Sleeping Around (21 page)

Back on the bus I sat next to a Canadian fellow. I was quite surprised to discover that Nick was also a member of the couch-surfing collective, but he'd bypassed the couch on this particular leg of his journey. He was only in Iceland for a few days, so he'd opted for a comfortable hotel instead (where he probably didn't have to pump up his bed in the middle of the night). Nick had booked himself on a different tour for each day of his stay. As well as the Golden Circle Tour, he was going on a whale-watching boat trip, a horse-riding tour and a flight to the north of the island to go snowmobiling on a glacier.

‘I have done quite a bit of couch surfing in other places, though,' Nick said.

‘Do you have any good stories?' I asked.

‘Yeah, most people I've stayed with have been really nice.'

‘No,' I said. ‘I mean have you like stayed with any nutters or had any weird shit happen?'

‘Um, yeah, I couch-surfed with this guy in St Petersburg who lived in an empty apartment. He had a couch and cupboards and stuff, but there were no pictures on the wall or books in the bookshelf or
anything
lying about. I arrived late at night and he was just sitting there in this gloomy empty room. The next day I went to check out the city and I dropped into an internet cafe to update my blog. When I got back to his apartment, he said “So you think I'm creepy and you're worried I might axe you in your sleep?” I'd forgotten I'd told him that I had a blog and he'd read it.'

‘Shit, what did he do?'

‘He actually turned out to be quite nice and he didn't try to axe me once.'

‘No one has tried to axe me either,' I said. ‘Actually, everyone I've stayed with so far has been lovely, too. I can't believe how nice people are and how much they go out of their way to help you.'

‘I did stay with one couple in San Diego who weren't very nice,' Nick said, ‘to each other. They had just split up before I arrived and had moved into separate bedrooms. Over breakfast on my first morning they had this huge fight. When I asked the guy if I could have some milk for my tea, he said “Ask the fuckin' bitch!” Then she threw her bowl of cereal at him.'

Gullfoss is a huge and majestic waterfall that roars into a sheer boulder-strewn canyon. Well, that's what I had been told. I couldn't see much of it because I couldn't really see much through my tear-filled eyes. The force-twelve wind was unrelenting and icy drops from the waterfall kept pricking my cheeks, making me gasp. It was the most ferocious wind I'd ever experienced. I fought my way, leaning heavily into the wind, towards the viewpoint, but gave up halfway when a petite Japanese tourist went sailing past me.

Our next stop was Geysir, after which all other geysers are named. In the middle of yet another vast and desolate expanse was a bubbling hole in the ground next to a colossal souvenir shop and cafe. Like everyone else, I stood with camera pressed to face and finger poised on the shutter waiting for Geysir to erupt. And just like everyone else, I had just put my camera down when it belched spectacularly in front of me. And, yet again just like everyone else, I quickly swung my camera back up and took a photo of the tiny puff of steam that was left drifting from the hole.

Our last Golden Circle attraction was Þingvellir, where Iceland's first parliament met in 930. Getting there involved traipsing from the bus across a boardwalk over streams that trickled between undulating, moss-covered lava flows, then climbing up past rocky fissures that reared up like old Viking warriors. The site itself was just a pile of old rocks, but the views over Þingvallavatn, Iceland's largest lake, were lovely (although that loveliness had a lot to do with my relief that there was no buffeting wind blowing me away).

After all the other passengers had been dropped off at their hotels, the tour guide asked me where I wanted to be dropped. That was a good question. Where could he drop me? I didn't know Smári's address.

I thought about it for a minute. ‘Um, the deCode Genetics Corporation,' I said.

Both the driver and guide gave me very odd looks when they dropped me off at the entrance.

I got quite excited when I walked into Smári's apartment. There was a proper-non-collapsing foam mattress on the floor. ‘Johann dropped it off because the Australian girl is staying here tonight,' Smári said, when he saw me eyeing it off with a longing gleam in my eye. ‘Johann's girlfriend is coming from the country for the weekend and he wants the apartment to himself.'

‘Oh,' I said glumly.

‘Don't worry,' Smári said. ‘We'll give her the air mattress.'

Johann invited us around for an interesting dinner. It was interesting because it's not often you get served a plate piled high with boiled horse meat and potatoes. Sadly, Benjamin couldn't join us for dinner. His battery was flat. We were also there to pick up fellow couch surfer Anna, a 21-year-old tall, bubbly girl from Perth. Anna was taking a year off from university, where she was studying literature and history, to travel around the world.

Johann drove us into town after dinner and dropped us off in the middle of
rúntur
.
Rúntur
means ‘round tour', but Smári more aptly described it as ‘a pub crawl where the entire population gets absolutely wasted'. Every single Friday and Saturday night, the young folk of Reykjavík stroll into and stumble out of bars, dance clubs and beer-soaked coffee houses until dawn.

It was after ten by the time we got to Laugavegur, where most of the action takes place, and we had to navigate our way through the crowded footpaths, where a sea of Icelanders and tourists, many already in moderate to advanced stages of inebriation, was already partaking in some serious rúnturing.

We had our first drink and I had my first heart attack at the Pravda Club. A glass of beer was sixteen dollars. You know the drinks are expensive when you buy just one beer and put it on your credit card. In fact, most of the locals were using their credit cards to buy drinks. I imagine there would be quite a few shocked faces when monthly credit-card statements arrive. Cards were simply swiped through a machine and you didn't have to sign anything or get a receipt.

