So, back from the Westfjords. Long trip, but absolutely worth it. Allow me to recap for you, my harrowing journey, fraught with near-death experiences, fantastic discoveries, chilling tales of long-dead children, and mostly terrible music!
Day 1, wherein I eat suspect shellfish:
David, Paul, Siobhan, Ben* and I left Reykjavík in a RAV4 we rented from (no joke) SAD Cars. They specialize in vehicles over 10 years old, and for cheap. So off we went, on our epic journey northward, to the land of sagas and adventure! But first, we went south, to Keflavik.
See, a RAV4 is a tiny, tiny vehicle. Especially with five of us wedged in there. So we convinced them to let us trade up for a Mitsubishi Pajero - a 4-wheel drive, diesel-fuelled, monstrosity of a vehicle - and we were off! Properly, this time, I mean!
So northward we went, Siobhan and David alternating their time behind the wheel. Many great vistas were taken in, and you will see some selected photographs at the end of this post. One very important point of interest, though, is that I started the traditional "James goes on an adventure and nearly dies!" excitement during the trek up to our hostel in Korpudalur. See, the Westfjords, they are basically bits of sea which carved away chunks of Iceland's northwest tip. This leads to all sorts of marine life being found along the shore. Including mussels.
Now, I love food of all kinds, but I have a particular weakness for shellfish (much to the chagrin of my gout), and as such, I pretty much had no option but to collect four of the wee buggers, put them into an empty skyr pot I'd filled with sea water, and bring them with us to the hostel so I could have them for dinner.
Which I did.
And by the gods, they were delicious. So delicious, in fact, that I do not regret putting myself at risk of getting a myriad of diseases, or eating a poisonous creature for even a second.
After dinner, we went to the music festival in Isafjörður, wherein there was precisely one band which did not suck who played that night. It was Skálmöld, my favourite Icelandic Metal band. The mosh pit was fantastic, and everyone had a good time. The rest of the music, though, was...Well, how can I describe Icelandic music in general?
It tends to be extremely...hip. They know exactly what is on the bleeding edge of popular culture, and if that happens to be retro-ironic goth rock along the lines of Nine Inch Nails or Marylin Manson, then they do that. If it happens to be generic mid-90s pop-rock, then by the gods, they do that too.
Not really my scene, yeah?
After the Skálmöld show was done, the last act came on and I made David a deal: If the act was terrible, we left. If it was awesome, I murdered everyone at the show. Fortunately, the band was terrible, and we left.
When we got back to the hostel, we went to bed. All was good.
Apart from the phantom sheep that Paul heard while having a smoke.
Perhaps some elucidation is needed: Korpudalur is a farmstead. It has lots of fields. Several buildings. No livestock that we saw. The fields are full of sheep droppings, though, so they must be there. Somewhere. But we neither saw nor heard them during the day. At night, however, you could hear the plaintive bleating of a sheep in the distance. Which, when you're in that weird state of half-awareness that comes with just waking up from a deep sleep, or - in Paul's case - knackered from the effects of whiskey,** sleeping pills, and a hot shower, can be extremely disconcerting.
Fortunately, we survived the night. On to...
Day 2, wherein rocks fall, James nearly dies:
After a hearty brunch of bacon, eggs, beans, and toast, we headed off to see sights!
We went all over the Westfjords, from dreary, workaday fishing villages, to shabby industrial towns, and back. We saw many sights, and had a lot of fun. Of the events that day, the one that stands out most is my second - and most legitimate - near-death experience of the trip.
The town of Bolungarvik is a shabby industrial centre, mainly famous for processing fish. To reach it, you used to take a scenic route along the coast, but they bored a tunnel through the mountain and now you go that way. Well, that certainly wouldn't stand - not for an adventuresome group like us! - and as such, we resolved to travel the coastal road on the way back from the town! Unfortunately, the road was marked as 'blocked' and, despite the fact that a group of horsemen had led their mighty steeds through it not ten minutes earlier, we decided to try the road from the other end.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is when I nearly got crushed by a mountain.
We drove up the road on the Isafjörður side of the tunnel, and encountered the same 'road blocked' signage. This would not do, however, and we dismounted our mighty vehicle. I decided to take the scouting role for myself and travelled up the road around 1200 metres or so. The first 600 metres were fine; the sides of the mountain were a combination of exposed rock and soil, but there were fascines of stones laid alongside the road to keep any errant rocks from ruining our day. There was then a gentle curve in the road, and I disappeared around the bend. This is where things got a bit dodgy. The exposed rocks were riven and fissured, with water pouring down their faces, while the fascines became fewer and further between - the last one had been smashed open by a rather large rock that lay on the road, serving as a sober reminder of the danger in which I found myself. A more pressing reminder, though, was when a few small stones slid down the face of the mountain around 100 metres behind me. Then several more fell a few metres in front of me. And then a boulder the size of my chest bounced into the road less than 20 metres directly in front of me. I took this last occurrence as a sign that I should withdraw post haste.
Siobhan said to me later that I didn't need to shout "We've got a problem" when I rounded the bend of the road. The fact that I was running was indication enough.
Thwarted in our plans for sight seeing, we returned to Isafjörður and from there we went to the second day of the show. Again, there was only one act I was actually looking forward too - my favourite Faeroese singer, Guðrið Hansdóttir - and she performed fantastically. David and Ben wanted to watch more of the show after she was done, so Siobhan, Paul, and I went back into town and drove around for a few hours. After that, we got hungry and found possibly the greatest establishment in Iceland: A combination diner, ice cream shop, convenience store, bar, music shop, and casino. I kid you not. We got milkshakes and had pizza. Then I won 6700ISK playing slots. Great time.
After that, we went driving a bit more, then picked up David and Ben from the concert and went home.
Which is when the second Night of Terror began.
As I have already said, Korpudalur is a farmstead. This means it is fairly isolated. This also means that any children will have to make due with their imaginations; this, unsurprisingly, leads to playhouses and whatnot. One of these playhouses was sitting on the side of the road, and was abandoned. Paul and I joked about it being the sole remaining indicator of a poor dead girl, and went from there. We successfully managed to scare the hell out of ourselves (and David and Ben, although they will never admit it) - and then, to prove our manliness, we went hiking in the farmyard, just the two of us, in the dark. Which kind of worked. At least the phantom sheep would have two people to deal with then.
Day 3, wherein mother nature pulls a Saruman:
We left this morning, prepared for a 6 hour drive south. What we got, however, was a 11 hour drive. Part of this was due to the fact that we stopped at the Galdrasýning á Ströndum and spent an hour or so looking at Icelandic witchcraft and sorcery-related things. Another part of the delay was because we'd decided to eat at a gas station, and that took some time. A third part of the delay was the fact that we tried desperately to ford a flooding river so we could get to some natural hot springs. Alas, that didn't work, but we did get to spend some time with Icelandic horses, which was neat.
