“I will kill and eat a puffin” I said, joking, until I realized, maybe, I was seriously contemplating it . . I was traveling with three Canadians (which means I was being apologized to quite frequently despite never being wronged) and they informed me that in Iceland people routinely catch and eat puffins. I’m sorry ethical vegetarians, forgive me PETA, I too think puffins are adorable, and knowing that they mate for life. if I actually do this, it seems only right to hunt a mating pair of puffins, so the widow(er) will not be lonely.
Food is not just expensive in Iceland, it is so absurdly priced that I think they must have it confused with gold. A Beer costs $10. Gas station sandwiches $15. Eggs $1 each. We knew that coming to Iceland that food was expensive, but not that it was the one nation on earth that makes Starbucks coffee seem like a basement bargain. So, if it was possible to hunt, just like the Vikings had to do when they were not pillaging, then it seems the thing to do. When in Rome, drink wine. When in Iceland, hunt puffin and eat ’em.
All this talk of eating puffins led to Candice and I to decide that we would write a children’s book called “puffin muffins.” I cannot yet tell you the premise, because it is top secret and awesome. Since my drawing never progressed passed the first grade level and Candice is a self-described “average drawer” we needed an illustrator and hoped to find an Icelandic one.
Sometimes the world falls perfectly into place.
The next morning, after a night of many declarations as to just what I was going to do with puffins and my bare hands, our crew found ourselves going into Cafe Babulú (They had the coolest bathroom in the world [Star Wars themed {Raise the roof, pull out your light saber and close the lid).
In addition to having a soft spot for a bathroom with both Han Solo and princess Leah protecting you from storm troopers with their blasters, a bathroom where a dozen buttons next to the throne lets you change the lighting, all four of us were fond of brightly colored buildings and so from the moment we had seen Cafe Babalú, we had sworn oaths, “tomorrow, we will get breakfast there.” We showed up in time for lunch, and declared it a victory.
The café was comfy, with snug patrons doing more than just sipping coffee. The couple in the corner were necking in between bites of salad. A quarter pivot from them two British women, one young, the other old, were chatting wistfully about things that meant the world to them. In the back corner sat a twenty-something sketching with a concentrated motion into his notebook.
“You draw?” I asked him. He looked up with cozy eyes and said that he did. He brought us over a notebook. He was sketching various members of a kingdom for a fictional world he was creating through his pen. We eagerly looked through his proffered drawings as we downed coffee and put in orders for food that would save our lives from the wreck Reykjavík’s wild and festive nights had delivered.
Our new friend’s name was Baron. “Not a land baron though,” he clarified.
I told him that I was looking for an Icelandic artist to collaborate with for a children’s book, and he seemed excited to participate. I gave him a friendship bracelet which meant we had let him into our wolf pack.
Whenever I leave Guatemala I roll about 100 friendship bracelets deep, because you never know who you know. After late night thunderings, where the whiskey joins you in a flask, you may not remember who you have met. So if you can put a marking on people that lets you know who you know, then you know who you know and the world makes sense.
But I’d be hard-pressed to forget Baron. Especially after he added me to his kingdom. As we got up to leave and slap his hands with high fives, he turned to the most recent page of his notebook to show us his latest drawing.
It was the Icelandic me. He had added me to the fiction world being brought to life via his mind.
“In the kingdom you are a fashion outlaw,” he told me, “And the prince hates you.” I had never felt so honored, and now in Iceland, I have decided to go by Baron’s name for me—Loki, Fashion Outlaw. I hate the prince too, and one day, I will punk him so hard.
We also learned that Baron was a musician who often played music with friends. Later that night we jammed in our Air B&B room with Baron and his bud Thorburger (sp?).
The six of made good company. It was a night of smiles, light laughter and music. We drank Viking a 2.25% government controlled beer and traded stories and songs. Icelandic people are open and friendly, pleasantly sarcastic and some of the most peaceful people I’ve ever personally encountered. The capital, which contains over half the population, feels like a village, and after just a few days here, we have already begun to run into newfound friends on the street.
Baron’s song has been getting stuck off and on in Steffe’s head, and the worst thing ever (more horrible than Savage Garden dubstep remixes) is having a song stuck in your head that you can’t play. That in mind, here you go Steffe:
Candice, it turns out, has had Irish Rover stuck in her head. Here you are ma’am:
I for one, have had Fuzzy, by The incredible Moses Leroy stuck in my head. The “you” pronoun in my mind has the reference of a puffins (one that I am going to kill and eat). Speaking of, does anyone know the most humane way to do this?
