Fried & Convicted, page 19
By the time we moved to Rehoboth almost 20 years ago now, we were into the Exhaustion Stage—tired of commuting between two residences and ready for life full-time at the beach. Mayflower Movers schlepped that aging hot tub along to put on the third deck we had to build. We also moved with our third or fourth gas mower, sixth or seventh gas string trimmer and new and improved gas grill. The whole business gave me gas.
Can you guess what happened next? In Rehoboth we had three-quarters of an acre. Yup, enter our pet riding mower. What fun! But sadly, one day, returning from the mower sharpener, we glanced in our rearview mirror and saw our prized mower lurch backward, then roll, in slo-mo, out of the truck.
Everybody thought somebody else had tied it down. The behemoth landed on all fours, wheels splayed, tires going east and west, hood cracked and several of its vital organs hemorrhaging fluids. Ultimately, it got fixed so it could mow, but cosmetically it never recovered.
And in that house, for the next 11 years, between work and volunteering and being out and about, we didn’t have much time or inclination to use the hot tub. Cover on, it became an excellent buffet table, used in concert with our new, state-of-the-art, super-duper gas grill with two side burners, a side table, and everything but the kitchen sink. We didn’t have time or inclination to mow either, so we hired somebody with their own riding mower and yard-saled both the mower and the hot tub.
In September 2013 we moved to our manufactured home with its teeny yard. Yay, no room for a deck! We’re retired now, Happiness Stage, but surprisingly back to mowing by ourselves with the new electric mower and new battery-operated string trimmer. We’re holding a lottery to see how long it will be before I run over the lawnmower cord.
Our cumbersome, aging grill, with its never-used side burners, was tossed pretty violently in a recent wind storm and the rusted insides just crumbled. We replaced it with the simplest, cheapest, most utilitarian version we could find, no grill cover/mainsail needed.
And a short time ago we came into possession of an inexpensive, inflatable hot tub for two. We pumped it up and we’re in business. It uses regular house power, has a bubbler more powerful than the two costly tubs we previously owned and is perfect for our backyard oasis. Heavenly.
Everything old is new again. Except for us, of course.
August 2016
BOTTOMS UP . . . OR SKOL!
As you read this I am doing my final packing for a trip to Iceland.
Bonnie has always wanted to go there and she’s infected me with the wanderlust, too. So in the midst of the scalding weather I’m packing sweaters, turtlenecks, waterproof socks, hiking boots, pants that zip off to become shorts (in case of a rare heat wave), and an opaque eye mask for sleep, as we should expect only two or three hours of darkness this time of year.
We’re taking electricity converters for our gadgets, camera and my phone, which, alas, will have to suffice as my computer, plus a bag of guidebooks and maps. I expect that my column about our experiences will be thumbed on my phone.
It’s going to be an adventure! Especially since we will spend the 10-day trip traveling around the entire island nation of Iceland in a small recreational vehicle. Ah, you know we love a land yacht. But this was not our initial thought. However, research revealed that 10 days in a rental RV was about half the price of 10 nights in a hotel plus rental car.
It was a no-brainer, especially since we adore traveling by RV and Iceland is noted for its RV culture. You can stop and stay anywhere—tourist sites, in cities, on farms and, of course, numerous RV parks. Sounded like fun to us.
We are set to travel to the land of glaciers, volcanoes, geothermal soaking pools, waterfalls, ice caves, puffins, whales, herring, and fish soup. Oh, and geysers, which they pronounce geezers, which prompts me to ask what we old people are called.
But here’s the scary thing about our 10 days on the road. I have reluctantly agreed that except for our first night in Reykjavik (and I will explain this in a moment), we will make no advance reservations or plans to stay in particular places. This consummate, (some would say pathological) planner will be flying by the seat of her pants, without a net. Wherever the trip takes us. Yikes! Yes, I have packed my anti-anxiety drugs.
I’ll let you know if we wind up sharing quarters with chickens, goats, or Icelandic Trolls (a thing, apparently). About the Icelandic language: challenging! Fortunately, almost everyone in Iceland speaks English. But as in all countries, the natives appreciate foreigners making an attempt at speaking the local tongue. We will try, but it’s going to be crazy. From the Seljalandsfoss Waterfall and Kirkjubaejarklaustur town to the Snaefellsnes Peninsula and Upper Borgarfjordur, we’re in trouble.
Maybe we should stay only in the towns of Vik and Hofsos just to make it simpler.
Now, about our first night in the capital city of Reykjavik: We fly overnight on August 5, arriving at 6:30 a.m. on August 6—just, by happenstance, hitting the city on the last day of the week-long 2016 Iceland Pride Celebration. We’ll be in time to attend the big parade. And it is big. In 2014, over 90,000 people (one quarter of the country’s population, by the way) came to celebrate and catch the carnival-like festivities.