The thing that took the most time, though, was our failed attempt at a shortcut across Eyjafell, which would have cut approximately 40km off of our trip. We managed to get a third of the way up the mountain, in 4-wheel, low-centre drive, before we became bogged down in deep snow and Siobhan was forced to back us up. At that point, we again dismounted and I again took a scout up ahead. There was only five or so metres of snow left in the patch we'd been in - it was around 15cm deep - and we decided that, if the path ahead was navigable, we'd try the rest of the mountain.
By this point, though, the weather on the mountain was turning against us quite badly. Winds, rain, and blowing snow made me lose my footing in several fissures along the road, and when I reached the second ice patch, the fact that it was a 100 metre long morass of slush, ice, and mud caused me to curse and bellow my rage at the fact that the next half-kilometre or so looked relatively safe for driving. I reported back and it was decided that we make for the Djupavegur - literally, the Deep Road - and return along the fjords. Which we did.
And that got us home.
There are, of course, many pictures, and I'm going to put them here under a jump, but as there are around fifty of 'em, I'm not going to give you pithy or witty on most of them. You'll just have to deal.
*Ben being David's younger brother.
**Yes, whiskey - he was drinking Jack Daniel's, so the extra 'e' is necessary.
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01 April 2012
A photoless update!
Well then. It's been two weeks, time for your update on my adventures!
Well, that's what I'd be saying had there been any noteworthy adventures afoot these past two weeks. Instead, what you get is a tale of new meetings, academic misadventures, and bureaucratic tomfoolery! Such fun!
First, new meetings! On Thursday last (that's the 22nd for those of you keeping score), Siobhan, David, and I went whale watching. We saw no whales. However, we did meet Jennie, a new Dive Instructor at Dive.is - which is the place where Hana and Siobhan both work - and Fiona, a friend of Siobhan's from England. Much fun was had, what with me getting thoroughly soaked by the driving rain and spray from the waves hitting the boat. David and I determined that, should this whole 'academia' thing not pan out for us, we're going to buy a ship and become pirates. This has been filed away as Plan E in my Multitudinous Collection of Plans.* After our abortive attempt at finding whales, Jennie headed on home and the remainder of us grabbed some dinner, then David, Siobhan, Fi, Ryder, and I hit the hot tubs, and went to the pub where David and Ryder were playing. Good times were had by all.
Then, a couple of days later, David and Siobhan broke my bed.** Fortunately, I managed to fix things fairly easily, in a testament to my ability to jury-rig and perform amateur metal working with next to no equipment!***
And now, Academia, because frankly I'm not good at transitional phrases.
Here's a quick run-down for those of you who are interested in my academic progress: I'm doing as well as Ryder in Old Norse Religions, and beating him in Paleography. Old Norse is kicking my ass in new and frightening ways, though. Fortunately, there's a week off this week, and I'll be hopefully studying myself into premature aging, as in addition to Old Norse, I need to write a 5000ish word paper for the Religions course, and in order to do that I should probably finish the book that forms a central tenet of my thesis.
Or, rather, I would, were it not for the fact that I'm going to the Westfjords with Paul, David, Siobhan, and David's brother to spend the weekend in an abandoned herring canning factory.
No, really.
Also, insofar as acamademia is related, I've still not got an advisor for my thesis,**** but I do have a professor interested in working with me for a PhD in Nottingham next year, so I applied there. I should hear from them shortly with a yea or nay.
That's a bit of extra stress I probably could live without.
Finally, bureaucratic tomfoolery!
I'm getting deported!*****
OK, to be both more accurate and less hyperbolic, my residence permit has yet to be renewed. This is because UTL generally doesn't like Canadians, apparently. Hopefully, though, this should get sorted and your intrepid narrator will not be cast from the country before he finishes his exams. The thesis itself I can probably do from Canada fairly easily.
And that about sums it up. Of course, there are a massive amount of footnotes, but then again, I like footnotes, so it works.
Hopefully, there'll be photos for you all on the next update, and even more hopefully, we won't have wandered into a Saw-like situation with this 'music festival' we're attending.
You know the drill though, Gentle Readers. If not back, avenge death.
*Contrary to popular belief, I do in fact plan things out, albeit it broad strokes, rather than fine details. By way of example, plan A involves me getting my PhD and becoming a professor; plan B has me getting my teacher's cert and teaching high school History and English; plan C involves running for Parliament; plan D is getting Richard Branson to fund an airship construction firm; plan E is piracy, of one form or another.
**To elaborate, neither David nor Fiona had seen The Boondock Saints before, and thus Siobhan rectified that by bringing the film over here so we could watch it in my room. Fiona got the Seat of Honour, as she was visiting, and David, Siobhan, and I were on my bed, while Hayley got the Swank-Ass Leather Desk Chair. At some point, one of the legs broke on the bed, which resulted in us being spilled onto the floor and me removing the other three legs so that the bed sat on the ground.
***So, the leg is just a piece of 5mm steel bent at a 90 degree angle and then soldered onto a tube of aluminum. It got bent to around 45 degrees, and so I took a hammer (graciously provided by Myriam) and used a stone as my anvil and hammered that sucker roughly back into shape. I also managed to snap the thin solder that was holding it to the leg, and as such, I now have a piece of 1x4 as a supplementary leg, and I managed to hammer the steel to such an angle that it (roughly) fits into the aluminum and keeps the bed (mostly) stable. Go me!
****Which is on spears in the sagas, and how they're not all just spears. It's a rather esoteric and finicky thing, but basically it amounts to me writing the entry on 'throwing spear,' 'heavy spear,' 'short spear,' and 'thrusting spear' for the Dungeons and Dragons: Medieval Scandinavia source book.
*****Not really.
Well, that's what I'd be saying had there been any noteworthy adventures afoot these past two weeks. Instead, what you get is a tale of new meetings, academic misadventures, and bureaucratic tomfoolery! Such fun!
First, new meetings! On Thursday last (that's the 22nd for those of you keeping score), Siobhan, David, and I went whale watching. We saw no whales. However, we did meet Jennie, a new Dive Instructor at Dive.is - which is the place where Hana and Siobhan both work - and Fiona, a friend of Siobhan's from England. Much fun was had, what with me getting thoroughly soaked by the driving rain and spray from the waves hitting the boat. David and I determined that, should this whole 'academia' thing not pan out for us, we're going to buy a ship and become pirates. This has been filed away as Plan E in my Multitudinous Collection of Plans.* After our abortive attempt at finding whales, Jennie headed on home and the remainder of us grabbed some dinner, then David, Siobhan, Fi, Ryder, and I hit the hot tubs, and went to the pub where David and Ryder were playing. Good times were had by all.
