I want to know how to survive in the Nightlife.

Right, so, it's not really nightlife per se at the moment, but... well...

After a nice dip in the sundlaugar, I went back to my tent for a small nap. I awoke much later than I had anticipated, prettied up (as best as I could in a tent), and set off to knock the Icelanders dead with my incomparable wit and bang-up debonair. Or: something like that.

My circumnambulation about town made it very obvious I was útlendigur. In Keflavík, it was explained to me, everyone knows everyone, and, nevermind my individualized image, I was simply not familiar to anyone -- and thus attracted a nice number of stares and wondered if any of them were actually good.

I wound up at a fantastic place called Yello. Make sure to keep checking that page (or, better, I'll alert you!) as they took several pictures of me and tend to post them up on the bar website.

I encountered a nice guy named Róbert. He told me I looked lonely; thus, him and his knockout girly companion taught me some Icelandic and bought me a drink. He introduced me, then, to a chum of his, who soon related a nearly disturbing taste for Blink 182. When I told the guy (whose Icelandic name I've now forgotten), he immediately asked if I was from San Diego. He then asked if I knew Encinitas. Encinitas?! How'd he know that? Well, through Blink 182´s bassist, of course. I told him I lived two small towns south of there... only a few minutes by car... and his eyes bugged out. The ensuing discourse over Víking beer and horrendously priced Camels taught me a lot about the youthful Icelandic mindset. His main goal of the evening? Convince these two girls at the bar to engage in a threesome. Classy.

At least I know there isn't a lot of petty thievery in Iceland; despite the obvious distaste for my foreignness, some Icelandic guys at least returned my camera (or, rather, Michelle's camera!), which has fallen from my pocket. They did, of course, have to take a picture of their own, first:

Útlendigur! Farðu!!!

Well. Needless to say I returned to my tent with a mild swagger. At the very least I had my kids to return to, who'd been guarding the tent from killer Puffins and sneaker German tourists whilst their irresponsible father went to booze with the locals.

The next day isn't quite worth writing about. I walked about town, studied some Icelandic near the oceans, and hit up some very cool art galleries as well as a fishing museum before fretting about my small (though complicated!) voyage to Reykjavík proper. Already, though, I could feel a creative haze, some sort of geyser-spewed miasma of mindfood eating (dancing?) its way through my pores. What would lay ahead in Reykjavík? Would the university tell me to piss off for my poor Icelandic? Would the campground I intended to stay at be full?

That's why I'm here. I want to be so disoriented and scared that my stomach never lays to rest. I want my feet to blister. Life in Reykjavík seems to provide just such an impetus for personal growth.
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Mail Pilaf about his Nightless travels: pilafdm@aol.com
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