So we figured we should drop our bags at a hotel, get in on the Pride events, watch the parade, and then crash for a night’s sleep before setting out on the Ring Road in our rented RV. From the renowned Blue Lagoon to the famous fjords, we’re hoping for a major adventure.
Iceland’s most famous celebrity is the singer Bjork. If not remembered for her music, she is noted for that ridiculous swan dress she wore at the Oscars one year. I prefer to applaud Iceland for electing the world’s first female—and first openly gay prime minister, Johanna Siguroardottir, in 2008. Way to go, Iceland.
I’m looking forward to my first sip of Brennivin, Iceland’s signature distilled beverage. Bottoms up or Skol!
August 2016
BACK FROM THE LAND OF FUMAROLES!
Okay, I’m happy to report I survived my free-range Iceland experience. We did not sleep with chickens (although we had close encounters with sheep), always found a convenient campground, and still prefer vodka to their bitter Icelandic schnapps.
While it was 105 degrees and sizzling in most of the U.S., it was 52 degrees and wet in summery Iceland. And we had about 20 hours of daylight each day to enjoy the weather. What were we thinking?
Actually, the trip was pretty amazing. We traveled around the entire country in a small RV along Iceland’s famous Ring Road. When the guidebooks said it was easy, they hadn’t imagined my mate re-learning a standard transmission on roads with no shoulders, unless you count a 10-story drop to the sea as a shoulder. We spent a lot of time screaming.
The occasional flimsy guardrail looked like it wouldn’t stop a rolling trash can—which, by the way, pretty much described the RV after a week of muddy feet, sodden clothing, and fish sandwiches. My mate did all the driving, as I never did learn to use a clutch and shift for myself. Badabing!
If the road wasn’t scary enough, you’d see a warning sign with a giant exclamation point and then have no translation of the word under it. “Sheep in the road!” would have been a good guess. Not to mention the frequent one-lane bridges where you’d play Icelandic chicken with the cars coming the other way.
But we saw fjords, volcanoes, lava fields, glaciers, waterfalls, those free-range sheep, puffins, black beaches and icebergs. Ate a lot of fish. Visited unpronounceable places. Loved the people. Soaked in thermal pools, saw a geyser and gawked at fumaroles—rock piles belching stinky, sulphurous steam.
Unlike the U.S. where there would be fences, walls and other impediments to getting up close and personal with the attractions, Iceland trusts its visitors not to do foolish things. Although near the fumaroles burping boiling liquid, there was a small sign noting, “Do not reach for hot water or steam, nearest hospital, 65 kilometers.”
I loved those steaming “hot pots” from the geothermal springs below the moonscape terrain, the touristy Blue Lagoon, the friendly people, and marvelous fish and lamb dinners. The ubiquitous waterfalls, lagoons full of blue icebergs, black beaches, whales, and puffins took our breath away.
Much of the country looks like the film set for Matt Damon on Mars. There are no trees except ones people plant on farms and in cities. We were cold and wet while everyone in Rehoboth was boiling and schvitzing.
By week’s end, we were mildewing. And don’t tell my wife, but I think my camping days are over. Every time I got in or out of the vehicle I sprained myself. The bed was like sleeping on an ironing board, and the bathroom was so small (How small was it?) you had to step out to change your mind. Bada bing.
The sun didn’t set until 10 p.m. and came back up around 5 a.m. Time was told on the military clock so our daily mantra was, “It’s 1700 o’clock somewhere.”
But if I can share just one trip highlight it would be our arrival in the capital city of Reykjavik on, of all things, Pride Weekend. And holy Donna Summer do they do it right!
Every single store, hotel, and restaurant flew rainbow flags, had rainbow-decorated windows, or had painted (painted!) storefronts and sidewalks the full spectrum. Hundreds of lamppost banners celebrated Pride, which had already been going on for days with shows, dances, movies, and more. Then came the parade. Iceland has less than 350,000 people, but at least 75,000 people stood waiting along the route—locals, people from around the country, and lots of international visitors.
It was a human rainbow—gay, straight, many, many families with kids, people of all ages, ethnicities, and style. Youngsters wore rainbow face paint and rainbow clothing, while even some of the public sculptures were festooned with rainbow leis.
Volunteer parade organizers were visible but not plentiful and there was no police presence, as none was needed. It was reassuring that the parade kicked off with Iceland’s version of Dykes on Bikes, an honor guard of local officials, backed up by a group from the American Embassy. Then came floats with disco-dancing drag queens, gay bar employees, commercial entities like banks and restaurants, and on and on, all to the soundtracks of “I Will Survive” and “Dancing Queen.”
