Reykjavík Grapevine - 19.06.2009, Blaðsíða 12

12
The Reykjavík Grapevine
Issue 8 — 2009
Welcome to Iceland, folks! Did you enjoy
some tasty Skyr and watch FRIENDS
re-runs on the plane? God, that Joey’s
a funny cat. Anyway, you must be
gagging for a drink by now. Thus, we
have dedicated this space to explaining
the ins, outs and upside downs of the
madness that is purchasing alcoholic
beverages in Iceland.
First off, the cheapest booze can be
found at Keflavík’s spacious duty free
wonderland. Expect a six-pack of Víking
for the modest sum of 1.079 ISK and a
big bottle of the hard stuff from 2–3.000
ISK. Note that, according to Icelandic law,
you are allowed to bring in the following
combinations: 1 bottle of booze + 2 six-
packs OR 2 bottles of wine + 2 six-packs
OR 4 bottles of wine. Use it wisely, and
use it all.
It’s all down hill from there.
The Vínbúð
According to PSN Communications, 62%
of Icelanders are still opposed to selling
hard alcohol in grocery stories. Who are
these people? Trolls? Of course, there is
the argument that easy availability will
increase health problems and serious
crimes. Naturally the powers that be
are more concerned with statistics as
opposed to having a blast.
With that in mind, Iceland’s sole
vendor of alcohol is the state run Vínbúðin
(indeed, “the wine shop”), boasting
forty-five locations, conveniently dotted
around the whole of Iceland for your
drinking pleasure.
Each Vínbúð is aesthetically
magnificent and spacious, resembling a
certain Scandinavian design warehouse.
It makes a change from the typically
grimy establishments you find in, say,
the UK. Apart from its elegance, they
seem incredibly interested in making
your purchasing experience as painful
and inconvenient as possible.
Planning ahead
Always be sure to plan your boozing in
a timely fashion, as most Vínbúð are
only open from 11:00 to 18:00 Mondays
through Thursdays and Saturdays, 11:00
to 19:00 on Friday and it is completely
shut on a Sunday. Stores located at
Skeifan and Skútuvogur are open until
20:00 on weekdays. A complete list
and opening hours is available at www.
vinbudin.is
Vínbúð’s lack of in store coolers at
Austurstræti mean that on a blistering
summer’s day (sometimes it happens)
your beer will be warmer than your arm
pits. Apparently this is a remnant of city
officials’ unsuccessful attempts to cut
down on street drinking. We'll let you
judge the results.
Extremely high taxes on alcohol
provide a knock on effect to the in-store
prices. Did you know that these tax rates
are not relevant to the price but more to
the percentage of alcohol content? Well
now you know kids. This also means
that fine wine is often less expensive
here than in neighbouring countries.
The prices, the prices.
Oh my Thor.
For those of you adventurous types, chug
some Brennivín after sampling some
putrefied shark meat. Also known as
‘Black Death’, Brennivín is the country’s
signature alcoholic beverage, made from
fermented potato pulp and f lavoured
with caraway seeds. At 2.715 ISK per 500
ml, it makes for one hell of a night!
If you’re after something slightly
stronger, guzzle down some Reyka,
stating to be the first green vodka to be
bottled in Iceland. Using glacial water
and distilled using clean sustainable
energy from geothermal heat, it claims
to be one of the cleanest vodkas in the
world. 4.560 ISK for a surprisingly
spicy taste with undertones of warm
citrus, apparently. It gets you fucked up,
anyway.
Beer sold in convenience stores is
known as Pilsner or light beer. Sporting
a low, low 2.25% alcohol level, it is strictly
for those of you who don’t fancy getting
drunk. You’re surely out there. Strong
beer, like all booze, can be found at
Vínbúð with a varied selection of mainly
European brands. Popular Icelandic
beers, Víking, Egils and Thule are found
sold in single cans, six-packs or ten-
packs. Single cans are normally priced at
around 230 ISK and a ten-pack averages
for 2.100 ISK.
Keep in mind...
Just a few suggestions, tips and a heads-
up. The drinking age in Iceland is pegged
at twenty. So if you’re 18 and expect to get
sozzled, then you’re fucked over here –
unless you can find some character of ill
repute to do your shopping. Mind you,
that’s illegal.
