ICELAND
by Joseph Pedro
Leaving New York for Reykjavik, I had no idea what to
expect. I was headed to Iceland to explore some of its
natural wonders and experience gay life in the land of
the Vikings. After a short five-hour flight on Iceland
Air, I found myself in a van with a bunch of strangers.
As we drove, cold and disoriented through unfamiliar terrain,
one passenger barraged our driver/tour guide with questions
about Icelandic folklore including hidden people, trolls,
and elves. As our guide became increasingly more uncomfortable
with each question, he firmly expressed his disbelief.
“No I don’t believe in that silly stuff.”
But when we all erupted in laughter about our personal
views on the existence of trolls, the van began to speed
up and our tour guide warned us, “You just can’t
make fun of trolls, you just don’t! They are evil.”
Heeding this warning, the van rolled on in silence. We
later were told that 90% of the population seriously believe
in their existence, but won’t openly admit to it.
At around 10 A.M., the pitch black of
the autumn night soon gave way to a fantastic sunrise
in the east, while in the western skies the moonlight
continued to illuminate the snowy mountains. The sunlight
soon dominated the moon, giving way to a rainbow, which
reached high into the blue sky and cascaded into the
Atlantic.
Our first stop brought us to one of
the most surreally beautiful places I’ve ever seen.
I stood at a viewing point looking out onto the national
park of Pingvellir, an area where the oldest
parliament in the world was once held. I couldn’t
help but shiver at the sheer enormity of the view. We
all shouted to one another, “Take my picture here,
and here. Oh yeah, and over here!” Snow-covered
volcanoes and mountains surrounded the former meeting
place, and intimidating rock formations lined paths
that lead to crystal blue glacier ponds. I couldn’t
help but think of characters from The Lord of the Rings
patrolling the paths and scaling the jagged rocks. Pingvellir
lends itself to hours of exploring, and the unusually
freezing autumn weather didn’t stop us from climbing
over icy, rickety bridges. As we trekked across one
last bridge that day, a bright light burst up from the
water. Under closer inspection we realized it was thousands
of coins from every country reflecting the sun’s
rays beneath the waters, each flickering the world’s
wishes, which can only be granted in a place like Iceland.
Craving some warmth and familiarity,
I was told about a gay Californian who opened up a coffee
shop on the main street of Skólavöroustígur.
Walking in, expatriate Glen Barkan sat tall at his café
bar. His proud smile shone through his award-winning
mustache. He is the co-owner of Café Babalú
(Skólavöroustígur 22a, Tel: 354-552-
2278). With walls of pastel colors and cutesy paintings,
the inside is lined with cozy couches; the smell of
steaming hot lattes instantly brought back days of coffee
shops pre-Starbucks. Gaggles of teen-agers and older
men and women sat drinking their afternoon coffees,
and as Barkan approached me, everyone he passed gleefully
waved hello. Reykjavik’s beauty drew Barkan to
move his life to the city…oh ok, a gorgeous Icelandic
man may actually have had something to do with it. In
a large ceremony downtown, the two married, and to show
just how accepting Iceland is, a woman priest learned
Hebrew prayers to accommodate Barkan’s faith. While
he sipped a hot latte Glen admitted that after four
years he loves his new life, “What’s not to
love about a city whose gay pride parade is 95% straight?
Besides, the men here are just stunning!” he quipped.
Downtown Reykjavik appears to boast
more bars per capita than most cities, which helps explain
why the nightlife there is so notorious. To describe
it as anything short of a complete drunken mess wouldn’t
be doing it justice. You even have to be wary of drunken
boys and girls tumbling down the hilly and icy main
street of Skólavöroustígur—they
might take you down with them!
To not get wrapped up in the weekend
fervor is almost impossible, especially at Q-Bar
(Ingólfsstræti 3. Tel: 354-578-7868. www.qbar.is)
the main gay bar. The party doesn’t really kick
off until 1 or 2 A.M., which I learned the hard way
as the only customer ready to party at 10 P.M. I quickly
recovered from my social faux pas with a little help
from a local university student named Brynjar; he took
me to Kaffibarinn (Bergstaoastræti 1. Tel:
354-551-1588. www.kaffibarinn.is),
a bar with two floors he described as the “rock
bar.” The crowds seemed to come and go in waves,
but dancing continued regardless. Like many Reykjavik
bars, Kaffibarinn wasn’t labeled gay or straight,
but by 2 A.M., men made out with men, women with women,
women with men—it was all a rather cathartic experience.
We dashed back over to Q-Bar where the party was in
full swing. As the house DJs played typical US top 40
tunes, I was a little alarmed by the dozens of eyes
that had already noticed me. Brynjar reminded me that
Iceland is a country of only 300,000 or so people, so
any new person sticks out quite easily…this turned
out to be a good thing. I found myself constantly chatting
it up with guys and gals who just loved to talk and
who seemed to know more about American current affairs
than I do. When the doors closed at 5 A.M. we had to
plow through throngs of people making their way home,
looking for after parties, and desperately searching
for some late night munchies. Luckily, we got the best
hot dogs in Europe at Bæjarins Beztu Pylsur
(Posthusstraeti 101. Tel: 354-567-5979).
 After
one hour of sleep, a handful of aspirin, and a gallon
of Gatorade, it was time to rejoin the rest of the group.
Our guide told us that we’d be going with a company
called SAFARIS (www.safaris.is)
to off-road to Iceland’s new geothermal power plant
and along the South Shore. Our guide turned and asked
me and another guy, Ben, if we could drive manual. I
immediately squeaked out a no, but Ben enthusiastically
shouted, “I’m a country boy from Tennessee,
of course I can drive stick.” Parked outside a
gas station, with a light flurry in the air, Ben flipped
himself into the driving seat of our fancy new Land
Rover. I struggled getting in, just barely managing
to plop myself into the back seat. “OK Ben, just
follow me. We’ll meet you at the second river crossing,”
our guide said from the walkie-talkie. Nervously, Ben
began to drive. Soon, the once light flurry turned into
a violent snowstorm, making driving on the main highway
feel like an off-road experience in itself. “Oh
this sucks! We’re going to have to turn back now.
They’ll never take us up in the mountains,”
someone else in our SUV said.
Continued
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