The Last Picture Show

It's over. We're home. There's nothing left to say (of course, that won't stop me).

Gratuitous airport shot (deal with it).

Nick is actually carrying bags of duty free liquor into Iceland. 

Well done, Grasshopper. Well done.

Because there's nothing more scenic than baggage claim.

Geysers! Thank God for burst mode. 

(We have a hundred pictures of just the crowd standing there looking at nothing.)

Patty found this completely by chance in a mile long stretch of nearly identical boulders. 

Totally appreciate the Nordic sense of humor.

Funky opera house. Everyone else was taking pictures of it. 

What the hell. I can be a sheep.

If Ansel Adams was in a frat.

Actually had to merge with these on the highway at one point 

(and, yet, still better than the exit at M-59 on I-75).

Nick, fully appreciating the gravity of proper hot dog selection.

Patty, not nearly as much.

Yep, that's grass growing on that table. Service could be quicker.

Icelanders LOVE to talk American politics. Betcha' never guess which candidate they support.

 

More of this ah-loo-minium thing.

Ponies with mountains and a glacier in the background (I got nothing for this; it's basically filler).

Better shot of the Lego Lutheran church.

Reykjavik (or Portland, or Seattle, or New Brunswick)

Since I brought my nephew, Patty brought her knees.

Never did walk over to find out what this was, but from the looks of things, it was very cold out that day.

Sibs sipping suds.

Kilroy was here.

While puffins were there.

                                              "I have such a headache!"

"Don't worry. I see Tylenol right over there."                                       

This is the end of the road (and what every cemetery in Europe looks like).

Homeward Bound

After six, sun-filled days and five, blink-and-you-miss-them nights, Iceland is about to become a checked-off, bucket list tick in the rearview mirror of our westbound, Boeing 757. When we land, we'll extend our vacation in Canada for a bit (because we haven't had enough of bi-lingual menus and Easter-colored money) and then point the minivan toward home. With a boxful of duty-free liquor and a credit card full of charges I can't possibly remember, we'll pull into our house this evening and begin the long process of working both our dog and our livers through their respective abandonment issues.

Patty asked me this morning what my most memorable part of the trip was. I couldn't answer. In all fairness, she asked me before my first cup of coffee, so I was still struggling with basic vocalization and motor skills, but, now, fully caffeinated, I'm still struggling. Truth is, I can never really answer that question from any trip. Sure, there are always some moments more memorable than others, but I've come to realize that I like to travel for the sake of it. It must be the predominantly Viking heritage in me (sans the raping and ridiculous, horned headwear). The Germans call it "wandarlust." I guess I never had much of a choice, because thanks to my mother, I can claim that heritage too.

I like being in airports in general (Carol, you're not the only one). I like blindly renting cars in foreign languages to see if I'm going to end up with a Renault or a rickshaw (Note from this trip: a rickshaw is preferable to a diesel Suzuki Vitara). I LOVE memorizing maps of new cities and then walking every inch of that map and photographing the minutia of human existence. I like flawlessly converting between currencies most of the time and then, after a few shots of the local national libation, realizing I just paid $100 for a cheese pizza and a pat of butter. I like funky, foreign hotel toiletries, futuristic plumbing fixtures, and enough electrical current running through my 16th century B&B to accommodate a personal arc welding fetish.

Iceland was amazing. I highly recommend the trip. But then again, I would obviously highly recommend any trip.

If you do go, here are some touristy tips, starting with, most importantly, food:

Hakarl, or the poisonous fermented shark that hardcore Icelanders are known for. In a word, meh. It wasn't at all as gag reflux inducing as Youtube videos would have you believe. It smelled a lot like blue cheese, it looked a lot like chunks of tofu (which, to a carnivore like me, was its least appealing trait), it chewed like foam rubber, and the taste ranged (yes, I ate several pieces) anywhere from warm tuna to ammonia dipped fish oil capsules.

Harofiskur, the dried planks of fish that you can buy everywhere, were something I could see mindlessly eating like peanuts. If you're Italian, think razor thin, bacalan. It's like a dry, tough fish jerky that you eat with butter spread on it. It wasn't great, but it was kind of addicting. Did I mention you cover it with butter?