Planning a mad one? Always buy
alcohol early before you go out. It
works out way cheaper and no one goes
out before midnight anyway, giving
you plenty of liver debauchery time.
Sometimes certain hotels won’t allow
you to leave the premises with beer in
hand however. That’s just the way it
goes.
-JONATHAN BAkER ESq.
Now, Miklabraut is a an eight lane
thoroughfare cloven in twain by a wide
divider adorned with a six foot grid
iron fence, hence going the wrong
way is either a feat of insanity or the
by-product of a British driver’s license.
Under the oppressive dome of a starless
deep winter’s night, I am suddenly
reminded why head lights and break
lights differ in colour, as the yellow
beams emanating from the S.U.V ahead
of me rapidly increase their intensity
to the tune of our combined 200 kph.
Terror strikes for a fleeting fearful
second but before instinct kicks in the
accidental game of chicken is cut short
when the nut-job, or perhaps limey,
turns an on-ramp into an off-ramp and
a particular hazard to merely a general
one.
On an early late spring morning
speeding down Sæbraut there’s some
inordinate swerving going down just
ahead. There’s no overtaking to be done
as the perpetrator defiles both lanes
equally in between brief, intermittent
forays up the curb and onto the
adjacent lawn. His pace is however a
meandering one and as I finally spot an
opening and poach a passing, a caved
in hood alerts me to the probability
that his may not simply be a drunken
excursion but a full-blown Odyssey of
inebriation.
And the goddamn hits keep coming.
Along the off-ramp leading to Pizza Hut
Sprengisandur, a teenaged three piece
collectively crawls out of an upturned
hatchback and proceeds in a wailing
stumble towards a presumably dead
windscreen ejectee.
Along Kalkofnsvegur there is a
hairpin turn shielded by a railing and
culminating in a stoplight. Between the
railing and the stoplight lies a mediocre
burger joint in the shape of a teardrop.
Presumably the railing serves the dual
purpose of protecting pedestrians from
careening traffic and careening traffic
from the concrete wedge constituting
the business end of the teardrop. Turns
out the sheer 80 kph (as per police
estimates) momentum of stray vehicles
bent on wanton collateral damage is far
greater then the halting force of safety
measures secured by a handful of
approx. 20 kg concrete slabs grounded
in a mere foot of gravel. Your average
household concrete wall will however
effectively truncate anything less than
a semi truck within the shadow of a
heartbeat. The result is a convergence
of the three pronged forces of 112 (or
911, where applicable); paramedics,
Morphine laced syringe in one hand
and defibrillating pads in the other,
5-0 securing the premises and firemen
wielding the jaws-of-life.
For a perhaps anticlimactic finale,
there is the aesthetically pleasing
spectacle at the surprisingly accident
prone intersection of Sundlaugarvegur
and Kringlumýrarbraut, laid out like a
piece of performance art frozen in time
at its apex: a traffic light pole is bent
at 33 degree angle (in my experience,
for the umpteenth time) and for the
time being directs traffic in the skies;
a grey Subaru Legacy reclines, engine
stubbornly idling, against the cater
corner traffic light post, nursing a
left headlight bashed so far down
the engine block the incessant idling
puzzles one to wonder as to how an
engine ever needs work done. The
piecé de resistance, however, is a red
Yaris somehow supporting the tail
end of a sedan barely teetering on
its front wheels, positioned in such
a way that the Yaris’ driver, stumped
for entertainment during emergency
response time, needs only gaze out his
windscreen in order to fully appreciate
the Volkswagen’s undercarriage design.
There being no one hurt despite the
vast vehicular carnage, not taking into
account the bitter post scriptum, I am
leaving you on a high note.
All in all, this is the kinda shit that
makes me curb the road rage at the
raving idiots begging for a rapidly
horn honking spell of tailgating for
the comparative misdemeanour of
respecting the speed limit while in
the left hand lane, or the joint idiot
venture of keeping perpendicular
pace on a double wide stretch so as
to continuously clog a whole fucking
artery of infrastructure.
-“TRAVIS BICkLE”
Grapevine’s taxi driver | Accidents have happened
Tales from the Cab Side
Nightlife | Alcohol prices in Iceland ain't no joke
Fancy a Beer?
Your guide to buying alcohol in Iceland