neither of us tries to turn it into anything else. If we were not over the sexual tension or excitement or curiosity, that often comes up between flatmates or close friends I don’t know if this would be possible.

Of course it is funny in some ways and I know it is unusual. Like sitting and talking on skype with webcams to my mother, or to Víkingur’s children and ex-wife.
But to be absoluely honest, it really does feel like the most natural thing in the world. It's great!
And why shouldn’t it work out when we had a great relationship that worked out for almost five years? We were the closest friends then, and we still can be now, just in a different way.

And if we want to have lovers?
Well, it might be better if we hang out at their place anyway…

how does it make you feel?

I was sitting in the Berlin underground, or the U-Bahn, with my new friend and co-worker, Jing, on our way to a cheap fabric outlet in Spandau. We had been lucky enough to get seats and a few people were standing. Sitting across the isle from me was a lady. I guessed she was in her 60’s, although her clothes; leggings, a purple bomber jacket and furry boots, might have looked more in place on a slightly younger person. She was a little plump round her hips with blond hair that she wore up and a weary. She wore no make up. Suddenly, a man, obviously not of German origin, started playing a violin in one of the isles, close to where we were sitting. He played beautifully and almost everyone started reaching into their pockets and purses before he had even finished a song. When he walked around with a little paper cup collecting contributions from us, most people smiled and some had even applauded. Although the lady opposite didn’t look like she didn’t have a lot of money she gave some to the violinist and thanked him dearly, taking his hands in hers. Her face had brightened up when she smiled and I noticed how pretty she actually was, and cold imagine how she had once been very beautiful. When the busker had finished collecting, she signalled to him, asking him to play more, which he did. At the next stop he got off and again a few people applauded. As the doors closed, blocking out the sound of the man tuning is violin on the platform, I looked around the carriage to find it full of smiling faces, a much warmer atmosphere than I am used to on public transport.

I had just looked away from one of these smiling faces when another young man came down the isle, stopped by where we sat and started addressing us. I was trying to explain that I didn’t understand, my German not being very good, when the lady opposite, still smiling and staring dreamily at a distant point, interrupted. A few more women sitting around us joined into what became a somewhat heated discussion, which I also didn’t understand very well. What Jing and I got from it was that the ladies were asking him why he wasn’t working and explaining to him that they had to work hard for their money and why should they give it to him. The man argued a little and then got off at the next stop. No one had given him anything and the atmosphere had suddenly shifted. There was an embarrassed air in the cabin and most of us went back to the normal procedure of avoiding eye contact.

not flirting, just friendly..

I have been told that I flirt. That I am a flirt. I’m not by any means trying to imply that I don´t. Anyone who knows me would laugh at me if I even tried, apparently I have been practicing this activity as long as any of my family members can remember as my grandmother is happy to tell anyone who is willing to listen.
In fact I like flirting and I will even go so far as to claim that without it life would be just a little bit less fun and am certain that many situations can be improved by a little flirting.

On the other hand, sometimes I don’t think I am flirting and then people still claim that I am. I am not sure what to make of this. I really don’t think I am so unaware of my behaviour that I do it constantly without even realising.
Come to think of it, what is the definition of flirting anyway?

flirt v
1. vi to behave in a playfully alluring way
2. vt to flick or jerk something

n
somebody who behaves in a playfully alluring way

Encarta® World English Dictionary © 1999 Microsoft Corporation. All rights reserved. Developed for Microsoft by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc.

Aha. Playful. This must be the key-word. So. What if I am behaving playfully but not in an alluring, but in fact a friendly way? When does playfulness cross the line and become flirting? I could argue that just being playful always has a certain allure to it and is by that definition always flirting. Another possibility is that the presence of allure part can be determined by the 2^nd or even 3^rd party and is therefore always a matter of interpretation, even an imagined factor.

‘Allure is in the eye of the beholder’?

I think in fact that simply being playful and nice can often be mistaken for flirting because if you are nice to the people you meet they are generally more inclined to liking you, and are also more like the conclusion that you might like them in turn. Often they will be right in assuming so, although the nature of this liking might not be clear at this point. I can recall more than one occasion where I hoped and even assumed that someone was flirting with me when in fact, they were just interested and enthusiastic about whatever we might have been discussing.

Does this indicate that if some people’s mischievous eagerness, or even just honest friendliness is commonly mistaken for flirting that perhaps people in general are not friendly enough,. On the other hand some people might argue that I, or anyone else who is subject to frequent accusations of flirting, should reduce their friendly- and or playfulness to avoid these kinds of misunderstandings.

A third option, and probably the most realistic one, is to accept that flirting will always be subject to interpretations and therefore misunderstandings and if we can’t beat it, we might as well try and learn how to deal with it.

Venice, boredom and being in love.

When I wake up in Venice and open my eyes I look up at the most beautiful ceiling I have ever seen. It is so high, that one could easily fit another door above the one we have already. I am sleeping in the living room of a flat, a few hundred years old, beautifully decorated and right in the centre. It is owned by a Venetian family but is presently being rented by Ittai who is staying in Venice for a few months to read art history for his PhD dissertation and was kind enough to let Amelia and myself stay with him during our visit here.
Venice has been interesting. Nice. Slow. I spent the first days with Amelia looking at contemporary art at the biennale and strolling around the city. The loudness off my footsteps on the stoned pavements has never felt more appropriate. The city is like a maze, lots of tiny little allies often leading you to a dead end or a canal so you have to turn around again. Everything is old and everything is beautiful; the churches, canals, the boats and little bridges. There are no cars too, which is wonderful.