Then, a couple of days later, David and Siobhan broke my bed.** Fortunately, I managed to fix things fairly easily, in a testament to my ability to jury-rig and perform amateur metal working with next to no equipment!***
And now, Academia, because frankly I'm not good at transitional phrases.
Here's a quick run-down for those of you who are interested in my academic progress: I'm doing as well as Ryder in Old Norse Religions, and beating him in Paleography. Old Norse is kicking my ass in new and frightening ways, though. Fortunately, there's a week off this week, and I'll be hopefully studying myself into premature aging, as in addition to Old Norse, I need to write a 5000ish word paper for the Religions course, and in order to do that I should probably finish the book that forms a central tenet of my thesis.
Or, rather, I would, were it not for the fact that I'm going to the Westfjords with Paul, David, Siobhan, and David's brother to spend the weekend in an abandoned herring canning factory.
No, really.
Also, insofar as acamademia is related, I've still not got an advisor for my thesis,**** but I do have a professor interested in working with me for a PhD in Nottingham next year, so I applied there. I should hear from them shortly with a yea or nay.
That's a bit of extra stress I probably could live without.
Finally, bureaucratic tomfoolery!
I'm getting deported!*****
OK, to be both more accurate and less hyperbolic, my residence permit has yet to be renewed. This is because UTL generally doesn't like Canadians, apparently. Hopefully, though, this should get sorted and your intrepid narrator will not be cast from the country before he finishes his exams. The thesis itself I can probably do from Canada fairly easily.
And that about sums it up. Of course, there are a massive amount of footnotes, but then again, I like footnotes, so it works.
Hopefully, there'll be photos for you all on the next update, and even more hopefully, we won't have wandered into a Saw-like situation with this 'music festival' we're attending.
You know the drill though, Gentle Readers. If not back, avenge death.
*Contrary to popular belief, I do in fact plan things out, albeit it broad strokes, rather than fine details. By way of example, plan A involves me getting my PhD and becoming a professor; plan B has me getting my teacher's cert and teaching high school History and English; plan C involves running for Parliament; plan D is getting Richard Branson to fund an airship construction firm; plan E is piracy, of one form or another.
**To elaborate, neither David nor Fiona had seen The Boondock Saints before, and thus Siobhan rectified that by bringing the film over here so we could watch it in my room. Fiona got the Seat of Honour, as she was visiting, and David, Siobhan, and I were on my bed, while Hayley got the Swank-Ass Leather Desk Chair. At some point, one of the legs broke on the bed, which resulted in us being spilled onto the floor and me removing the other three legs so that the bed sat on the ground.
***So, the leg is just a piece of 5mm steel bent at a 90 degree angle and then soldered onto a tube of aluminum. It got bent to around 45 degrees, and so I took a hammer (graciously provided by Myriam) and used a stone as my anvil and hammered that sucker roughly back into shape. I also managed to snap the thin solder that was holding it to the leg, and as such, I now have a piece of 1x4 as a supplementary leg, and I managed to hammer the steel to such an angle that it (roughly) fits into the aluminum and keeps the bed (mostly) stable. Go me!
****Which is on spears in the sagas, and how they're not all just spears. It's a rather esoteric and finicky thing, but basically it amounts to me writing the entry on 'throwing spear,' 'heavy spear,' 'short spear,' and 'thrusting spear' for the Dungeons and Dragons: Medieval Scandinavia source book.
*****Not really.
16 March 2012
In which a disturbing trend is observed
Today, Paul, Liv, Liv's friend Lee, and I went on a road trip. Where? Points south! Why? Why not?
Now, you might be wondering what exactly the title of this post is referencing. Allow me to explain: Each time I have left the city limits, two of three things have happened without fail: First, I have had to make an unexpected climb up an absurdly tall hill - the most infamous of which was the incident at the Mountain of Shame; Second, I have managed to get soaking wet - as was evinced by the Þórsmörk trip; Third, and most worryingly, I have managed to almost die in some ridiculous way - most recently by exposure during the Snæfellsnes trip.
So, what happened today? Well, I'm glad you asked. Allow me to show you these photos, and I will tell for you the tale of our trip to the south of Iceland!
Now, you might be wondering what exactly the title of this post is referencing. Allow me to explain: Each time I have left the city limits, two of three things have happened without fail: First, I have had to make an unexpected climb up an absurdly tall hill - the most infamous of which was the incident at the Mountain of Shame; Second, I have managed to get soaking wet - as was evinced by the Þórsmörk trip; Third, and most worryingly, I have managed to almost die in some ridiculous way - most recently by exposure during the Snæfellsnes trip.
So, what happened today? Well, I'm glad you asked. Allow me to show you these photos, and I will tell for you the tale of our trip to the south of Iceland!
26 February 2012
The things I do for you people...
Well, this past week I managed to get fantastically ill. That doesn't actually really do justice to the degree of unwellness which I experienced, but as this is a Family Blag,* I'll spare you the really unnecessary details. Suffice it to say, from about Monday night through this morning, I was alternately shivering and sweating in my bed, softly mewling like a beaten kitten as what meagre defences my immune system could marshal fought off the invaders.
They probably would have had an easier go of things had I not won a drinking contest on Wednesday night and then went to Snæfellsnes on Thursday morning. Now, for those of you unfamiliar with the geography of Iceland, Snæfellsnes is about three hours north of Reykjavik. This, of course, means it's a touch chillier than my temporary urban dwelling location. Also windier.
Keep both of those in mind as you read what I'm about to type next:
Our initial plan was to go around Borgarness, maybe pop down to the coast for a bit, and then get to Helgafell and see the grave of Gúðrún Ósvífrsdóttir. As such, I didn't bring a jacket, just my lopapeysa and gloves. Had we only gone to Helgafell, then that wouldn't have been an issue.
However, Helgafell was not our only stop. No. We went to Snæfelljökull, Arnastapi, Dritvik, Borgarness, and visited Reynhildur's uncle's farm, where he makes hákarl.
Now, none of that sounds too bad, right? Except for that part where I mentioned Snæfelljökull. For those of you not up on your Icelandic (or your old school Magic: The Gathering cards**), jökull means glacier. Now, we didn't go all the way up on the glacier; that was around 8km from the base. No, we just climbed up to Sönghellir and looked around for a bit. And by 'we,' I mean myself, Paul, Myriam, Barbara, and Reynhildur. It was gorgeous, no doubt about it, but the cold and wind conspired to make that climb the hardest 1.3km I have ever walked in my life.
Now, that being said, you people had better appreciate what I had to go through to get the following pictures.
