the nation expands
Just got back from a pretty slow Friday night downtown. Everyone is out of town for the long weekend, it seems. The buddy who I went out to meet up with was soon picked up by a beautiful blonde FM95.7 kinda girl, and I left them dancing on the crowded dancefloor of Vegamót. So I went over to Ölstofan, did a lap, and went home.
But not before I chatted with the owner of the Blue Lagoon at the bar. He and his colleague were buying tequila shots.
And saw the same TV show hostess in both Vegamót and Ölstofan.
And watched a beat-up 3-series full of teenagers cruise past on Laugavegur, kids sitting on the door sills.
And narrowly avoided piles of broken glass.
And looked at the strange Icelandic light coming through the dark clouds above the town.
And contemplated how Reykjavík's nightlife feels a whole lot like those old Zeta Psi parties, swapping in well-dressed Vikings for the Champion-wearing MIT guys, well-dressed Scandinavian models for the Regis girls, and a couple of good-looking downtown streets for the commons with the blue rugs soaked in beer.
And then ran into my friend's ex-boyfriend, having no idea at first who he was, and keeping up a Swingersesque conversation with him nonetheless on the sidewalk. (I hadn't seen him since my ferðamaður days.)
But by far the best happening of the evening, news that I still can't quite in fact believe, news that struck me like the first lightning bolt in a baseball-drought-ending summer storm, is that it appears I have found Member #2 of Red Sox Nation North.
A friend of my smooth-with-the-FM-girl buddy somehow (and miraculously) has satellite reception of NESN. (He pronounced each letter: "N.E.S.N." Holy Moses! NESN?!? How do they even beam that past Canada?) And even more miraculously, knowing nothing about baseball at all, he nevertheless started watching games and getting hooked on the Olde Towne Team. (The getting hooked part is not so miraculous.) As soon as I said I was from Boston, he said, "Oh yeah, what about Johnny Damon? And David Ortiz! That guy's a slugger. Slugger is the word, right?"
I've never heard 'slugger' in the Icelandic accent. It's a beautiful thing.
But not before I chatted with the owner of the Blue Lagoon at the bar. He and his colleague were buying tequila shots.
And saw the same TV show hostess in both Vegamót and Ölstofan.
And watched a beat-up 3-series full of teenagers cruise past on Laugavegur, kids sitting on the door sills.
And narrowly avoided piles of broken glass.
And looked at the strange Icelandic light coming through the dark clouds above the town.
And contemplated how Reykjavík's nightlife feels a whole lot like those old Zeta Psi parties, swapping in well-dressed Vikings for the Champion-wearing MIT guys, well-dressed Scandinavian models for the Regis girls, and a couple of good-looking downtown streets for the commons with the blue rugs soaked in beer.
And then ran into my friend's ex-boyfriend, having no idea at first who he was, and keeping up a Swingersesque conversation with him nonetheless on the sidewalk. (I hadn't seen him since my ferðamaður days.)
But by far the best happening of the evening, news that I still can't quite in fact believe, news that struck me like the first lightning bolt in a baseball-drought-ending summer storm, is that it appears I have found Member #2 of Red Sox Nation North.
A friend of my smooth-with-the-FM-girl buddy somehow (and miraculously) has satellite reception of NESN. (He pronounced each letter: "N.E.S.N." Holy Moses! NESN?!? How do they even beam that past Canada?) And even more miraculously, knowing nothing about baseball at all, he nevertheless started watching games and getting hooked on the Olde Towne Team. (The getting hooked part is not so miraculous.) As soon as I said I was from Boston, he said, "Oh yeah, what about Johnny Damon? And David Ortiz! That guy's a slugger. Slugger is the word, right?"
I've never heard 'slugger' in the Icelandic accent. It's a beautiful thing.
posted by JB at 30.7.05
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