I must admit though that I have a slight problem with Venice, and that is the tourism. Even now, off-season, when there are actually not so many tourists the city is still a tourist city. If you are not into expensive designer clothes, souvenirs, ‘art’ galleries/shops, delicatessens, restaurants and being taken around on gondolas I find that you quickly run out of things to do and explore. If there was a little treasure, a little church, local café or curiosity shop, it has surely been discovered by droves of people before you and is catering for the masses already.
Of course it is contradictory and even hypocritical to complain about tourists when that is exactly what I am myself. But I think you know what I mean, the feeling that whatever I choose to do, someone else will have decided what it is that I am going to experience.
In a way it feels like I have been spending the last 3 days walking around a museum, and even if it is incredibly beautiful and interesting I’m quite ready to go and get on with my life.
Yesterday Ittai took me over to another smaller island of Venice called Giadecca. It was quite refreshing. It’s the old industrial area, now more residential it seems with newer buildings and few tourists. Still very charming and beautiful but in a different way, less romantic somehow and more alive.
But on the whole, and maybe a little ironically, the best thing about my stay here has been to see and spend time with Amelia and Ittai and to look at the biennale. It’s really great to see such a wide range of contemporary art from all around the world, some of which was really excellent. So interesting, thought invoking and wonderfully inspiring. Just what I wanted before I go to Berlin and finally start making my own stuff again. Perfect!

Today I have decided to stay at home for most of the day and work. Possibly I will make soup.

Oh, and one more thing.
I realised yesterday that exactly one year ago I was in Pula in Croatia with Gagi. Most people who know me will know the story, we had met 2 months prior to that when I was in Belgrade and not seen since. When we decided to meet again in I was a bit nervous. 5 days can be a long time if it is not a good time. Luckily it was.
5 days in Pula. 5 days in Venice.
I find it interesting to compare the two experiences.
Pula is also a small city with a lot of old beautiful buildings and although it is not as touristy as Venice, there is perhaps not an awful lot to do at this time of year other than to walk around, stop for a coffee or a bite to eat and go early to bed. And although I have actually been to see a lot more while I’ve been here and had a good time my with afore mentioned companions here, I also admit that I have had to make more of an effort not to get bored in-between.
I don’t remember ever being bored in Pula. Most of the time we just walked or lay around and looked and talked and if we had nothing to interesting say or to look at we could just cuddle and kiss or gaze into one another’s eyes which can be an endlessly exciting activity when you are as infatuated aswe were.
I’m by no means suggesting that being with a lover is the only way not to get bored but it is definitely a great antibody when there is not much else to do.
And isn’t boredom the worst thing, many people’s idea of hell even; the eternal waiting room.
Is this perhaps one of the main reasons why falling in love is such desirable thing, because of the simple fact that it is guaranteed to prevent boredom in any situation?

Happy New Year!

It was my first time celebrating Halloween, and thanks to StrangeWorks it was incredible! A procession of spirits marching the streets of London with lanterns, masks and giant puppets, chanting and singing to live music and the toll of the bell summoning out the dead. Afterwards soup was served and friends were united in a frenzy of dancing to wild gypsy music. (more pics from the parade can be viewed at the magick's website here)
I have found out, and you may know this, that the festival originates from the Irish festival Samahin, the end of summer, sometimes considered the Gaelic new-year. There was also a belief that this night the boundaries between the worlds of the dead and living were broken, allowing the deceased back to earth, and to ward against their evil it was tradition to light large communal bonfires. This is reminiscent of the Icelandic New Years Eve at the end of December when the ghostly elves of our country, almost equally feared as trolls, would move their dwellings and roam around the countryside. Then, like on the night of Irish new-year, it is an old, established tradition to light bonfires that burn into the new-year. I like to draw this parallel because in a discussion with a friend recently we concluded that Halloween, or All-Hallow-Even, is really the best and most appropriate time to celebrate new-year. This time of year always seems to be a much bigger turning point in my life, and society in general than the new-year we celebrate usually. I therefore have started a new year as of last Thursday.
And that day I had a slightly odd experience where I found myself walking alone through Hackney for half an hour dressed in a dirty and torn costume from the night before. A lone bride in a pale blue wedding dress with a flowing full-length skirt and a giant lace turban garnished with a big white flower. What was special about it though was that in a way it seemed to me to bring together the myths of the Icelandic and Irish new-years-eves, the traditionally blue-clad elven lady of the Icelandic fairy-tales, wearing what was slightly reminiscent of an Icelandic traditional costume, exept not so glamorous, more like homeless dead of Ireland, lost between worlds. In fact I felt almost invisible at times and if it hadn’t been for the stares and grins I met on my way I might even have believed that I was.
In the end it was a relief to get back to where I had started the evening and to change into my normal clothes, although I cannot deny that I also felt a slight sadness, or regret for leaving the magical space I seemed to have stumbled into for a little while.

