Reykjavík Grapevine - 14.08.2009, Síða 14

Reykjavík Grapevine - 14.08.2009, Síða 14
“What’s the difference between Iceland and Ireland?” “One letter and about six months.” So ran the joke at the beginning of the year. It’s been over seven months now and Ireland, though stricken, is nowhere near a disaster of Icelandic proportions. Upon closer examination, several differences between Ireland and Iceland come to light. They were colonised by wankers, we by Danes. They were conservative farmers who opened up their economy in the 1990s and became the Celtic Tiger; we were conservative fishermen who opened up ours and became the canary in the coalmine. Having thus established the vital differences between Iceland and Ireland, we move on to the question of what the differences are between Iceland and that other “I” country in Europe, Italy. The “I” Countries On the face of it, there aren’t many. Both countries are world leaders in public debt. People in both countries have a habit of speaking at great length about subjects of which they know very little. And in both countries, connections are the only way to get anything done, from getting opera tickets (well, in Iceland the opera house is a work in progress) to building permits to elected office. The Icelanders’ love of corruption is what sets them apart from other Nordic Countries. In Sweden and Norway, corruption is illegal or at the very least frowned upon, while in Iceland it is generally seen as a virtue. A person who is elected into office and does not use his or her powers to help their friends and family is no friend to anyone. Conversely, a man who helps his friends is someone you can trust. What happens to those not counted as friends is less important. The Icelandic Godfathers How come Icelandic political culture so much resembles a rather bland episode of the Sorpanos? Why is it that our leaders tend to resemble the Berlusconis rather than the Stoltenbergs? As with everything else, we have to go back to the Vikings to find the answer. In the centuries surrounding the year 1000, the Vikings were everywhere. From Manhattan (perhaps) to what was later to become Moscow, Vikings ruled the world. For some reason, Vikings and later their Norman descendants preferred to settle on rather small islands such as Iceland, The Faeroes, the Orkneys and, yes, Sicily. The Vikings formed clan based societies where you helped your friends and killed the relatives of your enemies. One tends to think of Viking raids as somewhat in-your-face, but the Vikings were actually quite Machiavellian in their politics. Hávamál is full of advice on how to screw your opponents by outwitting rather than attacking them. When Iceland became Christian, it was actually still okay to worship the old gods as long as no one found out about it, another example of a distinction made between what you said and what you did. Sound familiar? In the 19th and 20th Centuries, the Nordic core countries of Denmark, Sweden and Norway embraced enlightenment ideals of fairness, openness and a just society. Icelanders decided to stick with the older system of the elite screwing the general public with shady backroom deals. Perhaps the old clan system still survives on the periphery, in Iceland and in Sicily. If the Italian mafia is descendent from the Normans, then Iceland’s elite are their northern cousins. They liked to call themselves Vikings, but mobsters seem to be just as apt. The Reykjavík Grapevine Issue 12 — 2009 14 Opinion | Valgerður Þóroddsdóttir I was last in Iceland on August 24, 2008. At the time the price of the US dollar had just risen to what seemed a whopping 80 ISK, and I remember deciding it exceptionally prudent to postpone the exchange of my Icelandic savings for as long as my college expenditures would allow. In fact, I prognosticated quick recovery for the króna. Having taken a single microeconomics class in high school, being a financial sage as it were, I was confident that once the ISK had recuperated from its mild sick spell I would simply be able to retrieve my funds at a more suitable price. I felt like an asshole, obviously, when six weeks later the New York Times homepage informed me that Iceland’s financial system had collapsed. 80 ISK doesn’t looks so bad to me now that I’m considering buying ONE FUCKING DOLLAR at 128 ISK, but as they say, that train has sailed; hindsight is 20/20; every path has its puddle; half a loaf is better than none. It wasn’t long after the financial shit-storm began that I started receiving offers of sympathy and concern from an inordinate number of people around me in the States. These were people who, upon hearing some version of the news story, were suddenly eager to discuss with me the ‘situation’ in the motherland. The truth, however, was that being in the seemingly fortunate position of not owning or owing anything on the icy isle, the effects of the downturn on me personally were minimal at best. In an effort to devise competent responses to the incessant questioning, I in turn began quizzing my Icelandic compatriots for facts and anecdotes. I read the Icelandic news sources and watched the television news online for hours a day. I scoured the international press for any mentions of “COLLAPSE” and “MELTDOWN” and “TURMOIL”. Yet despite my best efforts, the only conclusive detail I seemed to be able to lift from any of it, or anyone, was the vague but unspoken impression that things were more or less royally fucked. When it comes to quantifying what has