Reykjavík Grapevine - 28.08.2009, Page 41

I do not know what it is
about Blönduós that
brings on confusion. If I
did, I could bottle it and
sell it as bottled misunderstanding.
I would become very rich indeed.
Bottled misunderstanding would no
doubt make a good party gift and
become popular at stag and hen
parties that frequently dish out the
most outlandish forms of humiliation
and torture to the recipients.
Everything taped and shown on
reality TV infiltrates everything, also
weddings and Christmas parties, with
its inglorious intimacy, like smelling
someone else’s socks.
But back to Blönduós.
A few years back I received some
Christmas presents from my sister
living in Blönduós. She asked me if
I could do her a favour and deliver a
couple of other presents that arrived
with mine. I would deliver them to
her husband’s niece, whose name is
Stefanía. “No problem,” I said, and
she gave me Stefanía´s number. I ring
the number:
Hi, is this Stefanía?
‘Yes, this is her,’ she says. I
respond: My name is Sigtryggur, I am
Dísa´s brother and she asked me to
get some Christmas packages to you!
There is an unnerving hush on
the other end of the phone. Then she
says, ambiguously: ‘What did you say
your name was?’
I am getting a little weirded out
by this conversation. I have met
this woman at my sister’s family
functions.... also, I am at least a
semi-celeb in Iceland and am used
to being recognised. Is she fooling
with me or could it be that she is
actually deranged to some extent,
maybe drunk or on some kind of
prescription drug?
I say: ‘Sigtryggur Baldursson is
my name, you know, Dísa´s brother!
My sister Dísa who is married to your
mother’s brother Gísli!’ I am getting a
little heated...
She goes: ‘Huh!?? Who’s Gísli?’
I am sure she is deranged, her
voice sounds a little sluggish. Doesn’t
it?
I say: ‘Your mother’s name is
Sigga, is it not?
She replies with a very curt: ‘No.’
I say: ‘Your name is Stefanía,
right?’
She says: ‘Yes it is, but not the
one you are looking for.’
It dawns on me that this is
perhaps a bizarre coincidence. I beg
my pardon and put the phone down.
I call my sister. Lo and behold,
there is one digit askew in the
number she gave me. But that’s not
all.
All this came back to me earlier
this summer, as I was going to my
niece’s wedding in Blönduós.
I had just been fishing nearby and
managed—with the help of a rocky
road leading to the river—to put a
hole in the exhaust pipe of my car,
which tends to be in denial of the fact
that it is not a jeep.
I ask my sister Dísa whether she
knows the local mechanic and she
says ‘no.’ But Gísli does.
Too bad Gísli is at the wedding
rehearsal and I need to get this fixed
pronto. It is a Friday afternoon, and
my wife and daughter are coming
early evening. I want to get this fixed
now.
I call directory enquiries. 118. I ask
them for a car mechanic in Blönduós.
They hook me up, the phone rings
and a guy answers on the other side.
Hi, is this the garage? I hear kids
in the background and have a feeling
I have the wrong number.
He responds: ‘Well, I’m the
mechanic, but I am at home. What do
you want?’
‘Well, my name is Sigtryggur. I am
Gísli´s brother in law, and am going to
his daughter’s wedding tomorrow. I
managed to put a hole in my exhaust
and need some help fixing it today.
Can you help me?’ I tell him all this to
try and establish a personal contact
with the man, hoping he is a friend of
my brother in law, and will thus treat
me like a local. And not rip me off.
‘Well, you should call Gunnar at
the garage, he can help you...’
I take down the number and call
Gunnar. Gunnar gets the same stupid
introduction from me, pleading close
connections with locals. He gives me
a friendly hum hum, and tells me to
come at three o’clock.
I ask my sister where the garage
is located. She says it’s somewhere
up the hill by the N1 station and tells
me I can’t miss it. Then she pulls a
strange, almost worried look and
says that I better check with the guy,
since she thinks there are more than
one garages in town.
‘No problem,’ I say, ‘I still have his
number written down.’ I put on my
shoes and make a move to get on my
way.
I go and get some gas at the N1
station. I decide to call Gunnar the
mechanic from there, to see where
he is located: ‘Hi it’s Sigtryggur again,
I called you earlier about fixing my
exhaust!’
‘Yeah, man, how are you?’
‘Yeah, good man. Good. How can I
find your place?’
‘Well, I’m just up the hill on
Dyngjuvegur.’
‘I’m sorry but I don’t know where
that is. ‘Is it close to the N1 station?’
‘What N1 station?’
‘Well, the one up on the hill...’ (To
the guy at the counter, I remark, ‘isn’t
this a N1 station?’ He points at the
sign outside the window. It should be
obvious).
I carry on and ask the guy
at the counter where I can find
Dyngjuvegur. He just shakes his head
and says there is no such street in
Blönduós.
It’s finally happened. My phone
has hit a secret line in a parallel
universe. Obviously. The damn
microwaves have altered my
brainwaves after ten years of heavy
cellphone abuse.
There is an ominous silence on
the other end.
‘I’m at the N1 station alright,
where can I find you?’
‘There is no N1 station here.
Where are you?’
I cannot believe this shit. Is this
a hidden camera show? Damned
reality TV again!
I blurt out: ‘Ha ha ha man. I’m
standing in a middle of a N1 station
here in Blönduós and I swear to
you, it is very real. At least to me!’ I
produce a stifled cough.
There is a silence. Then he says:
‘You better check your map, man.
I am in Bolungarvík [a small town,
hundreds of kilometres away].’
I feel semi violated, like being shat
on by a bird.
To the right of the N1 station is
something called Jóhann’s garage.
I walk in there and speak to the
first person I see. A lanky youth
examining the underside of a beat up
jeep.
He recognises me immediately
and asks me if I am going to the
wedding tomorrow.
Blönduós.
29
The Reykjavík Grapevine
Issue 13 — 2009
Blönduós, Mother Of All Confusion
Travel | Destination
SIGTRYGGUR BALDURSSON
JULIA STAPLES
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boring. So check out the innards. And get confused.
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