Arsehole!

Here is one interesting fact.
In the Icelandic language, like in most other languages, we have a word for the part of the body called arse. In most cultures, and please tell me if I am wrong, this word, like so many other words describing body parts in close vicinity to the arse, is commonly used in a derogatory way about people, even as a swearword. In Iceland however, if you call someone an arse ‘rass’, it is not in the least rude. In fact it is quite a nice thing to say and means that the person being addressed is kind of cute and cheeky. You may even pull a little face and use a special tone of voice to underline how cute the subject really is. If that individual is so incredibly cute and irresistible that even changing the tone of your voice is not enough to express your feelings of appreciation, adoration even, you may have to upgrade to the word ‘rassgat’; arsehole. Calling someone an arsehole, using the special tone and even pinching their cheek will really give a clear message about how incredibly cute you think they are, although in most cases they probably wouldn’t understand you, because the people most frequently called arseholes are in fact babies. If it is an especially cute baby, you may even refer to it as a ‘rúsínurassgat’, a raisin-arsehole, and, if that still doesn’t quite do it, ‘rúsínurassgatabolla’ is the word for you and means raisin-arsehole-bun (bun being a sweet doughnut like pastry).
Yes, in Iceland all babies are arseholes.

Coincidences?

Have you had things happen to you that just seem like they can’t possibly be a coincidence?
I’m pretty sure you have.
As it happens I am not one to believe in fate, or a particular higher meaning to our being for that matter. I’ve kind of been leaning towards the belief that everything is more or less coincidental, and that it is up to us to make the best of and give meaning to what we have and what happens to us. Be optimistic and make it special.
But sometimes things happen that just make me wonder. And there has been an awful lot of funny coincidences of late.
Maybe it started in Minneapolis. Maybe it started before. I’m not sure.
I had been in Minneapolis for a week and was invited to a dinner party. There I met many nice people and talked to a very nice and cute guy. Afterwards he cycled me home and we swapped numbers. Promising! Two days later my brother drove me to a thrift store to do some work-shopping. It was 9am on a Tuesday and hardly anyone there. But as I walk into the shop, which was not small by any means or definition, the first thing I see is the cute guy from the dinner. Wow, I thought, what a great beginning, this must mean something! As it turned out a few days he already had a lady friend and nothing ever happened between us except that we bumped into each other by chance 2 times after that and had friendly chats. I thought no more of it.

Until now. Last Wednesday my disbelief in destiny was as challenged as it will ever be until I actually change my mind and start believing in it.

Half a year ago, when I was still in London, I met a different guy. That was a completely different ‘meeting’, maybe most intense and magical I have ever experienced in such a short time. It was like a weekend of fireworks, except much more fun than fireworks and not quite as many loud bangs or children running around with glow-sticks and shouting. After the weekend he left the country and we continued expressing our adoration for each other with great intensity through email, for a week. When, completely unexpectedly the affair came to an end, as suddenly as it had begun. Complete silence until I finally received a letter explaining and apologising in the most beautiful and sympathetic way. That was that.
As it happens this man lives in Copenhagen. So when I was going there I couldn’t help thinking of him, and, despite not having heard from him at all for almost 6 months, I sent him a letter telling him I would be coming and whether he would like to meet. I was almost surprised to receive a reply saying that he would love to.
So I wrote back suggesting a day to meet but on my arrival in Copenahagen I still hadn’t heard back from him and wandered whether I should be taking ‘Lonesome Town’ on the train as a warning. I arrived around lunch and after settling in and having a shower and a bit to eat I decided to walk into town where I was meeting a friend later. As I strolled down the street towards the centre I wondered what he was doing and whether I should try to call him in the evening or just leave it, when suddenly there he was. On a bicycle, stationary at the red light by the zebra crossing I was about to cross. I couldn’t even speak. I just walked on and stared at him in disbelief until he looked my way and our eyes met. It is too corny to say that for a moment it felt like time stood still. Suddenly he was off his bike, on the sidewalk and as we let go our embrace we stood opposite each other, still holding hands, our eyes fixed on each other, smiling, sparkling, amazed. It was the most wonderfully bizarre moment. We both had so many things we wanted to talk about and tell each other but were both on our way somewhere so we decided I would call him in the evening and we would meet the next day. As I walked away I wondered if I had perhaps imagined the whole thing. What are the odds in a city of millions that I would run into him, and within 4 hours of my arrival?! Can you imagine my relief when he actually picked up the phone in the evening and suggested he come and meet me at where I was staying and we go for brunch somewhere.

Can you blame me if for a moment or two I forgot about my ‘no such thing as destiny’ rule and thought that this was two crazy to be a coincidence?

I have rarely felt as disappointed and stupid as the next day, when I had waited for 3 hours and finally tried to call him. The last thing I heard from him was his voice on his answering machine announcing to me that he was unable to pick up the phone but that I could leave a message. I did not.
I guess I’m back to ‘there is no such thing’, although, just because this wasn’t the magical twist of fate that changed my life forever, you can never be sure about the laws of the universe.