*In that my mom and dad read it.
**See this card; when it comes for all-or nothing destruction, you can't go wrong with it.
They probably would have had an easier go of things had I not won a drinking contest on Wednesday night and then went to Snæfellsnes on Thursday morning. Now, for those of you unfamiliar with the geography of Iceland, Snæfellsnes is about three hours north of Reykjavik. This, of course, means it's a touch chillier than my temporary urban dwelling location. Also windier.
Keep both of those in mind as you read what I'm about to type next:
Our initial plan was to go around Borgarness, maybe pop down to the coast for a bit, and then get to Helgafell and see the grave of Gúðrún Ósvífrsdóttir. As such, I didn't bring a jacket, just my lopapeysa and gloves. Had we only gone to Helgafell, then that wouldn't have been an issue.
However, Helgafell was not our only stop. No. We went to Snæfelljökull, Arnastapi, Dritvik, Borgarness, and visited Reynhildur's uncle's farm, where he makes hákarl.
Now, none of that sounds too bad, right? Except for that part where I mentioned Snæfelljökull. For those of you not up on your Icelandic (or your old school Magic: The Gathering cards**), jökull means glacier. Now, we didn't go all the way up on the glacier; that was around 8km from the base. No, we just climbed up to Sönghellir and looked around for a bit. And by 'we,' I mean myself, Paul, Myriam, Barbara, and Reynhildur. It was gorgeous, no doubt about it, but the cold and wind conspired to make that climb the hardest 1.3km I have ever walked in my life.
Now, that being said, you people had better appreciate what I had to go through to get the following pictures.
*In that my mom and dad read it.
**See this card; when it comes for all-or nothing destruction, you can't go wrong with it.
20 February 2012
I should probably endeavour to update this thing more than twice a month
You'll note, though, that I said "should," which means that it probably won't happen.
Ah, well. Some of you still come by, whether out of duty, respect, morbid curiosity, actual interest, or random chance. Either way, thanks for that.
So, what's been going on the last couple of weeks here in the land of Ice and Snow?
Well, for one, it's been rather bipolar, weather-wise, here. I was originally intending to take a bunch of photos showing the complete lack of snow and ice after the last update but, alas, it would seem as though Iceland decided to thwart my plans, what with it suddenly snowing over the last couple of days. The weather is alternating between that nice, late-winter mildness and the mid-winter, bone-chilling cold that makes your exposed skin burn when you come into a building with even a mild amount of heating. I, personally, can't really decide which of the two I like more.
School-work proceeds apace, with my Old Norse Religions course having two more tests and an essay (which I should really get working on) before we're done with it; Paleography has a trio of projects before our massive (70%!) final at the end of the term, and Old Icelandic has it's midterm exam next Wednesday. Of course, I am suffering from a bout of academically existential dread over the exam. While I am getting better at my translations, my grasp of the grammar is still tenuous at best, amateurish to be accurate, and completely inept if I were being harsh on myself. In more positive academic news, I've decided on an idea for a thesis* and I'm just waiting now to hear back from a potential advisor.
Shifting gears, albeit in not as radical a way as it might first appear, Saturday was not only the first game of Pathfinder I've ever run (and the first game I've run in over a year, generally), but it was also Ásdísarblót.** After Ásdís departed for drinks, mutual friend of David, Ryder, and Johanna named Magda showed up with belated cheesecake and a loaf of delicious marbled cake-like-object. While hanging out, it was brought up that Magda's PhD work is, essentially, a much more advanced version of what I want to do for my thesis and she's even got the same advisor as I was hoping for, which is awesome. And then Siobhan called, asking if we wanted to partake in an adventure.
This was, of course, a silly question for her to ask. I have never turned down adventure in my life. So with remarkably little cajoling and convincing, David , Ryder, Hayley,*** Magda, Johanna, Siobhan, Anna,**** and I went off northward in search of Aurora Borealis. Unfortunately, a sudden snowstorm barred our northern advances and we were forced to turn back. After a while, though, the snow let up and we ran around a rather mountainous hill. There may or may not have been a troll spotting as well, but that's something speculative which I will have to store in my "go back and check it out" file for now.
That's about it, really, for the past two weeks; mostly studying, with the rare bit of high nerdery and mid-grade adventure thrown in. This week, though, being a week off of Old Icelandic, promises to have more fun. We (Paul, Ásdís, Liv, and I) are hoping to go skating on Tuesday, and Paul and I are trying to organize a roadtrip on Thursday. I also may have talked myself into an endurance-based beer-drinking contest with Magda scheduled for Wednesday night. That may or may not end poorly for me. We'll see.
*Basically, it's writing the descriptions for chapter on Polearms in Dungeons and Dragons: Early Medieval Scandinavia.
**I like to name birthdays, apparently. For example, I have Jimmas, Ásdís gets Ásdísablót, Siobhan has Siobhannukah, Hana gets Hanadan, etc.
***Another Canadian, from BC, and a friend of Johanna's.
****Possibly? I forget, mostly because I'm a terrible person like that.
Ah, well. Some of you still come by, whether out of duty, respect, morbid curiosity, actual interest, or random chance. Either way, thanks for that.
So, what's been going on the last couple of weeks here in the land of Ice and Snow?
Well, for one, it's been rather bipolar, weather-wise, here. I was originally intending to take a bunch of photos showing the complete lack of snow and ice after the last update but, alas, it would seem as though Iceland decided to thwart my plans, what with it suddenly snowing over the last couple of days. The weather is alternating between that nice, late-winter mildness and the mid-winter, bone-chilling cold that makes your exposed skin burn when you come into a building with even a mild amount of heating. I, personally, can't really decide which of the two I like more.
School-work proceeds apace, with my Old Norse Religions course having two more tests and an essay (which I should really get working on) before we're done with it; Paleography has a trio of projects before our massive (70%!) final at the end of the term, and Old Icelandic has it's midterm exam next Wednesday. Of course, I am suffering from a bout of academically existential dread over the exam. While I am getting better at my translations, my grasp of the grammar is still tenuous at best, amateurish to be accurate, and completely inept if I were being harsh on myself. In more positive academic news, I've decided on an idea for a thesis* and I'm just waiting now to hear back from a potential advisor.
Shifting gears, albeit in not as radical a way as it might first appear, Saturday was not only the first game of Pathfinder I've ever run (and the first game I've run in over a year, generally), but it was also Ásdísarblót.** After Ásdís departed for drinks, mutual friend of David, Ryder, and Johanna named Magda showed up with belated cheesecake and a loaf of delicious marbled cake-like-object. While hanging out, it was brought up that Magda's PhD work is, essentially, a much more advanced version of what I want to do for my thesis and she's even got the same advisor as I was hoping for, which is awesome. And then Siobhan called, asking if we wanted to partake in an adventure.
