Reykjavík Grapevine - 31.07.2009, Side 43

31
The Reykjavík Grapevine
Issue 11 — 2009
As a 23-year-old, I can
now (against my will)
officially say that
I'm an adult and the
long-awaited stage of
complete independence
has finally begun. Of course, now,
I look back at my youth with envy.
The innocence, the excitement, and
the lack of responsibility made life so
simple. Sigh. That being said, my high
school years make me cringe. The
compounded self-consciousness and
awkwardness was enough to make
me pretend those years and those
braces didn't happen. Yet, somehow, I
was transported through time when I
stepped through the doorway of NASA
on a lowly Friday night. Minus the frizzy
hair.
My housemate had purchased
tickets to see Familjen, and we
were in the mood to dance. As we
approached the entrance, she told me
she had noticed it was ages 18 and
up. I shrugged, and didn't give it much
thought. Walking in, I made a beeline
to the bar. Surprisingly enough, there
was no wait time for getting a beer.
“This is great!” I thought as I took a
swig. Then I turned around.
I nearly choked on my cold brew.
My housemate and I were the oldest
people there. The dance floor was
empty, but the tables were teeming
with youngins', all suited up in their
Friday best. They were everywhere.
Girls were giggling and telling secrets
behind their hands while a few
comedians were doing their version
of a dance routine in the centre of the
floor.
In the next twenty minutes, the place
became flooded with these children
of the nineties. Now, I like people of
all ages, and I didn´t mind the teenage
antics. Some pleasant memories
began to resurface. However, as my
housemate and I were sitting off to
the side, the bad flashbacks took over.
And the strangest thing happened;
I slowly started to feel nervous. The
awkwardness I had long forgotten was
creeping up in the midst of all these
young people with their whole lives
ahead of them.
I had to firmly tell myself: “You are
23. You are confident. You are past
this,” which seemed to do the trick. Or
maybe it was when a young teenage
girl approached the table and said,
“My friend thinks you’re cute.” My
housemate, who could see the young
lad, gave me play by plays on his friend
pushing him over to our table. Once he
finally sat down, and after I downed
the last of my beer, I asked “How are
old are you?” He was 19. “I'm 23,”
I said. The guy looked down, stood
up abruptly, said “See ya,” and left in
awfully big hurry.
After I had a good chuckle, Familjen
took the stage. It was at this point that
my housemate and I walked to the
railing to get a better look at all the
action. The dance floor was flooded
with teenagers. Guys began to grind
against the girls who had conveniently
worn the shortest dresses. Then the
making out began. At one point, I
counted seven couple glued to each
other. The more hot and heavy couples
daringly made their ways to the walls.
As we watched Familjen jerk around
the stage in what seemed to be some
sort of stupor, I realised that we weren´t
the oldest people at NASA. There was
a group of men in their mid-thirties,
cruising around and trying to pick
up young girls. There were two that
particularly stood out. One had a
completely shaved head that gleamed
under the fluorescent lights, but his
eyes were completely protected by a
pair of purple-tinted sunglasses. His
comrade was wearing a tan polyester
suit and looked like a pimp from 1974.
To add to his overall “look,” he had a
messy scattering of facial hair which
was slightly heavier in the moustache
area.
When they gave up on the young
(and smart) girls, the started looking
around some more. I knew what was
coming – they were looking for people
closer to their age. Before I knew it,
my housemate was jabbing me in the
ribs, saying, “Oh my god those guys
are coming over here.” The polyester
suit had a shiny look to it, and the coat
folded back to reveal a flowered shirt
with chest hair sprouting out of the top.
The man donning sunglasses smoothly
asked, “Care to dance?” to which
I quickly responded, “That's okay.”
They didn't put up much of a fight, and
returned to the bar, defeated.
I grabbed another beer and finished it
in record time. The make-out sessions,
the scantily clad girls , the creepy old
men...what kind of portal had I stepped
in to? I wasn't sure, but all I knew was
I was ready to leave it, immediately. As
I stepped through the door of NASA it
seemed like a veil was lifted. Walking
away, I returned to my comfortable,
maybe more jaded, self. Those
experiences were behind me, literally
and figuratively. Maybe they hadn't
even happened.
Nightlife | Opinion
jOYCE GUZOWSkI
HÖRðUR SVEINSSON
1100.- krLicensing and
registration of travel-
related services
The Icelandic Tourist Board issues licences to tour operators and travel agents,
as well as issuing registration to booking services and information centres.
Tour operators and travel agents are required to use a special logo approved
by the Icelandic Tourist Board on all their advertisements and on their Internet
website.
Booking services and information centres are entitled to use a Tourist
Board logo on all their material. The logos below are recognised by the
Icelandic Tourist Board.
List of licenced Tour
Operators and Travel
Agencies on:
visiticeland.com
Back to the Future
Going old school in Reykjavík