And not to end this on a melancholy note and to prove that I am the master of the universe when it comes to running into people in the most unlikely situations, here is a funny ending.
Last night I was at the supermarket doing last minute shopping for the farewell dinner. I was crouched down in an isle in Irma, the rather expensive supermarket but the only one still open at that hour, when suddenly I hear a man speak my voice. I look up and there is Rune who I have only met in London a few times because am friends with and used to live with his girlfriend, Lina. It turns out that he doesn’t live in the neighbourhood, not even close, but was there by some off chance and thought he would do a little shopping on his way home.
So we had an extra guest for our lovely little dinner where we ate so much lovely food that I am now grateful that we fucked up the muffins we were also trying to make. If I would have eaten them too I would still not be able to move.

By the way, I have just arrived in London!

mystery

Louisiana was out today. Never happened. Wearing pyjamas all day, having ugly hair and playing cards was most definitely in. I love it. Tomorrow however I am going to get dressed in the morning and go out and see something before we have a farewell dinner in the evening and I have to leave again. I wonder if there is any kind of limit to how many farewell dinners / parties you can have in one year?!
The other day I discovered a most curious thing. I went out running one morning when Katrín and Jens were already at work and nobody in the flat. When I came back and opened the door, the flat was in a mess, floor covered in white dust and a drilling noise further inside. I obviously got a shock at seeing that the flat had been transformed into a building site in my short absence and was starting to question my sanity when I suddenly realised that I had in fact walked into the flat on the floor below. Apparently, and of course nobody knew this, the key from the flat here also fits for the one below. We have been speculating how this could have happened and what should be done. It is of course an incredible opportunity for all kinds of practical jokes, which could be funny, but also not a good idea at all. I must admit I love the idea of going down there before anyone shows up and setting up a perfect little picnic on a checkered table cloth in the middle of the floor. A clean little island in the middle of a big mess, and then to see how the people would react when they showed up. Or maybe something just a little bit more subtle to begin with. Or maybe it is not cute at all and just creepy and good that I am actually leaving so I can’t actually do these things and get myself into trouble.
The craziest thing is that nobody knows how long it has been like this. And that if they hadn’t had such an absent-minded visitor who can’t recognise anything, nobody might have known for a hundred years.
What to do about the situation remains unresolved.
Have you tried your keys to the other doors in your house or neighbourhood?

ps. i love it when you comment but would love it even more if you would leave your name, or a hint at least which could be even more exciting!

Copenhagen continues..

Katrín and Jens are such lovely people to stay with and hang out with, as is Kristín, and all the other people I have had the pleasure to meet here.
Copenhagen was definitely a good idea.
All the people here are super trendy and good looking. The city itself is beautiful, the shops are beautiful and everyone has beautiful bikes and lives in beautiful flats. Well maybe not everyone, but everyone I visit.
Since arriving I think I might have broken an eating record, possibly a drinking record also. I have had so much fun and discovered, to mine and other’s surprise, that I can actually speak Danish much better than anyone knew and have spoken little else all day. Hurray for that!
Yesterday we went to a gig with a Brazilian electro-band. It was great but had a strange mix of an audience; amongst others a group of Icelandic teenagers who I wondered for a second if might be the same ones I encountered at the airport. After the band finished we hurried out to go to another party which was a good thing because today we heard that after we left the first place a gun-shooting broke out between some drug-dealers and security and a number of people got arrested. The evening was definitely better spent at the Film-Skolen party which was full of good looking men and where we danced so much and in such a wild manor that we believe people were beginning to give us funny looks.
We have now spent all day playing cards, eating and laughing and are waiting for sushi to be delivered to us and then to play more games. The problem is that we have no board games so now two people are working hard on their respective laptops trying to find and download Pictionary. The inter net is so incredible and doesn’t cease to amaze me. Only the other day I was trying to convince my friend that kiwi fruit really was manmade, quite obviously a splice of a strawberry and banana. Everybody I had discussed this with before was as ready to believe this as I was, even surprised that it had never occurred to us before and it has also led onto other interesting discussions such as whether a peanut is a potato and an almond a seed. I was trying hard to remember what broccoli was made out of when the doubtful friend had picked up his computer, entered wikipedia and found absolutely no evidence that the human race had anything to do with the invention of either kiwis not broccoli. This was of course a great disappointment and came as quite a shock as I have spent a lot of time lately educating people of these important facts.
This of course has very little to do with my stay in Copenhagen.
Tomorrow we are going to visit the Louisiana Art Museum which I was last in about 10 years, and then not by choice or out of particular interest. We will take the train and have a picnic. I look very much forward!

Copenhagen

A group of teenagers loudly speculate whether there are metal detectors and drug-dogs on the way into Copenhagen. I can't imagine there is blooming business in smuggling drugs and weapons from Iceland to Denmark. But then, what do i know.
The cue slowly moves slowly past me and I should probably stand up and close my laptop so I can get onto the plane too. There is no internet here though so even if I am writing this during my last moments on Icelandic soil (if you can call the floor of an airport soil) this will not reach your eyes till I am off the plane again and in Denmark.
I was asked if i wanted a seat by the isle or window. They never ask you if you want a middle seat. I chose a window seat, the only free on was in the last seating row. The lady thought there was a good chance I might have the entire row to myself, apparently it is the least popular row.. perhaps it will now be my most favorite row. The cue is still long but moving more quickly. I will finish this later today,

Maybe it is my new favourite row. I didn't get three seats to myself, the plain was completely full. But I did sleep the entire way apart from about 10 mins at take off and landing and didn't even get pins and needles.