After one drink we moved on to a funky, tiny wood-panelled pub (or a pub-ette if you like) where we met up with Smári's friend Alli, a jolly, huge (in the girth department) fellow. As soon as we walked in, Alli insisted that he buy us all a drink nicknamed, rather ominously, ‘Black Death'. This local concoction, called
Brennivin
in Icelandic, is made from fermented potato pulp and caraway seeds, and its name literally translates into English as ‘burning wine'.

‘Because it burns the shit out of your throat and stomach,' Alli explained just after we'd burnt the shit out of our throats and stomachs.

The Celtic Cross was next and it looked identical to every other Irish pub in every city around the world. Smári celebrated his Irish heritage by having a Guinness. Smári really was quite the beer connoisseur and he even had a website listing, and ranking, all the different beers he'd tried. So far he had tried 317 beers. And he was only 22. By that age I would have been lucky to have tried three different beers (and one of those was only because there was a beer strike one summer, so you could only buy Swan Lager from Western Australia). The fact that Smári could get hold of so many beers is impressive considering selling beer in Iceland has only been legal since 1989.

I got the next round and I was a bit worried the barman would say, ‘I'm sorry, but you don't have enough money on your card. Your credit limit is only five thousand dollars.'

We sat in a small room where the central table was a large black coffin. Not long after we arrived, we were all standing on the coffin singing Icelandic songs. After the beers and Black Death I was probably singing in fluent Icelandic as well. We met more of Smári's friends, but it was hard to tell if they were friends he'd only just met. Everyone was hugging each other.

After the Celtic Cross, I was whisked through dance clubs and bars so quickly I couldn't keep track. Live rock and dance music boomed out from venues up and down the street, while slim blondes in slinky cocktail dresses waited with their dates behind long rope lines to get into the town's hippest clubs. To be honest, I couldn't really remember which clubs and pubs we went to. I seem to remember dancing a lot and handing my credit card over the bar as freely as if I was Eidur Gudjohnsen.

At some point I lost everyone and wandered aimlessly around the streets because I couldn't remember the way back to Smári's place. I must have been a little drunk, because I gave up my child's inheritance and caught a taxi. ‘Whatever you do, don't catch a taxi,' Smári had warned me.

‘Where to?' the taxi driver said, rubbing his hands.

‘I live at the deCode Genetics Corporation.'

I had trouble focusing on the taxi meter. It wasn't because I was that drunk, but because it was spinning so fast.

I also got quite a shock when I stepped into Smári's apartment and caught an eyeful of four legs entwined on the bed and Smári's little white bottom bouncing up and down. We were both wrong. It seems couch-surfing hosts do get it on with their couch-surfing guests. I excused myself and stumbled outside and sat on the freezing grass.

I thought I gave them plenty of time to, ahem, finish, but when I got back inside they were still grunting and groaning and grinding. I grabbed the foam mattress and squeezed it into the storage cupboard. It didn't quite fit, and neither did I, but I managed to curl up the mattress, and myself, into the corner. At least I didn't feel guilty. Anna wouldn't have to sleep on the sagging air mattress.

I awoke at eleven-thirty with a volcanic hangover. There was one good thing about the biting arctic cold. It's amazing how quickly you can forget your hangover when your face has gone completely numb. Anna had already left and Smári was still in bed, so I went for a bracing stroll into town. It was my last day in Iceland and I still hadn't been to the imposing snow-white Hallgrimskirkja Cathedral, which soars above Reykjavík like a Gothic cathedral crossed with a futuristic rocket ship.

I caught the elevator up (I don't think I could have faced the steps) to the top where, from behind the hands of the tower clock, you could look out over the cluster of marzipan-coloured buildings below and at the hinterland beyond—a threatening landscape, featuring icy mountains and a hungry sea that, if anything, looked higher than the land it was lapping against. I was enjoying this peaceful vista when . . . ‘DONG! DONG! DONG!'

The church bells began clanging right next to my still somewhat sozzled head. I screamed ‘The bells, the bells!' then, clutching my ears in pain, hastily stumbled down the stairs. I spent most of the afternoon on a hangover-induced aimless stroll around town where I'd do things like walk into a souvenir shop, pick up a troll magnet, stare at it for five minutes, then walk out.

Smári had planned a puffin dinner party, but the puffins missed their flight. He was going to roast us up some puffins—and yes I'm talking about those cute little diving birds with rainbow-striped beaks—while Alli was going to make his special puffin sauce. Smári's brother-in-law had tried to send a couple of fresh puffins over from Vestmannaeyjar (the Westman Islands), a small group of islands off the south coast, but he missed the post.

‘That's okay,' I said to Smári. ‘I'll take you out for dinner instead.'

I had taken all of my other couch-surfing hosts I'd stayed with out for a meal as a thank you. It's just that I was worried a restaurant here might break the bank.

We headed into town and strolled up and down the streets checking out menus in restaurant windows, but there wasn't a single main course less than 55 dollars. We finally settled on
Þrír Frakkar
because they served puffin.

The restaurant was small and cosy with a couple of cute-looking stuffed puffins perched on the bar and National Geographic posters of whales on the wall. They also served up the not-quite-politically-correct minke whale steaks. Other local specialties on the menu included fried fish chins and Cuban-spiced reindeer. What they didn't have, though, according to Smári, were other local delicacies like sour ram's testicles, burned sheep's head, lamb's colon and rancid shark meat.