Impressions, Anecdotes, Presidential Digressions, and Maybe a Few Pictures/Zeke

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.

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 (29^th President of the United States):

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.

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.

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. 

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,

"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,

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.