All other seafood we tried (lobster, tusk, cod, pickerel, unidentifiable stew chunks) was fresh and amazing!

The water. Tap. Drink it. They have the cleanest, freshest water in the world, and aside from a slight, naturally occurring sulfur smell, it was pretty damn amazing. Believe me, when you travel outside the US, clean water is not something you take for granted.

Whale. Yeah, there's controversy. I get it. But I struggle choosing breakfast cereals. How am I supposed to reconcile a social conscience with hundreds of thousands of years of apex predator genetics? Make a PETA donation and then order some. We got ours sashimi style (rare/raw), and the flavor was heavenly. I liked it so much I put a stop order on the PETA check.

Beer. Icelanders love their beer. So do springbreakers in Daytona. After about 11pm, it's the exact same crowd. Just like in the states, there's a microbrew phenomenon happening in Iceland. Just like in the states, anyone who can brew up a Bud Light, add berries and pumpkin spice and design a bitchin' logo is now a master brewer. Be an adult, order a Guinness. Every country in the world has an Irish pub. Iceland has several.

Brennivin. Icelandic schnapps. Unlike "Mad Viking Kitten Pillaging Super IPA," (see above beer comments) this is an authentic Iceland drink. It's kind of a potato vodka flavored with caraway seeds. If you mashed up a loaf of strong rye bread in ouzo, you'd pretty much have the taste. I kinda' liked it. I brought some home. But then it's alcohol, and I'm, well, me.

Scenery. Iceland is a volcanic island. If you took a picture of Hawaii and adjusted the green saturation down by about 50%, that's it. It's rugged, new, otherworldly, and dotted with colorful little farms and futuristic geothermal plants. And just because that's not weird enough, there are snow-capped volcanoes in the background and random plumes of steam coming from flat, treeless plains. A robotic, tyrannosaurus rex loping across said plain chasing a heard of the miniature horses (they actually do exist) would not be out of place. It's basically where every sci-fi movie should ever be filmed, and it's worth going just to see the weirdness. Of course I recommend the touristy geysers, waterfalls and hot springs, too, but you really need to just drive and take in the varied landscape.

Accommodations. Reykjavik is small. Everything is within walking distance. Get a hotel or B&B well off the main drag if you're a city dweller. Partying every night until 3 am is a blast. Trying to sleep in a hotel overlooking that, not so much. If we go back, we'll rent a car, drive completely around the island and stay in small towns along the way. You could probably get by with just two nights in the capital.

Price. Expensive. Everything is. My cousin Thelma told me to buy my liquor at the airport duty free before arriving. It was damn good advice, so I pass it along to you. Use your transaction free credit card for everything (and everyone in Iceland takes credit cards--from drug dealers to the lady selling hand sown sweaters from her farmhouse up in the mountains). AirBnB's are way more affordable than commercial hotels, but make sure you get one with a guaranteed transaction. Rental cars were surprisingly affordable but gas was north of $6 a gallon.

I'll dump the good camera pix when we get home and make one last post then. Until then, cheers!

The Worm has Turned

Finally, the norovirus that has been jamming a giant wrench up the backdoor of our great white experience, granted us parole, and not only did we actually get to use the rental car I paid for three months ago, but we also got to interact with the traveling companions that have been otherwise making wonderful use of said rental car to etch out their own Icelandic experience. And now that we're once again reunited as one big happy family, we leave tomorrow to return to North America. Murphy's Law of vacation, I guess.  Needless to say, there was a lot of pressure for today to be great.

Fortunately, the weather has been cooperative. But then again, when the sun never really sets, five straight days of sunshine can be a bit monotonous (especially if you are a vampire).

Okay, I lied again. It kinda' sets. This was at 11pm last night.

This morning, considering all that we had been through, we didn't venture out of town without knowing proper bathroom etiquette.

And we made sure not to smoke (at least not Belmonts, anyway).

And, of course, we tried to be safe.

