Reykjavík Grapevine - 05.06.2015, Síða 4

Most Awesome
Letter of the Issue!
Tip-ical?
After falling for Iceland just over a year
ago, whilst at the same time falling for an
Icelander- in a safe, real-life friend of a
friend of a friend situation. I soon realise
that human interaction at whatever
distance and whichever country one
occupies; the same confusions, angst and
asshole behavior can apply.
Upon my return home and a year of
(admittedly patchy) Facebook flirtation
I thought we’d eventually established a
mutual fancying of one another. Long
distance love always seemed the ultimate
romance, absence only made my heart
grow fonder. Be realistic, he said. For
fear of bunny boiler-esque assumption I
was not brave enough to say I’d book my
one-way ticket to Reykjavik and make it
a reality in a compounding heartbeat.
I’d thought of our children: would
they get his deep-set eyes and coloring?
What beauty we'd produce and raise in
our cozy cabin in the middle of nowhere,
making love in the hot stream under a
green sky in our lava field garden while
our four angelic children slumber secure-
ly resting their cherub cheeks on our pet
blue-eyed huskies. Maybe I didn’t really
want anything for choosing this remote
subarctic island man zillions of miles
away or maybe this dude could never live
up to the Icy warrior I’d created in my
daydreams from afar.
I construct an academic research trip
to Iceland, though in my head he is at the
core of my plans. Finally I arrive in my
magical wonderland high on thoughts of
said Viking. His distinct ennui on arrival
makes my heart sink. I do not fit into his
plans, other than after 10pm. Sweet ut-
terances once typed were libidinous emp-
ty words. I try to dismiss his rudeness
for misunderstood Icelandic-ness: tonal/
cultural/language/attitude confusions.
But hey, I know love vibes only speak one
language and booty calls are a universal
diction.
We have a good time. We drink
Bullshit and weirdness aside. Icelandic
men are the best endowed of the Euros
averaging 6.5 inches supposedly. I must
at least snag some of his metage while
I’m here. Back to my sweet hotel room:
against the backdrop of snowy moun-
tains and a no-show aurora, intrigued I
see something my eyes had never spied-
not in real life, not on pornhub. Tipsy on
his tip I’m not sure I could hide my curi-
osity. Slender, but thick cupped on top - I
want to sit on this toadstool. I played,
captivated, familiarising my hands, body
and mouth to this new structure. Glad to
feel he fits the Icelandic average.
Seemingly evolution created the
mushroom apex penis to clear previous
exploits sperm; this alongside some
serious pounding ensures paternity. It’s
not hard to envisage a dragon-ship full
of mushroom topped Vikings fuck-
ing around emptying out vaginas of a
previous mans load. I came in a land of
gushing geysers, my experience matched
natures. I was sad for no ice cream
drives or samband, but I am brave, at
least I know, I discovered that tip. He
was not ready for this wannabe Norse
Queen.
No Saga here. In the mean time I’ll
eat skyr from a distance, read ‘Names
For The Sea’ and idealsie my return to
Iceland in November to see my original
Icelandic love: Bjork.
What a dramatic account of
mushroom hunting in Iceland! He
sounds like a real fun-gi, but we're
glad you learned the morel to
the story: when you travel, make
sure you're traveling for YOU, or
else you might end up feeling like
shiitake. That said, I'm glad the
mind-blowing spore-nification
made it all worth it.
It will probably be a bit too cold to
find any prime shroomers during
your return in November, but we
wish you well in your expedition!
The Grapevine
Say your piece, voice your
opinion, send your letters to:
letters@grapevine.is
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KJARVALSSTAÐIR
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Guided tour in English every Friday
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