Reykjavík Grapevine - 15.06.2007, Blaðsíða 8

14_RVK_GV_08_007_ARTICLE
Ever since I was a child here in Iceland, I have been a
silent spectator of my own “strangeness”. Due to the
fact I can only trace my Viking heritage on my mother’s
side and have a slightly higher melanin count than most
Icelanders, at least the ones not of French descent, I
am often asked “how can you possibly be Icelandic?”
Other questions that I receive are: “Why do you have
a foreign name?” and “Why do you live here?” The
answer to the first question is quite simple: My name
is quintessentially more Icelandic than most Icelandic
names, e.g. any first name also coming from a Christian
heritage, such as Icelandic names. The other answer is
undoubtedly more complicated.
However, like I often was as a child, it wasn’t so long
ago that Icelanders were put on display in Copenhagen
as “freak shows” along with Inuits and people from
various other nations. To the dismay of the Icelandic
Student Society in Copenhagen, Icelanders had been
categorized as a “second class” colony along with co-
loured people. Not surprisingly, Icelanders have separate
names for these “strange people”, Skrælingjar (Peeled
Ones) for Indians and Blámenn (Blue men) for the more
melanin-afflicted individuals.
Personally, as a child, I was often disgusted at the
stares I would garner during my very brief excursions
to this strange land. Later, when I moved here, I had to
learn the language from scratch – and be chastised for
years to come for my grasp of the language, despite
the fact the most Icelanders have a very shaky mastery
themselves over our great language. So, obviously, it
has always been easy for me to pose as a foreigner in
my own country, somewhat like a reverse pied-noir. For
this reason I decided to go downtown and experience
Reykjavík’s nightlife as a “stranger” for the Grape-
vine.
Before I talk about my experience posing as a
foreigner, I have to mention my other “safari trips”
downtown. I call them safari trips because when I was
younger going out was like going shopping. If you had
sufficient funds and charm, some even have pick up
lines, you would go home with a brand spanking new
bed accessory. Sometimes for the fun of it, I would
pretend to be a foreigner – because getting annoyed
at being mistaken for one can only get you so far. If I
travel by plane the flight attendants will speak to me
in English; if I stare too long at a person when they are
speaking, they will revert to speaking English. When
I order food I can see the worrisome stolen glance,
i.e. when a person will size me up before deciding
what language to speak. Of course, pretending to be
a foreigner has often been fun. One time I lied that I
had been adopted, I said I had been found afloat on a
raft that drifted from Jamaica. A couple of times I have
pretended to be from a Spanish-speaking country, which
is absurd considering how pathetic my Spanish is.
Maybe always being in character comes easy to
me. My looks might play a part, seeing as how I have
been mistaken for Japanese, Portuguese, Mexican,
American, Native American – and even once yelled at
on Laugavegur for “being a terrorist”, or what some
would call, an Arab. However, the last two weekends
when I tried to pretend to be a foreigner it just lost its
charm and I found it quite ridiculous to be completely
honest.
My attempts at being a foreigner and to phase
out the Icelandic played out in a mixed cacophony of
bottles being smashed, cars beeping and hissing along
the street, along with the various mix of languages
being spoken. As a matter of fact that is exactly the
reason why, perhaps along with my reluctance to be
a foreigner, that my little study didn’t go so well. Nay-
sayers could say that my demeanour was probably too
Icelandic and that too many people that I know were
walking up to me.
As a foreigner, I walked into Barinn totally at a loss
for words as to what to do; perhaps you have to be really
drunk to enjoy yourself properly there. No interaction
there, despite the fact that I was staring and glancing
around like the idiot savant that I perhaps am. When
I finally got to Sirkus, I discovered how fucking irritat-
ing the place can really be. Often I would stand in line
and watch as all the foreigners scoffed and puffed at
the door and the door-girls who usually denied them
entrance, despite the wild weekend they had been
promised here in Reykjavík. I stood in line and listened
to a person repeatedly say, with his decent attempt at
Queen’s English: ‘VIP, VIP, VIP.’
Yes, people complain all the time about the sup-
posed clientele of Sirkus. It would seem that you have
to possess a secret knock, know the person, or “be
someone”. As a business model and foreigner, I find
this quite distressing; you lose word-of-mouth business
and also manage to disprove the famous saying of Oscar
Wilde’s. Maybe this is the point: “Will you be the lucky
foreigner to get into Sirkus after the witching hour?”
Perhaps you should bring some dinner and buy drinks
there and stay to actually “get in”.
My attempts at being a foreigner fared much better
at Vegamót. Before I could get in a word edgewise, a
shorter, porcine version of Paris Hilton cut into the line
and pushed me away. I tried to chat her friend up, who
was busy texting someone and way too busy to respond
to my feeble attempt at a “come on”. To retort to
such an attack, I asked an Icelander: “Where are all the
pretty women?” with a pitiable plea of distress. “Are
they all inside?” and pointed to the women in front of
me. He laughed at my audacity and pointed out that
there are many beautiful women in Iceland, insinuating
with a coy jest that I might be repelling them from him!
As is common when you speak in English, a foreigner
will often interrupt the conversation, as most people
are not that accustomed to long lines outside clubs.
In this instance it was an American girl defending the
beauty of Icelandic women, mentioning that blonde
bimbos only come from California, Texas and Florida
(the places where I had resided). A strange rant seeing
as how most of the women in the line actually were
blond bimbos. I demanded the pretty and easy women
that Iceland Air had promised me. As my Icelandic friend
said to me, I came here for “mostly pleasure”.
Although my red wine stupor was fading, I kept
overhearing conversations that other foreigners were
having, such as the guy who told his friend that wait-
ing in line was for pussies and he wouldn’t have that.
He wanted to get laid, now! During this vigil of mine,
I came to a stunning conclusion as a foreigner. First of
all, I am not a foreigner; secondly being foreign has
stopped being such a “foreign thing” as I watched
the various nationalities in the faces of these people
that stood like vultures all around me. I also discovered
another thing: The Meat Market is universal. Enjoy your
stay and happy shopping.
L’Étranger in downtown Reykjavík:
“Waiting In Line Is For Pussies”
Text by Marvin Lee Dupree
Sometimes for the fun of it, I
would pretend to be a foreig-
ner – because getting annoyed
at being mistaken for one can
only get you so far.
CAPONEalla virka daga milli 07:00 & 10:00