WIPE THAT SMIRK OFF YOUR FACE AND STOP EFFING WITH THE VOLCANOES, YOU LITTLE SHIT. I HAVE A SCHEDULED PLAYDATE WITH ELLY AND PEONIES AND YOU ARE CRAMPING MY STYLE WITH YOUR PASSIVE-AGGRESSIVE LITTLE GAMES. No one is leaving Glasgow or London because of your shenanigans and if you don't shape up soon, I will use you as a key chain.
P.S. Nice ball huggers. And I bet no one thinks that's a giant phallus you're smoking.
This is a puffin.
I am not telling you this from personal experience. Sure, I "saw puffins" - the same way you "see Cassiopea" when you're on a first date with some dude and he points in the general direction of the sky and you're like, "Oh yeah! I totally see it!" even though you have no effing clue what he's talking about and are just playing along so he thinks you're romantic and adventurous despite the fact that you're not even sure you really like him anymore after he pulled the very tired constellation seduction bit.
So, right. We plunk down the equivalent of $60 USD to get on the "Puffin Express"- a tiny boat without sufficient seating for the number of people crammed in - and squint at some tiny, microscopic dots off the coast of an island. According to the guide, who recounts insightful tidbits such as "the puffin comes here to lay eggs and then goes off to other countries to live," the island is teeming with puffins. There are puffins everywhere.
Except no one can see them.
Of course it's a loud American with an abrasive Long Island accent who speaks up.
"WHERE ARE THE PUFFINS? I CAN'T SEE THE PUFFINS!"
Bless her - she's thinking what everyone else is thinking (but is too European to say).
"They're right there!" says the guide, pointing at a minute blur of black and white. Everyone squints.
"WHERE?! I CAN'T SEE THEM!" I feel as though I want to hug her, even though she is appalling.
A man with a three-foot telephoto lens rolls his eyes and snickers. Homeboy can see puffin genitals. He is prepared. The rest of are idiot fuckwads with useless aim-and-shoot cameras, frantically snapping pictures at the open sea. In an unhealthy act of optimism, an Italian takes live footage of water on a handheld camera for what will be the most excruciatingly dull home movie ever created.
I put my camera down in defeat and contemplate the fact that I have transformed once again into Mrs. Schwartzfarb, the eighty-nine year old woman in my head who complains about change and noisy music and puffin tours.
I was lead to believe there were going to be puffins, says Mrs. Schwartzfarb with her inside voice. I paid good money to see puffins. I was told there would be baby puffins and that I would have an opportunity to hug them and put them in my pocket. But do you see any puffins? No. And to add insult to injury, this boat is very drafty.
We get off the boat.
"That was dumb," I say to Fauxhawk. "Let's get hotdogs."
All it takes to muzzle Mrs. Schwartzfarb is a hotdog with everything on it eaten on a sunny day. On rare occasions, she is easy to please. Iceland is looking up for Mrs. Schwartzfarb.
One wonders if John Fowles was inspired by the infinitely fascinating and eccentric Bókin (The Book), Reykjavik's small-scale version of the Strand Bookstore - or if the bookstore modeled itself on these words, which appear on the door of the shop. Either way, Bókin is both hyper-stimulating and deliciously peaceful - it's easy to lose yourself in the chaos. Reading amidst these toppling piles and narrow aisles, Bobby Fischer, the reclusive genius of the chess world, spent the remainder of his days. A picture of him hangs in the store, along with old photographs of notable literary and artistic figures from Iceland and abroad. The happy jumble of treasures makes this bookstore a delightful place to while away the time.
Which is exactly what we felt like doing when we found ourselves back in Reykjavik. Wandering around, drinking beer in cafes, eating gorgeous Icelandic yogurt and pastries, and exploring the dozen wonderfully curated vintage shops felt like a luxury.
"Curated" is a bit of stretch for Frida Frænka, an antique and vintage store that is stuffed to the gills with the weird and wonderful. I saw the most achingly beautiful Danish teacups there but had to restrain myself, as cupboard space is limited in New York kitchens.
The vintage clothing stores take on a slightly more restrained approach, though no one is walking away with any steals. I did, however, find a breathtakingly beautiful vintage coat with a sable collar - alas, too big for me (an anomaly when it comes to vintage shopping, I assure you).
(Apologies for the fuzzy pictures - I'm still trying to figure out how to get crisp indoor photographs without a flash...)
P.S. Reykjavik seems to be crawling with douchey tourists looking for a quick weekend lay. We were standing by the reception desk at our hotel checking in late one night when a oily bastard strolled up to the concierge and said (right in front of us), "This may not be an issue, but if I meet someone tonight, can I bring her back to the hotel? I have a double room, after all." With a pitying look and the utmost dignity the concierge replied, "Of course."
Doucherocket was back within fifteen minutes flat and ready for bed...alone. I can only imagine the requests these poor receptionists get - "I'm going to be bringing back a fivesome...so I'll need some super absorbant towels, a bottle of Windex, a few deboned puffins, and, if you have it, some rubber tubing. Just wanted to check to see if that's okay."
