Reykjavík Grapevine - 28.08.2009, Blaðsíða 31

The Reykjavík Grapevine
Issue 13 — 2009
19
Stefson, literally dancing on the
rooftops, drummed joyously along
with various percussions.
After the concert ended I began to
notice f locks of inebriated kids milling
about dubiously in the streets. The
first time I enjoyed Menningarnótt
in earnest I was sixteen and was
on Ingólfsstorg for the fireworks
display. It was right around the time
of night when the ground seemed to
become covered in shattered glass and
everyone around me was throwing up.
It was a little bit exciting in a gross and
pathetic kind of way, to be derelict and
part of a faceless crowd. But after a
while, I remember, the aggression and
chaos started to actually scare me.
When I eventually ended up
downtown long after the fireworks
display had ended this time, I
didn’t see even a hint of what I had
experienced back then, although
I made sure to stay far away from
Ingólfsstorg. It is comforting to
think that my habits may have
matured beyond all that, and I really
did think this to myself as I was
downtown, awake and inebriated at an
unreasonable hour, barely recovered
from a day-long hangover, dishevelled
and dancing at a bar amongst a
faceless crowd. Creator of my own
chaos.
CATHARINE FULTON:
It’s bright outside. Lækjargata is
f lanked by imposing chain link
barriers, marking the route of the
marathon running simultaneously
to Menningarnótt, and ensuring a
drunkard-free space in which the
runners can execute their task. Loud
cheers emanate from a crowd too small
in appearance to be making them as
two glistening bodies hurl themselves
over the finish line. Pedestrians have
been relegated to a 30-cm wide strip of
pavement between the metal fencing
and the raised planters in front of
Menntaskólinn í Reykjavík and those
not interested in watching the final
marathoners trickle in are instead
traversing the school’s lawn. Point A
to Point B.
Save for the excess of paper plates
and pylsa wrappers littering the
interlocking pavement, Lækjartorg
looks similar to any other day this
summer, perhaps in the height of
the tourist season. On the most
popular festival day where, pray tell,
is everybody? A walk up Laugavegur
is busier than the everyday but
depressingly sparse in the wake
of the festivals that came before.
Jazz ensemble overlaps convincing
Silversun Pickups covers overlaps
happy pre-teen electronica overlaps
hardcore pönk. Backing melodies for
the dance of an ocean of discarded blue
Síminn popsicle wrappers.
A sign advertising “FREE
WAFFLES!” lures a crowd to the park
adjacent to Hemmi og Valdi, but the
sign has been erected prematurely
and there are, in fact, no waff les to be
had. Still, a man in his mid-thirties,
noticeably lubricated, demands a
full waff le, not just a quarter or half.
He’s willing to make a donation if his
demands are met. Jars of strawberry,
apricot, cherry, and raspberry jam and
a plastic tub of marmalade wait to seep
into hot craters, fresh off the press.
Cherry looks promising.
Across the park, far removed
from the prominent Domino’s kiosk
and nothing else, colourful attire
shrouds the form of a mysterious man.
Turbaned head, painted on eyebrow,
painted on moustache, authentic
Scottish accent. The mystic is reading
palms for 500 ISK. I’m unlucky in love.
I think more than is good for me. I will
be working two jobs simultaneously
at some point. I may die soon but
mysteriously come back to life. I’ve
loved three people, none of them as
deeply as I should.
The jaunt back down Laugavegur
smells. The sun has been out long
enough to heat the detritus that is
carelessly strewn about the streets,
releasing the stenches once contained
therein. It reeks of trash. Pizza, pylsa,
cigarettes, alcohol, rot. The hours wear
on and the crowd grows in size and
inebriation. The increased number of
people in varying states of chemical
enhancement, save for the children
one hopes, increases the depth of
the layer of garbage being churned
together by stomping feet. Broken
glass shines like diamonds, pops
like explosives, cuts into treads, is
everywhere.
A brief escape from chaos is found
for many in the photography museum
on Tryggvagata, where a more family-
oriented crowd browses through black
and white photographs of Reykjavík
in the years of World War II and large
foam-core mounted images of 1960’s
glamour. Children and light-hearted
adults alike take their turn at dressing
up in the attire of antiquity and posing
for souvenir photographs in front of
a painted backdrop depicting a valley
and lake bordered by a lush forest. Red
velvet and woven gold accents gives
everyone instant class.
Ingólfstorg is boiling over at 9
pm, a welcome change to the patchy
crowd taking in Retro Stefson
and Sprengjuhöllin earlier in the
afternoon. An awkward and odd couple
motionless bodies and clapping,
dancing, smiling performers do
make. The masses slap their hands
together repeatedly for Hjaltalín and
scream with high-pitched joy. Adidas
tracksuits generously adorned with
metallic reliefs of the brand’s corporate
logo seem to be a popular fashion
statement among the <20 crowd, as
does holding hands, forming a chain
and running through the other patrons
without regard for the persons being
violently shoved by their actions. Oh,
to be young and inconsiderate. The
pungent odour of cigar smoke hangs
low in my general vicinity, mingling
toxically with the sharp spice of Ali
Baba and the too-much-cologne of the
man in front of me.
Inside Edition aired an exposé in
the early nineties in which a finger-
wagging mom-jeans clad reporter
examined the evils of pre-teen and
public drunkenness thriving on the
late night and early morning streets
of downtown Reykjavík. On Saturday,
once the fireworks had detonated,
accompanied by screams and ohh’s
and ahh’s, and the crowd vacated the
harbour and migrated to a watering
hole of their choosing, the overf low
transported 101 to 1992. Too-young
girls slouching in corners with too-
drunk friends at a loss for what to do.
Too-liquidly-confident men clashing
violently with too-liquidly-confident
men on every corner. Too-emotional
girlfriends holding back too-liquidly-
confident men on every corner. Too
many people everywhere. A field
day for an American reporter in
mom-jeans. A piece of nostalgia for
Icelanders who recall nights when
bars would close early and streets
picked up the slack in the good old
days of reckless youth. Those were the
days and this is their rebirth. Beer,
white wine, gin, Red Bull, gin, tonic,
gin, gin, gin. Garbage still litters the
ground but the smell fails to permeate
drink-numbed nostrils. People are
still too rowdy and too much in
one another’s personal space but,
goddamnit, everybody’s a friend in the
liquid haze of morning.
The party could be heard long after
the density of the streets lessened.
The din of the crowd surges on as
revellers wait their turn and don’t wait
their turn at the taxi stand. In the
hours that would on any other day be
punctuated by an alarm clock the city
is finally drifting off to sleep. Another
successful Menningarnótt.
VALGERÐUR ÞÓRODDSDÓTTIR
CATHARINE FULTON
JULIA STAPLES