But we ended up with unwrapped weiners all the same.

And drinking shots of Icelandic schnapps out of little jelly jars.

And then relinquishing them to strange, square toilets.

Had enough yet?

Oh, we saw some falls, geysers, and glaciers, too.

Feeling Kukkkki

One of the goals of this vacation was to basically eat my way through the Icelandic biosphere. From reindeer, to rare Minke Whale, to adorable little puffins, I've been treating the wildlife here like a Nordic smorgasbord (that's a Danish word, the Icelandic one is probably something like skorkksskkrd). Unfortunately, the biosphere has bitten back, and I have spent the past 18 hours in our hotel room sipping Gatorade, getting our Krona's worth in hotel toilet paper, and really self-congratulating my decision to buy the giant-size can of bathroom spray the first day we landed.

So which exotic protein was the one that finally put a damper on my Caligula-like appetite? Bacon. Not polar bear bacon. Not mythical griffin bacon. Just plain 'ol, undercooked hotel, breakfast-buffet bacon. Talk about betrayal! Bacon, I thought I knew ye.

Anyway, since you probably don't want to see the pictures of our hotel bathroom, here are a few of the things we were able to explore before the case of Odin's revenge limited our travel radius.

Pretty much been using this as my menu.

Lutheran church. Looks like it's made from legos. I didn't want to risk getting closer lest my feet started to burn.

Us in front of a giant aluminum thing. I love how Europeans say aluminum: uh LOO minny um.

I wasn't going to jump to conclusions when I saw this sign on a door for The Icelandic Love Corporation in the less respectful part of town, but then I noticed the drippy, sticky shoe, and, well...

Us on the puffin watching tour. I thought it was going to be like picking lobsters out of a tank for dinner. Sadly, no.

Micellany

Storage space is at a premium here (as is everything else), so here's a dump of dumb pictures to make room for dumber ones...

It's as if they reached into Patty's soul and designed a travelling product just for her.

Evil Loki from the Thor movies was our bartender. Sadly, he wasn't as friendly as the actual, maniacal super villain.

Laura, this is actually Toronto, and proves Canada's French influence. Sacre Poo!

Room service.

Iceland's ancient texting heritage proudly displayed.

Patty moonlighting as a whale hygenist.

Iceland: Land of old friends and day drinking.

Reelin' in the Years

According to Google (statistic provider for the chronically lazy and research impaired), the world has a population of 7.4 billion. Iceland accounts for a measly 350,000 of that number.  And Reykjavik, where we are, accounts for all but 70,000 of that. Assuming I'm doing the math correctly (granted, giant assumption, considering this is being typed from three chardonnays deep in a hotel bar), the people in my immediate surroundings represent about .00004% of the global population. It would seem statistically unlikely that that subgroup, isolated on a chunk of sulfer-smelling basalt at the northernmost fringes of habitable Europe, would ever intersect with anyone I know.

And yet, all the same, we just finished spending an enjoyable day of endless, Nordic summer with my best childhood friend, Jon Croy--a bizarre, Jungian-ly synchronistic, chance encounter if ever there was one. Jon and his son, Cooper, had a 15-hour layover here from Seattle on their way to a summer vacation in Paris and London. When he read my blog re-boot earlier in the week, he texted me and let me know about our impending, coincidental reunion. Unbelievable!

And since we're on the subject of bizarre coincidences, the night we flew out of Toronto, Hall & Oates was playing a concert at the Molson Amphitheater. From there, I just assumed they would be continuing on with some other leg of a North American greatest hits tour.

However, after stumbling across this sign while walking by the seafood shacks near the pier yesterday, I can only assume that their venue shrank dramatically. Either that, or there is a Lobster Hall & Oates dish on the menu that one shouldn't miss. Sadly, I was more in the mood for Steely Dan Cakes, so we continued on without closer investigation.

