the turning point
There comes a point in the lifecycle of every downtown Reykjavík weekend night when the night just turns. What had been fun and funny and full of possibility suddenly snaps the other way, turning dark and exhausted and ominous. The turn happens fast, like a light switch getting flicked, like whiplash.
Last Saturday I was in Ölstofan when the turn happened. It was around 3 a.m. and three things happened in rapid succession: someone stumbled and stepped on my foot, a very drunk and fairly large girl fell on the floor and into me, and someone in the corner dropped his beer glass by accident but then furthered the cause by stepping on the remains of the glass with his boot. It was the turn.
Once I feel the turning point, it's hard to stay excited about the night. "It's time to say goodnight..." were the singsong childhood words of my mom, and they remain just as true for a sidewalk full of tipsy Icelandic revelers as they did for "the kid in me" when I was tired but didn't want to stop playing flashlight-tag. Nothing good can really happen after the turn; the Heart of Saturday Night will once more remain elusive.
When I realized the turning point had come this past Saturday, I removed myself from Ölstofan to the fresh air outside and made the amble back down Laugavegur, down the hill at Bankastræti, and popped in at Hlölli's for a Pinnabátur that I ate walking home through the quiet streets of Vesturbær.
Last Saturday I was in Ölstofan when the turn happened. It was around 3 a.m. and three things happened in rapid succession: someone stumbled and stepped on my foot, a very drunk and fairly large girl fell on the floor and into me, and someone in the corner dropped his beer glass by accident but then furthered the cause by stepping on the remains of the glass with his boot. It was the turn.
Once I feel the turning point, it's hard to stay excited about the night. "It's time to say goodnight..." were the singsong childhood words of my mom, and they remain just as true for a sidewalk full of tipsy Icelandic revelers as they did for "the kid in me" when I was tired but didn't want to stop playing flashlight-tag. Nothing good can really happen after the turn; the Heart of Saturday Night will once more remain elusive.
When I realized the turning point had come this past Saturday, I removed myself from Ölstofan to the fresh air outside and made the amble back down Laugavegur, down the hill at Bankastræti, and popped in at Hlölli's for a Pinnabátur that I ate walking home through the quiet streets of Vesturbær.
posted by JB at 29.8.06
3 Comments:
True. So true. It happens. It does.
Brentie Smalls: Wow. You can be a commenter anytime.
CK: How often does intentional glass-smashing happen in Minnesota?
I had never considered Boston's very-early closing time of 2am to be a benifit in any way, but perhaps it helps stem the number of sour turning points because we can't be out long enough to encounter them. :-)
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