On my walk from the airplane to baggage reclaim I walked through one of the round turning glass door thing and was in a 'compartment' with two teenage boys, possibly part of the smuggling speculating group. As we walked through they said something rude in Icelandic assuming I didn't understand. You should have seen their faces when they realised that they did. I think every Icelander that has gone to Denmark is familiar with this and has learnt very quickly to be more careful.

On the train from the airport I turn on my i-pod, which is set on shuffle and wait for a song to set the tune of my stay in Denmark. As the people around me struggle with getting there luggage on and into place I sit in the corner of the isle listening to 'Lonesome Town' made famous by Pulp Fiction, a song about broken hearts – streets filled with regret and wanting to forget.
I sit and wonder whether I should be reading something into this, a mere coincidence or is this song telling me shat to expect of my Copenhagen experience. Luckily I don't read to much into incidences like this but obviously it makes me think..
The next song isn't much more cheerful.. although one of my favourite songs. Madeleine Peyroux sings 'Between the Bars'.. 'people you've been before that you don't want around anymore, that push, shove, won't bend to your will..

I'm not superstitious enough to believe that my stay here will be anything but wonderful however. In fact it is already! I spent a wonderful day with two old friends and one new. It's great to be here and I'm going tomorrow.
Tomorrow might change my life.
Magick is everywhere!
Pedestrian traffic in Copenhagen is not like in London. I was told off for crossing the street on a red light. I will not do it again!

limbo bimbo

I have found myself doing the most unusual jobs of late. During the day I sometimes go with my mum to work at her office. There I do various little jobs that have been left out over the last months and nobody has the time to do. Like filing info and data, organising files.. little things that take time and organisation but not much energy. If I knew I would be doing this every day for a year it might be tiring but at the moment it’s perfect. In fact, it’s exactly what I need.
The thing is, I’ve been in a rather strange state of being of late. The last year was so crammed with things happening and I didn’t stop.. until now. A month has passed since I finished Idigaragua and left Minneapolis and I feel like I haven’t done anything. Of course that’s not quite true. I’ve been spending most of my time moving and settling into my flat, which is also kind of strange because I’ll be leaving in a few days time. I’ve had time to see friends, for swimming, sleeping, yoga in the mornings, cooking, writing, going out, hiking.. It’s all great but still something is missing. My work.
A song makes me cry and I don’t know why.. I check what it is.. the title is ‘blue’. I’m blue? I’m not blue? I have no reason to be blue.. but I can’t help being a little bit.
It doesn’t bother me that I don’t quite know where I’m going with my work.. or with my life for that matter. In fact I don’t even want to know. Just as long as I’m being creative and doing something I enjoy and learn from. Right now I feel like I’m in a state of still and limp, floating for a little while.
So being the little funny looking office elf is pretty good right now. It’s easy, I feel at least a little bit useful, the people there are very nice and I earn some money.

The other job that suddenly came up is very different. Iceland Airwaves music festival is in full swing. It’s great. Reykjavík is a buzz with all kinds of bands, from all over the place, playing everywhere, all the time. I run around town trying to catch as much as possible, hoping to discover an audio treasure or to be at least a little bit blown away. Until 11pm. Then I am picked up by a bus driver – we drive to the airport where I hold up a sign and wait to greet arriving bands, giving them a warm welcome and making sure they arrive safely at their respective hotels.
An unexpected addition to my first experience of Airwaves and definitely has made it more interesting!

different kinds of swimming

There is the type of swimming where you simply run out, strip down and take a large swig of cognac before diving headfirst into the lake where your grandfather lays his nets for trout and on which your mother used to go ice-skating in winter as a child. You swim out a bit and swaddle around in the shallow water, skin tightening into goose bumps as the various slimy unidentified plants caress your belly. Then stand up, sinking into the mud up to your knees, shivering; partly from the cold water, partly from exhilaration, and you scramble out to find your towel and pick off the odd leach that accompanied you onto the yellow grass banks.

There is also horseback swimming. When you stop your horse in the middle of the river and try to get him to change directions and follow the other riders instead of the herd, which has gone slightly off track. Your horse is reluctant and confused and starts breathing vigorously through his nostrils, spinning in circles and rearing until you ease off the reins and let him go his way. He follows the herd, dragging your legs through the water as he wades/swims across and then sinks into the muddy shore battling his way onto more solid ground until he stands panting on the other side with you mildly shivering but still safe on his back.

Then there is the type of swimming where you do your lengths in the swimming pool, stopping occasionally for a person to cross your lane, a sip of water or to wipe the fog from the inside of your goggles. Meanwhile a large group of elderly ladies (and a few lucky gentlemen) do their morning exercises in the shallow end, swaying and bending in slow motion to the rhythm of the water and the all-male choir echoing from the tall speakers the soothing melodies of their youth. As you walk back to the dressing rooms in the chill morning air, you look back and are overcome by a warm sensation at seeing them join hands in a big circle and dance, smiling and waving good bye to their instructor as he slowly disappears into the mist from the warm water.

yes
i like swimming

back in town..