Iceland, on the Rocks

Patty and I are holed up in an indescribably quaint little hotel on the oceanfront near the airport. Patty's still sleeping. I'm wondering why I'm not. It's 9am according to the unpronounceable, Icelandic cell network that has taken over my iPhone (enough with the k's already). My brain is still telling me it's 5am, however. Of course, that has just as much to do with four time zones as it does the 3000 miles of non-stop, in-flight vodka and champagne that fueled our arrival. Thank God (er, Odin), these people are known for their coffee. I think I'll pour some directly into my eyes.

Speaking of people, it's probably polite to introduce you to ours at this point. 

From right to left (because I have temporary travel dyslexia), that's 1) Abby, my nephew's girlfriend and seemingly most pragmatic of our little sub-posse, 2) Nick, my nephew and unofficial stress tester of airplane bathrooms, and 3) Abby's brother, Hayden, of yet-to-be-determined personality traits or quirks to mock or otherwise deride.

So far, it's been a blur: the construction filled crawl through a vanilla bland stretch of Ontario's heartland, the amazing Italian meal in Downtown Toronto (Dear Detroit, that's how you do a city of over 2 million), the Park 'n Ride shuttle that smelled of poutine and body odor (as if there's really a difference), and the aforementioned, flying bar that dumped us onto this little volcanic nub in the middle of the North Atlantic. 

The sun was setting when we got here after 11pm. It was coming up again when we went to bed at 3am. Stupid sun.

Anyway, Reykjavik, the capital, stands before us today, where we will meet back up with the kids, check into our urban digs, and begin our discovery of Iceland (primarily by way of it's bars and bar-adjacent restaurants). But since I need more coffee now, we can discuss that later.

Pants on Fire

I lied. Sue me.

 
A little over a year ago, my beautiful wife and I went to Paris, and I decided to blog the event in real time. It was a little tedious (the blogging, not the beautiful wife), especially considering the consumption of all the wine and duck parts I was also forced to fit into our busy, vacation schedule. I was pretty adamant about never blogging like that again. I even posted as much, so my promise still hangs out there in the ether, like a garlic burp.

Yet, here I am again. Oh well.

I lied. Sue me.

Maybe I missed the challenge (doubtful, considering I’m a chronic coaster). Maybe I thought that documenting our experiences would be beneficial to other travelers (yeah, as if). Maybe I liked the ego-stroking that the blog’s eventual popularity afforded me (oh, now we’re getting warmer). Regardless, promises be damned, I’m back, baby!

This time we are off to Iceland, land of rotting shark cuisine and oddly revered losers of international soccer tournaments, and I’ll be back on-line to document the entire trip. The blog title has been officially changed.

 An A$$Hole in Paris

 

is now 

 

 An A$$hole Abroad
http://aholeabroad.blogspot.com/

 

This better reflects the more generic nature of my wanderlust (while simultaneously preserving my well-established asshole-ness). I even changed the blog’s background colors to prove that I’m at least 32% invested in the success of this project.

Some other things that have changed:

·        Our travelling companions: We’ve swapped out the aunt and uncle from Paris fame and replaced them with my nephew and his girlfriend. The girlfriend’s brother is also coming, who will act as an emergency back-up nephew in case mine gets eaten by revenge-seeking, Icelandic Puffins or succumbs to rotten shark poisoning. Successful travel is all about being prepared.

·        Facebook: I don’t do it anymore. I got tired of blocking mouth-breathing, pro-Trump supporters from my feed, so my blog posts won’t show up there unless links are added by others. If you want to follow along in real time, you’ll either need to 1) sign-up with your email address on the "Follow by Email" link at the right or 2) continuously visit my blog, 24 hours a day, for the entire week we are gone to see if I’ve posted anything new. Unless you are a shut-in, I’m going to go ahead and recommend that first approach.

·        Language: Whenever we travel, I try to learn (or re-learn) a bit of the language beforehand. I think it’s respectful as a guest. As a result, I can say, “Excuse me, where do I post bail?” in French, Italian, Spanish, Portuguese and Alabama. However, try as I might, Icelandic is impenetrable to me. I’ve tried. Too many consonants--specifically, too many K’s. Also, too many little dots, slashes, and unidentifiable, linguistic jism sprayed over top otherwise perfectly good vowels. I’ve tried to be a good world citizen, but this time I’m going full court, ugly American. If someone doesn’t understand me, I’m just going to say it louder, in English. I’ll even wave my AmEx card around if need be.