This was, of course, a silly question for her to ask. I have never turned down adventure in my life. So with remarkably little cajoling and convincing, David , Ryder, Hayley,*** Magda, Johanna, Siobhan, Anna,**** and I went off northward in search of Aurora Borealis. Unfortunately, a sudden snowstorm barred our northern advances and we were forced to turn back. After a while, though, the snow let up and we ran around a rather mountainous hill. There may or may not have been a troll spotting as well, but that's something speculative which I will have to store in my "go back and check it out" file for now.
That's about it, really, for the past two weeks; mostly studying, with the rare bit of high nerdery and mid-grade adventure thrown in. This week, though, being a week off of Old Icelandic, promises to have more fun. We (Paul, Ásdís, Liv, and I) are hoping to go skating on Tuesday, and Paul and I are trying to organize a roadtrip on Thursday. I also may have talked myself into an endurance-based beer-drinking contest with Magda scheduled for Wednesday night. That may or may not end poorly for me. We'll see.
*Basically, it's writing the descriptions for chapter on Polearms in Dungeons and Dragons: Early Medieval Scandinavia.
**I like to name birthdays, apparently. For example, I have Jimmas, Ásdís gets Ásdísablót, Siobhan has Siobhannukah, Hana gets Hanadan, etc.
***Another Canadian, from BC, and a friend of Johanna's.
****Possibly? I forget, mostly because I'm a terrible person like that.
06 February 2012
In which a Secret Shame is revealed
So, much has happened this week!
Well, not much, but you get the point. Things happened, I will inform you of them.
First off, I have apparently placated the huldufólk which have been plaguing my culinary and gustatory endeavours; the loaf of bread, shortcake monstrosity, and bacon-wrapped, maple-mustard glazed ham all turned out fantastically! Mark's suggestion of a thinner loaf with deeper cuts worked, and I have discovered which butter is salted and unsalted (surprisingly, by looking at the ingredients on the package - I'm kind of an idiot at times, apparently), which made the shortbread monstrosity much better. Mostly because it didn't result in a salty brick of baked good.
And bacon makes everything better, despite what Erin and Ryder may think. The fools.
Speaking of food, I also received a care package from my folks, containing prosciutto, Calabrese salami, Crotonese and Friulano cheeses, maple syrup, wasabi peas, bacon marmalade, and tobacco. Also, Nutella. It was like finding a gift from the gods, wrapped in a box, delivered by UPS. Not going to lie, half of the cheese and salami is gone. The prosciutto, on the other hand, weighs literally 2kg and as such has not been reduced by such a great amount. The Nutella is untouched as well, as a way of gauging how quickly my flatmates will surrender to temptation.
Also, speaking of temptation, I have experienced a loss in my burgeoning collection of pipes. Well, not a total loss; the tenon of my churchwarden has broken off inside the mortise, leaving the stinger lodged in there.* I need to pick up some fine, needle-nosed pliers tomorrow and hopefully pull it out, resolving that issue.
Finally, I admitted my Secret Shame** to several people this evening, who then blabbed about my possessing of a Secret Shame, although without going into any detail, which of course will only serve to increase the rampant speculation, so in order to abrogate any wild theories, I might as well just out myself now. No, not that kind of outing. This is much less interesting, and kind of ridiculous. The Secret Shame is that I've started watching the new My Little Pony show. It's fantastic and, as Ryder pointed out, essentially aimed squarely at my demographic and, by extension, the same demographic of most of us in Medieval Studies. Specifically, the "born in the early-to-mid 80s, chronically unemployable/underemployed and thus watching cartoons all the time" demographic. And, in all fairness, the woman behind the show worked on The Maxx (someone else has to remember that), and The Power Puff Girls, so she knows how to make good TV.
Anyway, with that, I should be off; much studying to complete for a test this afternoon. More updates in the future, possibly with photographs. Assuming, of course, I take any more between then and now.
*For an explanation of these terms, look here.
**Which, by definition, is no longer a Secret Shame - instead, now it is just a regular shame. And as I don't really feel shame, only guilt, all is good now.
Well, not much, but you get the point. Things happened, I will inform you of them.
First off, I have apparently placated the huldufólk which have been plaguing my culinary and gustatory endeavours; the loaf of bread, shortcake monstrosity, and bacon-wrapped, maple-mustard glazed ham all turned out fantastically! Mark's suggestion of a thinner loaf with deeper cuts worked, and I have discovered which butter is salted and unsalted (surprisingly, by looking at the ingredients on the package - I'm kind of an idiot at times, apparently), which made the shortbread monstrosity much better. Mostly because it didn't result in a salty brick of baked good.
And bacon makes everything better, despite what Erin and Ryder may think. The fools.
Speaking of food, I also received a care package from my folks, containing prosciutto, Calabrese salami, Crotonese and Friulano cheeses, maple syrup, wasabi peas, bacon marmalade, and tobacco. Also, Nutella. It was like finding a gift from the gods, wrapped in a box, delivered by UPS. Not going to lie, half of the cheese and salami is gone. The prosciutto, on the other hand, weighs literally 2kg and as such has not been reduced by such a great amount. The Nutella is untouched as well, as a way of gauging how quickly my flatmates will surrender to temptation.
Also, speaking of temptation, I have experienced a loss in my burgeoning collection of pipes. Well, not a total loss; the tenon of my churchwarden has broken off inside the mortise, leaving the stinger lodged in there.* I need to pick up some fine, needle-nosed pliers tomorrow and hopefully pull it out, resolving that issue.
Finally, I admitted my Secret Shame** to several people this evening, who then blabbed about my possessing of a Secret Shame, although without going into any detail, which of course will only serve to increase the rampant speculation, so in order to abrogate any wild theories, I might as well just out myself now. No, not that kind of outing. This is much less interesting, and kind of ridiculous. The Secret Shame is that I've started watching the new My Little Pony show. It's fantastic and, as Ryder pointed out, essentially aimed squarely at my demographic and, by extension, the same demographic of most of us in Medieval Studies. Specifically, the "born in the early-to-mid 80s, chronically unemployable/underemployed and thus watching cartoons all the time" demographic. And, in all fairness, the woman behind the show worked on The Maxx (someone else has to remember that), and The Power Puff Girls, so she knows how to make good TV.
Anyway, with that, I should be off; much studying to complete for a test this afternoon. More updates in the future, possibly with photographs. Assuming, of course, I take any more between then and now.
*For an explanation of these terms, look here.
**Which, by definition, is no longer a Secret Shame - instead, now it is just a regular shame. And as I don't really feel shame, only guilt, all is good now.