After the valley of puppets and other strange beings I went to pay my family farm, Sjávarborg, a long overdue visit. It was a crazy weekend of many parties, all surrounding Laufskálarétt, the biggest annual horse-gathering of this country. There people in riding pants and woollen jumpers herd the horses into a stone fence and then battle them with all their might into the correct pens. For those of us who were too scared to jump in with the running steeds and take part in the action it was enough fun to sit on the walls around and watch and then walk around, have a sip of something with a friend or enjoy a bit of snus (dark brown tobacco powder that you suck into your nose and makes your bogeys black for the next 24 hours).
What a great weekend. I think my wonderful and beautiful cousin Silja and I must have broken some sort of laughing record..
None the less it’s nice to be back in Reykjavik for a little while and see all the wonderful friends who are busy studying and working and (most of all it seems these days) increasing the population of the world!
And I can’t deny that it’s nice to be back in my own flat moving furniture and carrying boxes once again. Not that I wasn’t happy staying with all you lovely people that have been generously putting me up for the last few months, or that I don’t look forward to the various couches and beds of the near future but it is nice anyway, you know what I mean, to have my own space for a little while. The last time I lived in this flat it was with my ex-boyfriend and very dear friend Víkingur who is now temporarily living in Berlin. He must have anticipated how much I would miss his presence and was considerate enough to leave the city covered in enormous posters of himself accompanied by a rather confused looking cow. And just in case I'm staying on a farm or don’t leave the house one day, no need to despair for I can be most certain to find him in any newspaper I might happen to leaf through.. and if there are no newspapers..? He thought of that one too, all i have to do is turn on the television and wait for the next advertisement break. I even went with my cousin to the gym in the morning and there he was, the first thing I saw as I walked into the exercise hall – right above the mirror behind the treadmills; his face, covering almost the enire wall and watching over me as i did my workout. Kind of weird I must say, but also kind of nice. I am just very very grateful that he is such a great person.. I can imagine how it could be not so amusing to have enormous pictures of your ex everywhere!
phew! (or sjúkkett! as we would say in the mother tongue)

Copenhagen, here I co... umm.. go.. ?
(the space in front of the question mark is sponsored by Katrín Rut)

Are you kidding? I was so thrilled about the special offers from Iceland Express and was all set to get my one way to Copenhagen.. ready steady go.. couldn’t have gotten it much cheaper! I was considerably less thrilled a few days later when I had a look at the ticket and realised that the flight I had booked was from Copenhagen to Iceland. How this happened, I don’t know but I definitely didn’t feel like the sharpest knife in the drawer when I called to change the flight which doubled in price of course.
But hey, at least I realised before check in.. and I have it doublechecked.. I fly to Copenhagen on the 24^th of October and stop over for about 5-6 days before carrying on my journey to London.

Iceland 103, beginners course

For the first time in a while I am feeling a bit crap.. cold, tired, stiff, uninspired. It’s nothing to worry about.. no need to call out the special rescue cheer-you-up squad or anything. Probably it’s just a little come down from the weekend which had, as opposed to my current state of drowsy- mopey- and heavy-headed-ness, more joy and surprises than an overflowing bowl of Lucky Charms topped with a sprinkle of Cocoa Puffs.

Saturday. Like so many mornings of late I was gently woken up by my bladder (this is becoming more reliable than any alarm clock I’ve ever used.. is it an age thing?). The plan for the day was to go and look for the leftover sheep from the sheep-gathering the weekend before. Helga and I were sent walking up one mountain while the guys went down the valley. It was a nice hike up, not very far and we were lucky with weather. We followed the snowline and looked for sheep-trails. We found all kinds of footsteps in the snow and analyzed them thoroughly, wondering whether they could have been left by sheep, and if so, how long ago. Usually the conclusion was that they had been left by a fox, a mink and in one case I suspect it might even have been a bird. Whether it was because of our rather poor footstep analyzing skills or just because there were no sheep on that part of the mountain that we came back empty handed I will probably never know. I was a great walk none the less, the feeling when you sit in the autumn sun on the edge of a cliff, the din of a waterfall rushing to your side, look over a valley out to the sea and eat a jam sandwich..