Afterward, we left the Rainbow Gayla and shows to the youngsters and held out in a nearby pub. Everybody partied with pride and an infectious air of unity. So grand, in fact, that I wish our local Pride parades could be like this—everybody from businesses to elected officials all taking part, flying the rainbow and celebrating.
I can dream, can’t I?
August 2016
A WHALE OF A FAIL
So there we were in Iceland. You know me. Nothing is so bad if it’s worth the story you can tell. Well, this last one almost took me out.
One day, despite windy, rainy conditions we showed up at the dock in the town of Husavik, one of the more pronounceable places, to enjoy a four-hour whale watch and puffin hunt.
Already dressed in long johns, quick-dry pants, turtlenecks, sweaters and jackets, we were stuffed and then zipped into bright red, full-body flotation suits. Lurching down the pier and onto the restored wooden sailing vessel I could have passed for the Abominable Snowman.
Taking a seat and hoping not to move for the next half-day, I gazed at our fellow travelers. With everybody zipped up, hooded, and gloved, it was a HazMat team in Ray Bans.
So we sailed toward the Greenland Sea and it’s true, Iceland is mostly green and Greenland, they say, is mostly ice. The water was rough, wind biting cold, whales and puffins scarce.
As the boat could only get so close to the puffin-roosting island, the hundreds of white globs on the cliffs, purportedly puffins, could just as easily have been roosting marshmallows.
The boat pitched and rolled as we circled and circled the area, seeking whales. After a while the crew raised the sails and the captain turned off the boat’s noisy engine so we could sail round and round in glorious peace and quiet. Unfortunately, it was so quiet we could hear the unmistakable sound of humans at the stern, sending breakfast back to the sea.
After about three frigid, rainy, uneventful hours, with waves sloshing across the deck and hypothermia in the offing, we saw one enormous humpback whale break the surface of the water right smack in front of us. The mighty mammal then took a swooshing dive, displaying her majestic tail as she reentered the water. Really intense.
When a crew member shouted, “Possible whale at starboard!” I raced for a glimpse, skidded across the wet deck, lost my balance and, unable to course correct in my costume, crashed down on the slippery surface like a tree falling in the forest. And yes, if a tree falls and 40 tourists are there to hear the sound, it’s still humiliating. I went down hard, on my own majestic tail, flat on my back, arms flailing like an upended tortoise.
I saw my spouse, at least I think it was my spouse, gaping at me, horrified, from above. I don’t know whether she feared I was dead, or was frightened it was her job to get me back up. As it happened, it took a village.
Thanks to my 15 layers of protective clothing, all that was seriously hurt was my pride. Then, as if to celebrate the raising of the fallen Yeti, the crew served hot chocolate. While it was a charming touch, I had to wonder what genius decided to disburse fluids to people zipped into onesies who’d been without bathroom access for four hours.
I declined the Swiss Miss and immediately after docking, peeled off my snowsuit and ran for the WC.
And while it was a seriously long, cold and wet slog at sea, at least we got to see one spectacular whale take a dive. The rest of the passengers got value added. Thanks to me, they saw two whales go down.
And by the way, it’s amazing how much padding you can wear and still come home with bruises big as softballs. As I have said before, thank goodness it’s always 1700 o’clock somewhere.
September 2016
ICELAND’S BLUE LAGOON IS AN
UNNATURAL WONDER
Now before I get in trouble with Pink Iceland, a fantastic LGBT travel organization, let me say I loved Iceland’s famous Blue Lagoon and would go back in a minute no matter how much fun I make of it. But there’s fun to be made.
Some years ago, upon first hearing about the Blue Lagoon—Iceland’s biggest tourist attraction—I couldn’t wait to visit this natural phenomenon. It’s a swimming lagoon filled with seawater heated to 100 degrees by underground geothermal seismic activity.
Sort of.
When traveling from the airport to Iceland’s capital of Reykjavik, we passed a giant geothermal energy plant adjacent to the famous lagoon. How marvelous, I thought, that this natural lagoon, heated by underground thermal energy is able to generate heat and power for an entire capital city!
Yeah. Well, it’s the other way around.
Turns out that the bluish water, which indeed comes from geothermal seawater deep in the earth, is what’s pumped out of the power plant, creating the Blue Lagoon. And it wasn’t until the 1980s, when some public relations genius spied locals bathing in the warm pools caused by the run-off. “Aha!” he thought, “We will make this industrial run-off a massive tourist attraction and turn it into Iceland’s Disney World!”
It started with a trickle and one lonely bathhouse. Over the ensuing years, using natural lava rock instead of recognizable pool tiles, entrepreneurs expanded the run-off stream, improved the amenities, and now it’s a Shangri-La rising from the moonscape-like rubble that is suburban Reykjavik.