Things that haven’t changed:

·        Food: Yes, I’ll still be taking pictures of and writing a lot about the food and drink we enjoy on our trip. It’s basically the reason I go on vacation. Actually, it’s the reason I do much of anything.

·        Me: I’m still an A$$hole.

 

Stay tuned. The trip starts July 23^rd.

Last Tango in Paris

As promised (er, threatened), here’s the final entry for my one and only attempt at a real-time, travel blog. I’ve also included a small data storm of pictures that I pulled off my faithful Sony right before it died. (A small memorial was held, and the body was interred in Paris. Please, no flowers.)

I’ve also included some handy travel tidbits below for those of you who might be considering a trip. I learned them the hard way so you don’t have to. I’ve broken them up into the typical, travel related subgroups (Attractions, Lodging, Transportation, and Condiments) for easy reference.

Finally, if my particular brand of stupidity was something that appealed to you, first, seek professional help. Next, visit my website (mkarvinen.com) for links to other free projects, my book (available on Amazon), and my upcoming charity blog benefiting disabled veterans. But seriously, seek the professional help first.

I’d like to close with something French, but it’s been a week, and I don’t remember any.

Adios, amigos.

Hard Earned Parisian Travel Tips...

CONDIMENTS

Mustard:  I fell in love with French mustard. They don’t seem to have any of the day-glo, yellow stuff like we have here (ironically named French’s), as theirs is more of a grayish, yellow affair. Think Poupon (or just say it out loud--it’s fun). Anyway, the variety I particularly enjoyed was called “forte,” which translates to strong in just about every European language that I pretend to know. I suspect the forte equates to about 75% horseradish and 25% yellow. It’s possible there are some Hall’s Menthol-Lyptus lozenges added in for good measure. Regardless, the final combination ends up being a nasal cleansing, olfactory enema of a condiment that goes great with duck livers, salmon, and the little baby pickles that kept showing up on my plate for no apparent reason. I believe you can also smear it on your chest if you are feeling congested.

 

Incidentally, I even like the way the French say mustard. The word is moutard and it’s pronounced Moo-Tard, which sounds to me like the politically incorrect term for a cow with a learning disability. When my dog acts stupid (most of the time), I now call her a Moo-Tard. Thank you, Paris.

Ketchup/Mayo: The French love their potatoes. I love potatoes. It’s possible I am French. The French can’t decide, however, if they are more like the Dutch (who eat their fried taters dipped in mayo) or the Americans (with our well-documented ketchup addiction). The French are like middle children in this regard and tend to serve both, squirted next to each other on a plate with their fries. White condiments and condiments of color joyfully integrated on one plate is a Benetton-like, social experiment I can fully support. However, I did notice that the McChicken sandwich at the Paris McDonalds also came with both ketchup and mayo already on it. Ketchup on chicken? With or without mayo, that just seems gross, and it’s probably why the French aren't a super power.

Sauces: The French are known for their sauces. Every entrée has one. It is liberally applied and it is delicious. Don’t ask what the sauces are made of if you care about your cholesterol or if you are squeamish about less popular animal parts. Just enjoy.

Salad Dressing: Compared to their stance on sauces, the French go all bi-polar when it comes to salad dressing. Apparently they believe it’s important to actually taste the vegetables in a salad (yeah, whatever), and they distribute dressing with an eyedropper. Perhaps they feel that less dressing is healthier too, but in light of their stance on organ meet sauces (see above) and their habit of eating salad while chain-smoking cigarettes, I don’t think that’s really it.

Butter: There's only one pat in the entire city, and it's not where you are.

ATTRACTIONS
The Louvre: My father was an artist. Before the age of eighteen, I had already been to the Detroit Institute of Arts more times than I can honestly count. It’s one of my favorite places in the entire world, and it’s the absolute gem in the otherwise stinking pile of Paris-like, dog excrement that is Detroit. If you live in Michigan and you haven’t been there, you are a moutard.

