My last (first) post was somewhat hypothetical, so I’ll try
to stick to realities now that we’ve actually experienced some of our trip. Full
disclaimer: we haven’t yet become fluent in Icelandic. In fact, earlier today
in Reykjavik a pugnacious group of 11 year-old truants asked us some
indecipherable question, to which we responded with such limited social grace
we might’ve been mistaken for John Besh, famed TV chef and purveyor of the
uncertain sideways glance.
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Forever in Jon Taffer's shadow. |
We began our trip in Washington, D.C., where Tirrill’s
delightful family hosted both me and Evan – we enjoyed the time immensely, in
part because Tirrill’s family derives just as much pleasure from poking fun at
him as we do (and despite the fact that we suffered an ignoble defeat to a
nine-year old in basketball). We did a brief tour of D.C., the highlight of
which was going to the American History Museum – while there we explored the
Presidents Exhibit, and I was pleased to witness this kimono/leisure suit,
which was worn casually around the Oval Office by none other than Warren G.
Harding (29th President of the United States):
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Business casual. |
For those unfamiliar with this man, he was belligerently
corrupt, unrepentantly adulterous, and had two right eyebrows. Across the
board, historians rank him as one of the worst presidents of all time – but
what do they know? His consistent ineptitude and risqué evening-wear has
solidified him as my favorite.
Although John Tyler – a gaunt, sickly, generally
insufferable man – comes close. One historian aptly deemed him an “obscure president,
with little presence in the American cultural memory.” He renamed his Virginia plantation
Sherwood Forest after being “outlawed” by his Whig party members, and his terrifically resigned last
words were apparently: “I am going. Perhaps it is best.” Millard Fillmore is
also in my upper echelon – his own final words were alleged to be, after being fed
some soup, “the nourishment is palatable,” a turn of phrase that makes him sound
like an overweight automaton.
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Suspiciously eyeing the buffet on the other side of the room. |
(Second Full Disclaimer: researching little-known presidents has become something of
an obsession for me lately.)
From D.C. we flew to Iceland, where we began driving
immediately despite sleep deprivation. Iceland’s an awesome (in every sense of
the word) place, full of wickedly-named locales like Skarfanes, moss-covered
lava fields, and Bonuses (the Costco equivalent, only with a big dumb sleepy-eyed pig as a mascot). And Forrest Gump
lied to Jenny – sometimes there are
enough rocks.
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Rock-stacking: an Icelandic national pastime. |
For the first day and a half I think we were hallucinating,
and this feeling was exacerbated by our discovery of a CD in the Hyundai with
93 tracks, 18 of which were covers of Keane’s “Somewhere Only We Know.” Luckily it also had "Africa" by Toto, so we were perfectly content.
We rolled into Vik one foggy evening, and there we enjoyed
watching Rich struggle to walk across the rocks by the black sand beaches.
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Can't be too careful. |
Alternating between using all-fours and bumping his butt along the rocks, Rich
became sweaty and pouty, but soon cheered up when fed some Tuc crackers and
cream cheese. Outside of our hostel that night, at 10 p.m., Tirrill and I
observed a man washing his tractor. This is the closest we came to witnessing
an Icelandic midlife crisis. Other than the guy pacing back and forth by
Gullfoss with his pants down and pale rear-end visible.
We’ve stayed at a camp site run by a man named Thor who loved listening to “Bittersweet Symphony,” we've observed sculptures we take to have been crafted by seals ("not sure I agree with your police work there, Lou"), worn jackets
around our waists like chaperones on an elementary school field trip, gazed
upon the pictures put up in Reykjavik menus in the “Mexican-food” section,
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"Magnus, come here for a second and do your best Mexican impression." |
chastised Rich for misusing the words “haggling” and
“squire,” praised the gods in Valhalla that Tirrill found some coffee, puzzled
over the reason for including this particular picture in a brochure at Kerid
crater,
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A lost Skid Row fan, unhappy pasty white folks, and something extra-curricular. |
raced each other through lush vegetation on a mountain in
Skaftafell, heard Evan whisper to himself about how “frightened” he is by the
moss-covered lava, run out of breathable air in the car/bedroom, and swayed
back and forth on the Krysuvikurberg cliffs, among many other highlights. It was great -- you'd just love it, devoted reader.
It's London-town next, where we're looking forward to getting mortal and eating cheap Indian food. And don't worry, mom, we'll look out for NEDs.
Speaking of obscure Presidents, there's Chester A. Arthur who had no Vice President (neither does Obama...oh, wait, there's that Biden guy) and who auctioned off all of the White House furniture, including all of the internet routers ("yah, that's right, Margie"). But, during his Presidency, there was passed the landmark Pendleton Civil Service Reform Act (opening up boundless opportunities for the big ginger nearly 150 years later). Apparently President Arthur was also a night owl, in the habit of staying up until 2 am. No doubt chugging Icelandic non-alcoholic brews into the wee hours. Looking forward to the next blog post: "My most favorite of the nine (um, wait, ten? whatever...) Supreme Court Justices, by Rich Frost."
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