Sunday. After a breakfast of apple pancakes and coffee I called Helga and Oliver to see what they were up to. They said they were feeling kind of lazy.. Now, normally I would have expected people to continue such a statement with talk of snuggling on couches, watching films, or playing cards. Not this time! In this case kind of lazy was followed by.. so we were just thinking of hiking up to this little mountain lake, and then maybe go to the swimming pool afterwards. I wasn’t feeling that lazy at all and was all invigorated by the previous day’s mini-hike so I decided to join the expedition despite a bit of a wind and a drizzle. We geared up in woollen underwear, fleece and gore-tex, put some hot chocolate and 80% stroh in the thermos and headed off. As we proceeded onwards and upwards the weather didn’t exactly improve.. and I soon found out that my borrowed gear (although pretty good stuff) was not entirely waterproof. This was not a problem however and we were all pretty warm and having a good time. Comments such as ‘this is definitely refreshing’, ‘I don’t mind being a little bit wet at all’ and ‘this is much more pleasant than I expected’ were made at this point in the trip. We filled our water bottle in a little mountain creek and the rain then really started kicking in (probably triggered by Oliver’s comment that it had almost stopped raining) The conversation that started with ‘imagine, people used to walk through this kind of weather all the time.. just to go to church, and they didn’t have gore-tex!’ went on to ‘of course, people used to die of exposure all the time back then’. Later, there was definitely a moment, when the volume of wind had tied an end to all unnecessary conversation, that we looked at each other and everyone was thinking something along the lines of ‘this lake really can’t be that spectacular’. This moment was followed by the ‘ok, lets just check behind that rise..’. At the next stop we all agreed that we were too close for turning around even to be an option any more.. As we started the final battle through a surprisingly deep layer of snow, with (what felt like) needles piercing our cheeks, we also agreed that we really understood why so many names in the Icelandic countryside included words such as ‘terror’, ‘cold’ and ‘hell’. I thought about the Kate Bush’s Wuthering Heights.

Before you start thinking that this was in any way not enjoyable I must add that I have rarely before felt so empowered and strong. It was an amazing feeling to know that what I was experiencing wasn’t half as bad as I knew it would sound when I described it. There is something so great about the feeling that the only way to make sure you don’t get cold and start feeling bad is to actually keep going.. pressing pause is not an option. Every time it crossed my mind that maybe we should turn round I was so relieved and happy when nobody suggested it and we did indeed carry on.
We spent a few moments in the shelter of a big rock, resting our legs and warming our stomachs with the delicious Stroh infused cocoa soup Oliver had mistaken for hot chocolate powder. Strengthened by the refreshment we walked the last metres to the lake, stood by it and looked for a few moments and then and turned around, running down the mountain side, jumping, sliding in the wet snow and the feeling was nothing less than fantastic. Then sploshing into the wetland, knowing that there was anyway as much water inside our shoes as on the outside until we were warm and slowed down. I promise that the rain and wind has never felt so pleasant on my skin!

I could write about the other things that happened but I don’t think anyone should spend that long reading one persons blog.. in fact most people have probably either stopped reading by now or worse even.. been completely scared off and not even ventured to begin. So if you have lasted this far, here follows your reward.

When Oliver was 13 years old his Christmas present to his father was a red striped woollen condom that he knitted himself. He even knitted a label that was attached to it and said GLEÐILEG JÓL (Happy Christmas). I don’t know how much the condom has come into use but as no younger siblings have been born since I can only assume that it serves its purpose well enough. The label has also been a success in serving his father as the perfect example of dyslexia as Oliver knitted the J the wrong way round.

I award Oliver the prize in the category for the BEST CRISTMAS PRESENT EVER!
If you know of anything that surpasses this, i would love to hear about it!

farmlife

As I ran in the still half-dusk it felt like my tears froze on my cheeks as Jeremey’s special edition i-pod shuffle running mix compelled further towards the glacier.

Work has been a bit slow. Both me and Bernd the puppeteer seem to be more in need of inspiration and soulfood than diving into a project. I want to swim, climb, ride, surf, go to a concert, go for a walk, run, do yoga, paint, write, cook.. I also want to work on this project but we have decided not to force it too much and ease into it whilst feeding our souls in other ways too. And so I feel it starts happening.. It´s all there.. This chapter is becoming dated as I write it!

I went swimming in the rain and was the only person in the swimming pool the whole time.. these are the pleasures of staying in small towns in Iceland. I practiced my crawl and holding my breath underwater. Crawl is slowly improving but I can still not go too far without air. I am preparing for whatever might happen. Better to be able to stay underwater for a little while and then swim away quickly!

Yesterday the weather was beautiful. After lunch we were on our way back to work when Magdalena arrived unexpectedly. She had ridden over the mountain from the next valley to try to persuade us to come riding. She succeeded and it was the best thing ever. I haven’t been on horseback since I was here over a year ago and I can’t describe how happy it made me feel. There is something so incredibly wonderful about riding, especially in a countryside like this; white mountain tops illuminated by the sun.. autumn colours fading to brown.. waterfalls.. a chill wind. I took my camera along but forgot about it as soon as I mounted my trusty steed, Vinur (Friend). No pictures from that trip I’m afraid.

I have started and restarted writing and rewriting the accounts of my stay in Minneapolis. It is ridiculously hard! I spent over an hour the other night playing the music to Bernd, showing him the (shockingly few) pictures I have and trying to explain everything. It was hard to do it justice, so I guess it is not surprising that trying to write it down makes it feel contrived and insufficient. I have written a page and it still doesn’t begin to describe what happened. I will just have to tell you in person if you really want to know. Otherwise..
I went to Minneapolis and had an incredibly wonderful experience, designed a show which went super well, made friends for life and am sure I will return. And for those who were there and made it happen, THANK YOU!