29 January 2012
Been a rough couple of weeks, folks
Thus the paucity of updates for you, my adoring public.
Now, by way of elaboration, it's not been as terrible as it could have been, but I was quite ill and - much to my chagrin and the delight of my flatmates - by this past Wednesday, I was functionally mute. Fortunately for me - and much to the lament of Ryder - I have regained the use of my vocal faculties and have resumed haranguing and insulting my friends here. Because that's what friends do.
Anyway, not a whole lot has been going on, academically. OK, that's not entirely true - I've had one quiz in Old Icelandic (should have had two, but I was half-dead on Friday and missed it; that'll be fixed this week) and a test in the Old Nordic Religions course. How I did on them isn't terrifically surprising, given my general inability to perform when it comes to class-based testing, but still, it rankles.
Paleography and Codicology is shaping up to be awesome, despite it's 9am start-time. Fortunately, I managed to move myself from the Monday class to the Tuesday class; this means several things: First, and most importantly, I can sleep later than Paul and Ryder tomorrow, those schmucks. Second, it means that, on Tuesdays, I will be awake and thinking, which means I will have precious little in way of excuses to not complete my glossing and studying for Old Norse.
Course work is going apace, with a lot of reading in Religions, a lot of translation in Old Norse, and lots of playing around with manuscripts in Paleography. Or, rather, soon to be playing with manuscripts. We've had the opportunity to handle a bunch already, and it was awesome and impressive and all that good stuff, but it was just handling. Soon, we'll be actually cataloguing and describing the manuscripts, which is going to be awesome. It also means that we're going to need to learn how to read a bunch of different scripts, which will be fun.
Insofar as Iceland is concerned, apparently the country took umbrage with my prior assertion that Spring had Sprung. We had snow literally up to my knees on Wednesday afternoon. It was pretty damned impressive. However, despite it's beauty and it's all melted. Take that, Iceland! Your 'winter' is nothing! I scoff at it!*
On sober second thought, I should be more careful with who - or what - I insult; it appears as though I have offended a kitchen-elf or, more specifically, a baking-elf. How do I surmise this? Well, allow me to explain for you: Before the Two Week Break, we went to Torfi's for a party. I baked a Shortbread Monstrosity** and all seemed good - the top two-thirds of it was sweet, and buttery, and generally everything you want in a Shortbread Monstrosity. So we get to the party, display the thing, everyone cuts in, and the bottom third of it is basically a buttery, salty mess. I have no idea what happened to it, but there you go; terrible.
Flash forward to today, and I baked a loaf of bread. It looked damn good. It looked so good, in fact, that I took a picture of it:
Looks amazing, yes? Well, upon cutting it open, it turned out that two-thirds of the interior was still doughy. So I threw it back in the oven for another 20 minutes. Now only a third of it was doughy. Unfortunately, the crust was beginning to carbonize. Bread disaster.
This has led me to what is possibly the only rational explanation for my consistent failure at creating baked goods - or success at making baked bads, depending on your point of view - and that is this: I have angered one of the huldufólk.*** I need to figure out a way to appease them.
What else have I been doing, apart from being wretchedly ill and failing at producing bread? Well, I took pictures! Some of which are under the jump, and the rest of which you can find at my deviantArt account - that way I spare those of you who don't want to look at my ham-fisted attempts at photography.****
Anyway, that about sums it up, save for the photos I took, which are all under the jump
*I'm only doing this in the hopes that there will be another mighty snowfall
**Basically a single, massive shortbread cookie
***The coolest thing about this article? It references my professor for Old Nordic Religions
Now, by way of elaboration, it's not been as terrible as it could have been, but I was quite ill and - much to my chagrin and the delight of my flatmates - by this past Wednesday, I was functionally mute. Fortunately for me - and much to the lament of Ryder - I have regained the use of my vocal faculties and have resumed haranguing and insulting my friends here. Because that's what friends do.
Anyway, not a whole lot has been going on, academically. OK, that's not entirely true - I've had one quiz in Old Icelandic (should have had two, but I was half-dead on Friday and missed it; that'll be fixed this week) and a test in the Old Nordic Religions course. How I did on them isn't terrifically surprising, given my general inability to perform when it comes to class-based testing, but still, it rankles.
Paleography and Codicology is shaping up to be awesome, despite it's 9am start-time. Fortunately, I managed to move myself from the Monday class to the Tuesday class; this means several things: First, and most importantly, I can sleep later than Paul and Ryder tomorrow, those schmucks. Second, it means that, on Tuesdays, I will be awake and thinking, which means I will have precious little in way of excuses to not complete my glossing and studying for Old Norse.
Course work is going apace, with a lot of reading in Religions, a lot of translation in Old Norse, and lots of playing around with manuscripts in Paleography. Or, rather, soon to be playing with manuscripts. We've had the opportunity to handle a bunch already, and it was awesome and impressive and all that good stuff, but it was just handling. Soon, we'll be actually cataloguing and describing the manuscripts, which is going to be awesome. It also means that we're going to need to learn how to read a bunch of different scripts, which will be fun.
Insofar as Iceland is concerned, apparently the country took umbrage with my prior assertion that Spring had Sprung. We had snow literally up to my knees on Wednesday afternoon. It was pretty damned impressive. However, despite it's beauty and it's all melted. Take that, Iceland! Your 'winter' is nothing! I scoff at it!*
On sober second thought, I should be more careful with who - or what - I insult; it appears as though I have offended a kitchen-elf or, more specifically, a baking-elf. How do I surmise this? Well, allow me to explain for you: Before the Two Week Break, we went to Torfi's for a party. I baked a Shortbread Monstrosity** and all seemed good - the top two-thirds of it was sweet, and buttery, and generally everything you want in a Shortbread Monstrosity. So we get to the party, display the thing, everyone cuts in, and the bottom third of it is basically a buttery, salty mess. I have no idea what happened to it, but there you go; terrible.
Flash forward to today, and I baked a loaf of bread. It looked damn good. It looked so good, in fact, that I took a picture of it:
 | |
| Beware! Doughy horror lurks within! |
Looks amazing, yes? Well, upon cutting it open, it turned out that two-thirds of the interior was still doughy. So I threw it back in the oven for another 20 minutes. Now only a third of it was doughy. Unfortunately, the crust was beginning to carbonize. Bread disaster.
This has led me to what is possibly the only rational explanation for my consistent failure at creating baked goods - or success at making baked bads, depending on your point of view - and that is this: I have angered one of the huldufólk.*** I need to figure out a way to appease them.