changed in Reykjavík, or in Iceland generally, since I was last home, the conclusion thus remains somewhat obscure. If it wasn’t for the slightly elevated prices on foreign goods, the newly imposed limits on money transfers abroad, and the mild malaise that may or may not be settling over the general public for the time being, I wouldn’t know Iceland today from Iceland eleven months ago. That this country is endowed with tenacity for self-perpetuation has never seemed as abundantly clear to me as at the very moment that I write this. The women at the table next to me are standing up to leave and as they do they smack their gum against their teeth in a self-congratulatory manner. Their smugness warms me as they move to put on their jackets with a sudden whirl of the stuffy and languid café air. I am in love with how they push out now against the door, submerging, fresh again, into the cool, late night air, as though they have just discovered the meaning behind the whole fucking universe and that the answer is in fact very amusing and ironic and haven’t we humans been acting so very daft and absurd these past couple of millennia? Of course these women have not discovered the answer to life, the universe and everything. They are simply brimming with the distinct but delicate self-satisfaction that till now I privately considered a plague on the Icelandic character but that for the first time strikes me as not entirely hostile, central perhaps to the survival of it all. I finish my own cup of coffee, and though it now costs as much as a cup in America in that bad way that forebodes trouble upon departure, it seems that Iceland, that Reykjavík is exactly the same as it’s always been. It feels as it ever has, delightfully, terrifyingly, like home. Now & Then It’s the ass end of a totally gayriffic weekend and I have learned a few facts and lessons. 1) Never fuck with a man's sequins. 2) Guys give the best BJs. 3) I look really fierce in pink. 4) Drag queen make-up and ridiculous amounts of rain make for a bad mix. The line outside Barbara has been going strong since last Wednesday, but at six AM Sunday morning the queers start trickling out the door. I ferry home a guy so limp wristed he can't shake hands properly and a couple of short haired gals with that grip like an iron vise. A chick trio from Akureyri beg me to join the party I drive them to. “Later,” I lie. Sure I'd love to go, but ‘em bitches are louder’n a sonic boom and I fear for my well being. A pair of drunkoholics stumble out of ever-so-upscale speakeasy Mónakó. One of ‘em, the one with the less leathery face, tries to get in the front seat with a full glass of Cuba Libre (or perhaps just Coke, though I doubt that very much). “Hold your horses there mister,” I advise. “What?” the man inquires. “You're not getting in here with that.” “Oh, sorry. I'll go inside and pour it into a plastic mug.” How very astute of him I think to myself, of course it’s not the notion of a plastered lowlife spilling alcohol in my cab that worries me, but I shudder at the thought that this respectable establishment should be robbed of a glass. Once inside the wino reparté begins. “You're an alcoholic,” stumbling Cuba Libre guy opines to his mate the raging drunkard. “No I'm not. I'm merely wine inclined,” is his straight faced response. “Alcoholics drink 'cuz they have to. I drink because I want to.” I’m glad we got that cleared up. I thought he drank for the sagging facial effect or to fuel his witty banter. Then the party chicks call again. My ears start ringing. A jolly racist KR fan fresh off the plane from an awesome defeat in Basel keeps urging me to mow down stray black people in the street. Even when there ain't any in sight (which is pretty much always) he goes off on some hate-rant. Odd that, seeing as how KR fly a black and white flag. For penance I charge him double. He don't even notice. Out of the torrential downpour flooding the Laugavegur high street emerges the forlorn figure of a long lost love. Her head stooped trudging a drenched march of desolation, the vision of gloom ravaging her tender face tugs heavily at my heartstrings. Behind her a few paces stalks a stubble cheeked Latino that I convince myself is up to no good, due to the blinking neon sign on his forehead advertising “Rapist” to all and sundry. I'm tempted to get out and give him a wholesome thrashing just on pure principle, were it not that my ex would take nothing from me even if it saved her a trip down a dark alley and a rape kit administration at the E.R. Still, the rain is far too heavy for even the most enthusiastic practitioner of non-consensual sex to arouse his raping spirit. And probably it’s just the lingering remains of the urge to shield painting the devil’s silhouette on a blank wall. Wish I'd been so thoughtful and considerate back when it counted for something. And the party chicks call again so I drive them downtown while they polish of a box of wine chugging it straight from the tap. Classy is the word. -“TRAVIS BICKLE” Grapevine’s taxi driver Taxi Man Goes GayPride Opinion | Valur Gunnarsson The Sicilian Connection A source of health Thermal pools and baths in Reykjavik are a source of health, relaxation and puren ess. 94% of foreign guests that visited thermal pools and baths in Reykjavik said it had a posit ive effect on their health and well-being. Welcome to Reykjavik ś Thermal Pools Tel: +354 411 5000 • www.itr.is • www.spacity.is

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