I was just thinking about how strange and distorted time has become. I don’t believe that there’s less than 3 months since I left London.. 4 months since my grandfather passed away. It feels like so much has happened in this time.. it's more like a year. I was talking with Bernd (the puppeteer) about all the great people I meet but then have to leave again. He travelled for many years and was talking about how you just loose touch with almost everyone in the end, even people you were extremely close to.
Of course I am a bit afraid that I will just keep coming to new places, meet all these amazing people and then disappear and that in the end I will never manage to have a deep connection with anyone and will end up surrounded with lots of people but always be alone. And that my life will be like a series of dreams. It sounds morbid but because I can’t think of living in one place at the moment it is maybe normal have this fear. So I write letters compulsively.. every free moment I have these days, I write. Because I miss all the people I can’t see and so people know I think of them, even if we might be far apart. Because I feel a need to share my thoughts and feelings, so you know.. and to keep a connection.

God, this all sounds so dramatic! It’s not really.. I’m happy, I’m easy, my life is better than ever, I wouldn’t want it any other way! But I am just a little bit afraid.. and I am realising that there are only so many letters and emails I can write in a day if I want to get anything else done. It's a sad truth i'm slowly having to face. So if you don't hear from me in a little while.. it's only because i don't love you any more and never want to see you or hear from you again.

And the moral of that story..

a blog

ok
so i've been meaning to do this for a while
i've been trying to write and keep in touch with everyone but it's not so easy when it get's busy.
i thought about group emails but they somehow feel more appropriate for holidays.. and i guess this is more of an optional thing for you than having it sent to your email all the time.

This first entry will be a long one i'm afraid. In the future they should be more concise.

I'm back in Iceland - Reykjavik.
I arrived yesterday morning after a rather nice day in NY. It actually felt a little bit morbid to be there by myself for a day, knowing i didn't really have time to experience the atmosphere of the city. So i tried to make the most of it and not feel obligated to do anything in particular just because i was there.
So. I had breakfast with Kirk Mullis (brother of the wonderful Jacob Mullis of Fort Wilson Riot) who was nice enough to let me stay for the night after only a few hours notice. As soon as we had finished a lovely basket of french breads with butter and jam i hurried off so as not to be late for my lunch engagement with Dr. and Mrs. Berger. Dr. Frank Milan Berger is the cousin of my grandfather. They were very fond of each other and when my grandmother was critically ill with TB Milan sent her medicine that were sill unavailable in the Czech Republic and which most probably saved her life. So it meant a lot to me to meet the old couple.. even if it was just very brief. Milan is 94 and his wife Christine is 10 years younger. I find it so interesting and fascinating to meet people who have lived for such a long time and to hear their stories. Of course we spoke about my grandfather's death and my grandmother's loss, and it brought tears to my eyes.. it suddenly felt more real than it has for a while. When Milan told me that he had lost over 60 friends and family members in the holocaust my eyes were filled with tears again, as were his, although i couldn't tell whether it was from sadness or because his eyes are old and watering up for other reasons. 60 people. It is hard to imagine.. I wonder how many will read this.. and hope none of us will have to experience such great losses in our lives.
After lunch i walked down to central park and thought about the people i had just spent over a month with in Minneapolis. It still felt like i was going to be seeing them that evening.
I didn't really feel like walking around the city like a tourist so i went down to East Village and found a tattoo place and finally had birds on a wire done on my forearm. The tattooist Herman from Malaysia didn't seem to have any opinion about what he was about to do and just went ahead with what i asked for. He worked in silence, occasionally asking me whether it didn't hurt or what i was doing in the US as Magnus 135 sat by in silence and watched, smirking slightly.
I came out feeling kind of strange but also special and soon found myself walking into a basement with a group of Asian women sitting outside smoking next to a sign advertising an hour long massage for $45. Without any words i was shown into a little booth with thin partition walls and a bench where i lay down on my stomach and covered myself with a thin towel. I didn't see the woman who came in to massage me until the end when i came out to pay. She was very sweet and helped me tie my dress up at the back and offered me a seat on the couch and said something i didn't understand to another woman who was sitting there. She looked at my bandaged arm, looked me up and down, answered something in a soft voice and smiled sympathetically as i got handed a glass of water. I suspect my massouse might have told her about the scratches and bruises on my body caused by my fall out of the tree last weekend.
I then hurried back to Kirk's where Nadar, my very nice taxi driver from the day before, was already waiting, having shown up half an hour early.
On the way to the airport he offered me some of the food his mother had packed for him. It was great, traditional Pakistani cuisine and a sandwhich, much better than anything i would have gotten on the airplane and filling enough that i didn't have to find out. People are so kind!

I arrived at 6am and had my first experience of jet lag. It wasn't too bad.. although i just heard that some guys who were playing poker at my cousin's house last night while we played pictionary assumed i was stoned when i guess i was just tired.
It is now Sunday afternoon/evening. I am sitting in my mothers kitchen as i write this. Today i spent some time in my flat where i haven't been in a long time. It was left in a bit of a state by the boys who were living there so i am cleaning and getting rid of various junk and furniture, amongst other things thy left 3 sofas and 3 televisions! ? I am planning to move in there next week when i get back from Skíðadalur and then hopefully when Freyr comes back from Minneapolis we will tear down some walls and do some other work on it before i leave the country again. I am looking forward to staying in my own place for a little while.

This has all been leading up to talking about my stay in Minneapolis.
But where to begin. I'm not quite sure how to write about this experience.. it was so vast and incredible.
I think i will give myself a few more days to digest the experience before i publish anything about that..