Needless to say, I was extremely excited to go to the Louvre. Sadly, the reality did not live up to the expectation. Don’t get me wrong. The collection is the best in the western world, and I would have loved to rent a room there. Problem is, I am used to Detroit, where you can pretty much have the entire museum to yourself on any given day for quiet appreciation. I honestly think I’ve even turned out the lights as I’ve exited some rooms there as a courtesy. The Louvre is nothing like that. Even if you get there early, which we did, it’s only a matter of moments before the entire museum is jam-packed with tourists completely ignoring the “no flash photography” signs, and you are being forced to limbo under a sea of selfie-sticks.

Mona's that way.

It opens at 9:00. Be there at 8:30. Stand in the line for people without tickets, unless you tend to act like an adult and plan ahead. You can easily buy tickets when you get in. It’s about 12 Euros. Go right to see the Mona Lisa or the crowds will become unbearable. She’s in Denon Hall. Follow the signs (or the crowds). Run.

The Tower: Yeah, you gotta’ see it. It’s uber-touristy and crowded, but you gotta’ go. Absolutely go there early. The lines to get to the top are ridiculous. Although waiting is not without its reward. It’s entertaining as hell to watch the police chase away unlicensed souvenir vendors and petition clutching Romani only to have them return seconds later.

The Arc de Triomph: It’s a big Arch, bigger than McDonalds. It’s historic. It sits in the middle of an impossibly busy roundabout at the end of the Champs-Élysées (France’s Miracle Mile). You get to it via a tunnel underneath said roundabout. Go see it. If you’re feeling energetic, pay some Euros and climb the 400 steps to the top. Better yet, save your Euros for a visit to Pizza Pinos about a block and a half south east of the arch and order the salmon pizza.

Notre Dame: If you are a Catholic or a student of architecture or cheap, you should probably go see this free, French landmark. If, coincidentally, you are a cheap, Catholic, architecture student, this may very well be what heaven looks like to you.

ACCOMMODATIONS

We stayed at one place, the Hotel Notre Dame St.Michel. It was not cheap, but nothing in Paris is (short of bottled water, American whiskey, and hypothetical Catholic architecture students). Stay there. Ask for Simona. Tell her I said, "Bonjour." Thank me later.

TRANSPORTATION

The best way to see any city is walking. Bring good shoes. Patty and I swear by Keens. They're sandals, so don't wear socks with them unless you are German. They have mega arch support, they are lightweight, and you can hose Parisian dog poop off them relatively easily.

Learn the subway. It’s called the Metro. It’s very efficient, especially for a socialist country. If your American credit card does not have an integrated chip in it (mine didn't), it will not work at the kiosks. Coins always work at the kiosks. The larger stations have staffed booths manned by cranky civil servants. If they are not being complete assholes, they will take paper money and make change. Tickets are cheap. Buy 10 at a time.

Download a Metro map and carry it with you. The individual lines are color coded and either labeled with a letter or a number. Knowing the color and letter/number is not enough, however. You also need to know the name of the two cities where the line terminates at each end. This tells you the direction your Metro is going. Thus, if you determine you need to use the Red A line, you also need to know which platform loads for the one going west (toward Poissy) or east (toward Boissy-St leger). The termination cities are printed in bold on the Metro maps.

I don’t know if the individual tickets are good for a set amount of time or a set distance. Sometimes I could

use them up to three times, sometimes just once. My advice is to just keep sticking them in turnstiles until they stop working. Also, don’t throw them out while you are in the Metro system. You can be fined if you are not carrying it. We were stopped and checked.

A private shuttle from the airport to the city center can take anywhere from a half hour to an hour and a half depending upon time of day. Plan conservatively if you need to catch a flight.

And speaking of flights, if you happen to fly AirFrance, they seem to impose no limit to the number of free little bottles of wine they give you during one flight. They also give you free little bottles of cognac or brandy, but you have to ask. So ask. Ask the living shit out of them.