Several people tell us about this AMAZING lobster joint that WE HAVE TO TRY. It's going to be AWESOME. So we hop in our rental car and head to Stokkseyri (population 530), a tiny fishing village so desolate that I wonder exactly how many people have been dragged here, buried alive, left for dead, and picked apart by angry seagulls. This does not bother me as much as the thought of eating lobster - the only food that makes me projectile vomit. Fauxhawk, who is a Mainer and therefore fond of La Cucaracha del Mar, notices that I am growing tense.
In an effort to blend in with the natives, I order the lobster bisque. In my world, "lobster bisque" means "the contents of your stomach on the rec room carpet after consuming baked ziti and fourteen shots of Jaeger" but I believe at that moment that eating lobster bisque is part of a cultural exchange I am having with the people of Iceland. The bisque is fairly innocuous - it's the bucket of lobster exoskeleton on every table that makes me gag.
"Is it hot in here?" I fret.
"No, are you hot?"
"I feel hot. Do you see hives? Am I breaking out into hives?"
"You look normal."
I watch Fauxhawk wrench apart the body of a hapless lobster. "I don't know...I just don't...feel right."
This is the part of the story where I rush out of the restaurant grabbing my throat and gasping for air. Except that doesn't happen at all. We pay the bill, walk out onto the shore, and take some unremarkable pictures (above).
DID YOU SEE HOW I CREATED DRAMATIC TENSION IN THE STORY? DID YOU? GOOD, RIGHT?
