from Monday, July16th of the year2007.
One of the most endearing things about Iceland is how, on the incoming flights, they say, “Welcome to Iceland” in English and Danish, and simply, “Welcome Home” in Icelandic, because, obviously, anybody who knows what they’re saying must be a speaker and therefore a native. All other references follow suit; it’s “flight time to Iceland” in English and Danish, but, “flight time home” in Icelandic. I love the image of Icelandic people behaving like horses heading home towards the barn, picking up the gait and frothing ever so slightly at the bit. I get that way with Vermont sometimes; as I approach the local roads and then the eventual dirt road, I floor it and turn up the Music for a Large Ensemble and roll down the window. I never used to understand why my father always did that even in the bleakest midwinter.
I turned up this morning at 6:00 in bright, bright sunlight and proceeded, after a brief puréed yogurt-and-mÃ¼sli drink, to the municipal pool, which is always a delight. There is something to be said about making a plan sitting in a hot tub; this is how I imagine all meetings in L.A. are taken, just with more avocado and less cod. And instead of water, it’s champagne. (As I was posting this, I received an e-vite to a pool party, a literal pool party, in downtown L.A.; sadly I will still be here, at Other Pools-Party, for string quartet, pre-recorded tape, and celeste).
More planning, more planning. Ben Frost, the wonderful Icetralian composer and dear friend, came over, and I am going to use this as a Case Study in Facial Hair. Please find a picture of Ben in April, with a full-on Nazarene beard. Then, find a picture of him taken this morning. Click on the picture to enlarge it. Okay now hello. I know I’m going to get a tirade of comments saying, “oh no, girl, he look fine with that beard” but let me assure you that you are Mistaken. He look fine now. Everybody loves the King of Kings, but to have a jaw like that and cover it up with that craziness is like Yo-Yo Ma playing the cello wearing a No. 1 foam finger on his hand. Osvaldo, if you’re reading this, set it out for me.
This afternoon, I went to Valgeir’s son’s soccer game. As we were walking away, we saw something so amazing, which was this child, fast asleep on the edge of the soccer field, completely passed out. Click on the image to enlarge. Something about this seems like a good omen for this trip. Good night, welcome home, welcome back.
July 16th, 2007 at 2:41 pm
something about the warmth of northern europe
the finns hold a legend that the spirit of a visitor flies across the frozen fields ahead of arrival
the spirit knocks at the door, allowing the host to make ready in the wamest fashion
July 16th, 2007 at 2:55 pm
oh darling, never has “welcome home” been so romantic.
July 16th, 2007 at 3:15 pm
Glad you’re having a wonderful time in Iceland. I’ve always wanted to go, but have so far only been to Denmark and Sweden, both of which are extremely cool also.
When I arrived to live in the US from the UK back in 2002, I was lucky enough to be the possessor of a US passport, as my father is American. However, I was still taken aback to be greeted with the words, “Welcome home!”
July 17th, 2007 at 9:43 am
An Icelandic soccer game, eh? That reminds me of….
July 17th, 2007 at 2:38 pm
It is incredibly hot in L.A. right now, and everyone’s making liberal use of their swimming pools. There’s a movie shooting up the street, and the sunsets are getting spectacular.
People are just obsessed with the idea of “home”, and that’s become even more apparent in recent years in film, art, and music.
July 17th, 2007 at 3:02 pm