What else have I been doing, apart from being wretchedly ill and failing at producing bread? Well, I took pictures! Some of which are under the jump, and the rest of which you can find at my deviantArt account - that way I spare those of you who don't want to look at my ham-fisted attempts at photography.****
Anyway, that about sums it up, save for the photos I took, which are all under the jump
*I'm only doing this in the hopes that there will be another mighty snowfall
**Basically a single, massive shortbread cookie
***The coolest thing about this article? It references my professor for Old Nordic Religions
****I've been doing most of my shooting at night; it's turned out kind of terrible, as the camera needs a long enough exposure to ensure that my natural hand tremors ruin whatever I was hoping to get, but there are some that worked out not too badly.
15 January 2012
Finally, an update!
Well, it HAS been an exciting couple of weeks, hasn't it?
Oh? You don't know? Well, allow me to explain, if you will.
First off, we have a new flatmate! Johanna is a half-Finnish, half-Icelandic student and she's also the reason why the ManZone/Man Cave is no longer quite so terribly unliveable. And it's not like she's actually being all 'girly-girly' and cleaning our place. No. All she's done has, essentially, been present and we've essentially stopped living in our own filth. Hell, I even vacuumed my room yesterday!*
Next, I've been sick the last week or so, thus the delay in getting a blag posted for you people. Fortunately, a judicious application of the McMullen Cure-All** yesterday fixed that. By basically putting me into a coma for nine hours or so.
Third, spring has sprung, the grass is riz, but for the love of whatever transcendental ideological concept you hold dear, Reykjavik, could you please salt or sand the sidewalks? The fact that we're a coastal city certainly does wonders to keep things relatively warm, but by virtue of being in the middle of the North Atlantic, Iceland does get some seriously cold weather, which turns the rivers of melt-water atop layers of compacted ice into chutes of embarrassment and pain. But I do have to admit, there's something nice about walking past Tjörnin and getting the simultaneous scents of old and compacted ice, fresh-rotted vegetation, and cool lake-air. It smells like life, and that's pretty awesome. Of course, I miss the long, cold, and bitter winters of my youth, but such is life, and the vagaries of anthropogenic climate change.
Fourth, the Reykjavik Volunteer Air Defence Corps has been maintaining a desultory bombardment of the Capital Region airspace since New Year's Eve. I mean it. This morning, I was awakened by barrages going off to the west and northeast of our apartment. And then I got a call from Johanna and went to Bakkus and Glaumbar with her and some other folk. This was at 1:30 in the morning, mind you. Reykjavik, for those of you unsure of it still, is essentially the Las Vegas of Scandinavia, except instead of showgirls and casinos, they have bars and clubs that generally play terrible, terrible music. To wit, the only songs I recognized were House of Pain's Jump Around, and Basshunter's DOTA. And that last one only by virtue of Liv having introduced me to the horrors of Basshunter during NaNoWriMo in 2008.
Finally, classes; I've now had two weeks worth of class, and apparently the Two Week Break was enough time to get me out of academic practice. This is uncool. Fortunately, I think that I'm getting back into the swing of things. Terry Gunnell's Old Nordic Religion course is pretty awesome thusfar, despite the fact that I'm fairly sure we're not going to be watching The 13th Warrior, and Haraldur's Old Icelandic II is all translation, all the time, which means that I'm not doing as terribly as I could be. Of course, we're still going to have morphology and grammar tests every Friday, and they'll still make up about half of our exam marks, but there's hope, right?
Anyway, I've gotmusic to download translations to do, so I'll wrap this up here.
*In my defence, it needed to be done; the floor made a fairly convincing dust-based topographical map of the Saraha.
**The McMullen Cure-All is actually something my Nonna suggests to all of us when we're sick, albeit taken to a suitably McMullen-esque extreme. Nonna's cure is to take a Tylenol and a shot, then lay down. The McMullen Cure-All is to take 2-8 Tylenol (depending on their strength; 8 regular, 6 Extra Strength, 4 T2s, 2 T3s), and 1-4 ounces of whisky (1 ounce for every two Tylenols), and then collapse into bed for eight to twelve hours. This, by the way, is not recommended for most people; in fact, for those not possessed of as remarkable a constitution as your humble narrator, the McMullen Cure-All is virtually indistinguishable from a suicide attempt. Fortunately for all of you, your humble narrator is too stubborn to die that way and, as such, my body has learned to not get sick; it fears the cure more than the illness itself.
Oh? You don't know? Well, allow me to explain, if you will.
First off, we have a new flatmate! Johanna is a half-Finnish, half-Icelandic student and she's also the reason why the ManZone/Man Cave is no longer quite so terribly unliveable. And it's not like she's actually being all 'girly-girly' and cleaning our place. No. All she's done has, essentially, been present and we've essentially stopped living in our own filth. Hell, I even vacuumed my room yesterday!*
Next, I've been sick the last week or so, thus the delay in getting a blag posted for you people. Fortunately, a judicious application of the McMullen Cure-All** yesterday fixed that. By basically putting me into a coma for nine hours or so.
Third, spring has sprung, the grass is riz, but for the love of whatever transcendental ideological concept you hold dear, Reykjavik, could you please salt or sand the sidewalks? The fact that we're a coastal city certainly does wonders to keep things relatively warm, but by virtue of being in the middle of the North Atlantic, Iceland does get some seriously cold weather, which turns the rivers of melt-water atop layers of compacted ice into chutes of embarrassment and pain. But I do have to admit, there's something nice about walking past Tjörnin and getting the simultaneous scents of old and compacted ice, fresh-rotted vegetation, and cool lake-air. It smells like life, and that's pretty awesome. Of course, I miss the long, cold, and bitter winters of my youth, but such is life, and the vagaries of anthropogenic climate change.
Fourth, the Reykjavik Volunteer Air Defence Corps has been maintaining a desultory bombardment of the Capital Region airspace since New Year's Eve. I mean it. This morning, I was awakened by barrages going off to the west and northeast of our apartment. And then I got a call from Johanna and went to Bakkus and Glaumbar with her and some other folk. This was at 1:30 in the morning, mind you. Reykjavik, for those of you unsure of it still, is essentially the Las Vegas of Scandinavia, except instead of showgirls and casinos, they have bars and clubs that generally play terrible, terrible music. To wit, the only songs I recognized were House of Pain's Jump Around, and Basshunter's DOTA. And that last one only by virtue of Liv having introduced me to the horrors of Basshunter during NaNoWriMo in 2008.
Finally, classes; I've now had two weeks worth of class, and apparently the Two Week Break was enough time to get me out of academic practice. This is uncool. Fortunately, I think that I'm getting back into the swing of things. Terry Gunnell's Old Nordic Religion course is pretty awesome thusfar, despite the fact that I'm fairly sure we're not going to be watching The 13th Warrior, and Haraldur's Old Icelandic II is all translation, all the time, which means that I'm not doing as terribly as I could be. Of course, we're still going to have morphology and grammar tests every Friday, and they'll still make up about half of our exam marks, but there's hope, right?
