Reykjavík Grapevine - 12.01.2007, Page 44

3_REYKJAVÍK_GRAPEVINE_ISSUE 01_007_TRAVEL/NEW YORK
In which a Grapevine staff journalist swaps
apartments with a NY couple in time for
2006’s passing. Both parties end up enjoying
themselves and learning some new things,
despite the alien surroundings.
New York City famously outlawed smoking
in bars a few years back, a trend that seems
very in vogue these days. Indeed, enjoying a
cigarette with your beer in any of Iceland’s
bars or restaurants will be illegal come June.
So no one smokes in New York bars or
clubs, and there are no ashtrays visible. A
little over two hours into 2007, standing on
the edge of a crowded dance floor in the
Royal Oak bar of Williamsburg, Brooklyn, this
is evident, although some rebellious nicotine
addicts seem to be sneaking drags here and
there. They do an OK job of hiding it, but
what’s interesting in all of this to touristy-
Icelander me is the fact that a lot of people
- and I mean a lot – don’t seem at all con-
cerned with hiding the act of shovelling what
I can only assume is Cocaine up their noses.
Colour me shocked!
A case in point is a 28-year-old sculp-
tor whose name I can’t remember. Midway
through our conversation, he drags out an
insanely large bottle of the white stuff and
forms a little hole between his thumb and
the back of his hand, pours some of the
white stuff in and snorts it up, old Icelan-
dic sailor style. He then pauses for a second
before telling me more of how he’d like to
visit Reykjavík. And that he thinks the music
sucks. And that Björk hasn’t done a single
worthwhile thing since The Sugarcubes. A
couple sitting a few feet away from us pro-
ceed to do some bumps.
Royal Oak is by no means a seedy bar.
It is described by the Brooklyn Bar Guide as
“classic and intimate […] a great place to un-
wind”. And it was, although the trendy DJ
spinning hipster tracks made it kind of hard
to unwind should one want to do so on New
Year’s Eve. I briefly wonder if Iceland’s immi-
nent ban on smoking will bring further drug
indulgence to Reykjavík’s bars before I move
on to some dancing.
5 Hours Later, 4205 km Away
While this was transpiring, Reykjavík’s New
Year’s parties had for the most part wound
down to a halt given the five-hour time dif-
ference. Noah and Kim, a lovely Brooklyn
couple in their mid- to late twenties who I
had traded apartments with for New Year’s,
were polishing off their last drinks at a
house party they unexpectedly got invited to
while on the way home at their 2 AM. “We
stopped a group of people on Laugavegur to
see if they would take our picture and they
invited us to go along with them, which of
course we accepted. We wound up going
to a couple of house parties, one was at the
apartment of some artist guy who’s name
translates as “assfart”, I’m told” says Noah.
They enjoyed celebrating the New Year
in Reykjavík, to the extent of professing a
desire to keep coming back, if not moving
to Iceland entirely. My own New Year’s cel-
ebration started with me inviting a group
of friends (and their friends) over to Noah
and Kim’s apartment, next to the Brooklyn-
Queens Expressway, for champagne and
take-out Italian food. The party was fun and
enlightening; the sincere way the Americans
proclaimed their belief that 2007 would be a
great year after a toast struck me as some-
thing I would never catch an Icelander doing.
We then headed to a club party, described
by New York magazine as “the ultimate year-
end destination for indie-rock scenesters”
(!). Noah and Kim, however, opted for din-
ner at 101 restaurant Café Opera followed
by a sojourn to Perlan, from whence they
observed Reykjavík’s attempts at blowing up
the ozone layer with fireworks.
“It was the craziest thing we’ve seen, like
a war zone” offers Kim, opting for an oft
used analogy. “There were explosions every-
where,” continues Noah, “the quality of the
fireworks was actually a lot higher than we
had expected. Except for this one little kid
who had a crappy firework, a little thing you
light up.” Not surprisingly, the couple found
it weird that little kids were setting off explo-
sives all around town, “three year-olds run-
ning around with sparklers”. Probably, the
custom of exposing little kids to fireworks
isn’t the healthiest, although public numbers
indicate that no more than three or four doz-
en suffer firework related injuries each year.
Walking back to town from Perlan ex-
posed them to even more little kids with
fireworks, they tell me, and they were happy
to observe the local families enjoying them-
selves. “We went to Kaffibarinn, which dis-
appointingly wasn’t open at all. Sirkús’ 30$
admission fee seemed like a ploy to get mon-
ey from tourists. So we walked around for a
while before ending up at this place called
Celtic Cross. They were playing some really
shitty Beatles covers, which we enjoyed mak-
ing fun of. After a while we decided to go
home and get some rest, and that was actu-
ally when the fun started, as we got invited
to parties on the way.”
Business card fervour!
Back in Brooklyn, New York, a group, contain-
ing myself, stepped out of a taxi in front of
the Williamsburg White Room, where a little
indie-rock scenester celebration called “Re-
turn of the 12 hour party people” was sup-
posedly filling up with indie-rock scenesters.
The cab ride there was an interesting one.
Our driver, an Iranian immigrant in his mid-
forties, told us in detail how he was enjoy-
ing his life in the U.S., and why he had come
there. He also told us that “it’s gotten a lot
harder since 9/11”.
A group of people enjoying their ciga-
rettes (no coke) outside of the party greeted
us. Sarah, a 22-year-old philosophy student
at New York University, told us that things
were off to a slow start inside, but they were
looking better by the minute. Her friend told
me that my jacket was cool. I was amused,
as people normally don’t say such things to
strangers where I come from.
Williamsburg White Room seemed ill fit
for a party. As we entered what amounted
to a sort of empty cavern, an old Smiths tune
bounced between the few who had made it
there by 10 PM. Drinks were cheap, the mu-
sic was fine but somehow things never got
off the ground. And people kept exchanging
business cards in the drink line. After per-
forming, female rap-group Northern State
counted down to midnight and the follow-
ing orgy of French kissing (“So THIS is how
Americans celebrate New Year’s!”), we de-
cided to venture to the Royal Oak bar. On the
way there it started raining heavily. And we
got in, and drank some, danced some and
smoked none.
Noah tells me the couple now prefers
Reykjavík New Year’s celebrations. It struck
them as more fun. “Like, people having fun
and just enjoying each other’s company. In
the States, New Year’s is more of an excuse
to make out more than anything, while over
there it seemed everybody was having a
good time. Also, no one did a countdown,
which is huge back home.”
My New York New Year’s was a fine one,
I met some great people, saw some strange
things and, refreshingly enough, the alco-
hol was cheap. And although I did miss the
fireworks and annual comedic round-up,
Áramótaskaupið, I might even conclude that
I prefer it to the Reykjavík manner of ring-
ing in a new year. But it had nothing on the
Ísafjörður-style I’ve experienced.
A Tale Of Two New Year’s
Text by Haukur Magnússon Photo by Skari