Anyway, I've got
*In my defence, it needed to be done; the floor made a fairly convincing dust-based topographical map of the Saraha.
**The McMullen Cure-All is actually something my Nonna suggests to all of us when we're sick, albeit taken to a suitably McMullen-esque extreme. Nonna's cure is to take a Tylenol and a shot, then lay down. The McMullen Cure-All is to take 2-8 Tylenol (depending on their strength; 8 regular, 6 Extra Strength, 4 T2s, 2 T3s), and 1-4 ounces of whisky (1 ounce for every two Tylenols), and then collapse into bed for eight to twelve hours. This, by the way, is not recommended for most people; in fact, for those not possessed of as remarkable a constitution as your humble narrator, the McMullen Cure-All is virtually indistinguishable from a suicide attempt. Fortunately for all of you, your humble narrator is too stubborn to die that way and, as such, my body has learned to not get sick; it fears the cure more than the illness itself.
02 January 2012
New Day, New Year, New Start, New Post!
Well, ladies and gentlemen, I have returned from the Great White North to the Land of the Ice and Snow. The Two Week Break* was not too bad at all - many good times were had, many friends were seen, a new blend of tobacco was discovered, and much liquor was consumed - and despite some stresses due to the hectic schedule of the holiday, a good time was had by most.
I got my last mark back during the Break and I'm pleased to note that I didn't fail! My average went from a 9.0/10 to an 8.0/10, but that's still pretty damned good. I should also hear from Cambridge shortly about whether or not I'm going there next academic year, which would be simultaneously awesome and surreal.
When I returned to Iceland on the morning of the 31st, I unwittingly re-enacted my arrival in August; landed during the wee hours of the morning, arrived in town ahead of schedule, caught a ride to my place, woke up my housemates, ate something, then slept for approximately five hours. After that, I greeted Ryder and David properly, saluted Jonas' departure (he moved out two days after I returned to Canada), and then we went out and partied until the wee hours of the morning.
A bit of a digression is in order here: I love fireworks. Absolutely adore them. There's something impressively majestic about tiny amounts of potassium nitrate, sulphur, charcoal, and a mix of metals combining to make a spectacle that lasts only for a few brief seconds before fading into blackness, never to be seen again, even if the next projectile in sequence has the exact same chemical composition. That fleeting glimpse of technical mastery is just...Well, it's impressive. Anyway, back to the post.
Why the digression above? Well, allow me to explain; Icelanders apparently love their fireworks. In fact, they appear to love them to the point where the entire day sounded like the Reykjavik Capital Region Air Defence Grid was desperately fending off an airborne invasion. Seriously. The constant popping, howling, and bursting of fireworks was simultaneously unnerving and comforting, almost like a tidal rhythm that could lull you to sleep or wash up over the shore and leave your home utterly devastated.
As it was, we returned home around 3am after consuming beer, champagne, and a bottle of Kazakh vodka. Despite a valiant attempt to stay up to wish my friends and family in Canada a Happy Happy, I was unconscious by 4:45. Curse this body, with it's susceptibility to exhaustion!
Sunday was filled with reading and playing Fallout, as was Monday. Today was the first of four lectures by Neil Price on The Viking Mind, and it was awesome. I'm still hurting from the lack of coherent sleeping schedule, so I had a couple of moments when I nearly nodded off, which would have been awkward - I once fell asleep in a Poli Sci lecture during my first second year** and I still remember the unpleasantness that followed.
Anyway, the rest of the week promises to be full of awesome Viking-related learning, Fallout, and planning a Pathfinder game I'm going to be running for people come February. Hope you all had a Happy Happy, and I'll be updating again soon!
*The seemingly unnecessary capitalization was explained in my previous post.
**That's not a typo - I changed majors midway through my third year of Poli Sci and, as such, I needed to restart from scratch, so I had two first years, two second years, two first semesters of third year, one second semester of third year, and one fourth year. Which explains my advanced age compared to my classmates, and my relative lack of academic success.
I got my last mark back during the Break and I'm pleased to note that I didn't fail! My average went from a 9.0/10 to an 8.0/10, but that's still pretty damned good. I should also hear from Cambridge shortly about whether or not I'm going there next academic year, which would be simultaneously awesome and surreal.
When I returned to Iceland on the morning of the 31st, I unwittingly re-enacted my arrival in August; landed during the wee hours of the morning, arrived in town ahead of schedule, caught a ride to my place, woke up my housemates, ate something, then slept for approximately five hours. After that, I greeted Ryder and David properly, saluted Jonas' departure (he moved out two days after I returned to Canada), and then we went out and partied until the wee hours of the morning.
A bit of a digression is in order here: I love fireworks. Absolutely adore them. There's something impressively majestic about tiny amounts of potassium nitrate, sulphur, charcoal, and a mix of metals combining to make a spectacle that lasts only for a few brief seconds before fading into blackness, never to be seen again, even if the next projectile in sequence has the exact same chemical composition. That fleeting glimpse of technical mastery is just...Well, it's impressive. Anyway, back to the post.
Why the digression above? Well, allow me to explain; Icelanders apparently love their fireworks. In fact, they appear to love them to the point where the entire day sounded like the Reykjavik Capital Region Air Defence Grid was desperately fending off an airborne invasion. Seriously. The constant popping, howling, and bursting of fireworks was simultaneously unnerving and comforting, almost like a tidal rhythm that could lull you to sleep or wash up over the shore and leave your home utterly devastated.
As it was, we returned home around 3am after consuming beer, champagne, and a bottle of Kazakh vodka. Despite a valiant attempt to stay up to wish my friends and family in Canada a Happy Happy, I was unconscious by 4:45. Curse this body, with it's susceptibility to exhaustion!
Sunday was filled with reading and playing Fallout, as was Monday. Today was the first of four lectures by Neil Price on The Viking Mind, and it was awesome. I'm still hurting from the lack of coherent sleeping schedule, so I had a couple of moments when I nearly nodded off, which would have been awkward - I once fell asleep in a Poli Sci lecture during my first second year** and I still remember the unpleasantness that followed.
Anyway, the rest of the week promises to be full of awesome Viking-related learning, Fallout, and planning a Pathfinder game I'm going to be running for people come February. Hope you all had a Happy Happy, and I'll be updating again soon!
*The seemingly unnecessary capitalization was explained in my previous post.
**That's not a typo - I changed majors midway through my third year of Poli Sci and, as such, I needed to restart from scratch, so I had two first years, two second years, two first semesters of third year, one second semester of third year, and one fourth year. Which explains my advanced age compared to my classmates, and my relative lack of academic success.
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