The Lagoon employs hundreds of people in an area that can use employment, and literally thousands of people visit it daily to bathe in the blue water and smear silica (that comes from the water) on their faces. Oh, and they buy beauty products that are beauty byproducts from the minerals in the lagoon.
It makes me darn proud of my public relations profession.
Weeks before we visited, we made reservations. There’s the Standard ticket, which buys entry and a silica mud mask; Comfort ticket, adding a towel; Premium ticket (our choice) adding a bathrobe, slippers, drink at the bar and a reservation for dinner complete with a glass of Prosecco. Oh, and an algae mud mask in addition to the silica.
The Luxury package added a host of expensive anti-aging products to take home but failed to include a total face-lift, so we figured it was too late for us and passed on the products.
Fast forward. On Blue Lagoon day, we arrive at the parking lot overflowing with tour buses, in the shadow of the power plant. We join the unwashed masses, chattering in a veritable United Nations of tongues, surging toward the entry.
We are each given a plastic high-tech bracelet, which knows which services we purchased, and gets us through the turnstile, where we pick up our towel, bathrobe and slippers. We move fast as the surging mob behind us threatens to overtake our position.
Rushed off to the ladies lockers, we arrive to find a large flock of naked women, chirping in any number of Asian dialects, Norse, and possibly Pig Latin. Terrified, I hug the wall, mouth agape, clutching my rented robe. Bonnie grabs me, points to a locker and demands I get out of my stupor as well as my clothes and head for the mandatory shower.
On the wall there are explicit directions for what and where to wash and monitors standing by to assure compliance.
“What are these, the orifice police?” I ask as Bonnie shoves me under the showerhead.
And then we all struggle into our bathing suits. Only women can understand the torture of trying to insert a wet body into a dry bathing suit. It’s an Olympic trial.
Well suited, we press our high-tech bracelet against the locker to shut it securely and join the now-washed masses heading for the Lagoon.
Ahhhh. I get it. The air is cool at 60 degrees but the water is gloriously warm. And blue. And the lagoon is so big (how big is it?) that the masses disperse, leaving us plenty of privacy as we float and swim and luxuriate in the comforting mineral-infused power plant run-off. Weird.
We swim up to the silica mask kiosk, grab a handful of white goop, and apply it all over our faces. It would have been easier with putty knives. The stuff quickly becomes drying spackle. I smile and a fissure opens along my laugh lines. I laugh because there are hundreds of bright white, spackle-covered faces around me, like a sea of mimes.
Can you guess what happened next? In Rehoboth we had three-quarters of an acre. Yup, enter our pet riding mower. What fun! But sadly, one day, returning from the mower sharpener, we glanced in our rearview mirror and saw our prized mower lurch backward, then roll, in slo-mo, out of the truck.
Everybody thought somebody else had tied it down. The behemoth landed on all fours, wheels splayed, tires going east and west, hood cracked and several of its vital organs hemorrhaging fluids. Ultimately, it got fixed so it could mow, but cosmetically it never recovered.
And in that house, for the next 11 years, between work and volunteering and being out and about, we didn’t have much time or inclination to use the hot tub. Cover on, it became an excellent buffet table, used in concert with our new, state-of-the-art, super-duper gas grill with two side burners, a side table, and everything but the kitchen sink. We didn’t have time or inclination to mow either, so we hired somebody with their own riding mower and yard-saled both the mower and the hot tub.
In September 2013 we moved to our manufactured home with its teeny yard. Yay, no room for a deck! We’re retired now, Happiness Stage, but surprisingly back to mowing by ourselves with the new electric mower and new battery-operated string trimmer. We’re holding a lottery to see how long it will be before I run over the lawnmower cord.
Our cumbersome, aging grill, with its never-used side burners, was tossed pretty violently in a recent wind storm and the rusted insides just crumbled. We replaced it with the simplest, cheapest, most utilitarian version we could find, no grill cover/mainsail needed.
And a short time ago we came into possession of an inexpensive, inflatable hot tub for two. We pumped it up and we’re in business. It uses regular house power, has a bubbler more powerful than the two costly tubs we previously owned and is perfect for our backyard oasis. Heavenly.
Everything old is new again. Except for us, of course.
August 2016
BOTTOMS UP . . . OR SKOL!
As you read this I am doing my final packing for a trip to Iceland.
Bonnie has always wanted to go there and she’s infected me with the wanderlust, too. So in the midst of the scalding weather I’m packing sweaters, turtlenecks, waterproof socks, hiking boots, pants that zip off to become shorts (in case of a rare heat wave), and an opaque eye mask for sleep, as we should expect only two or three hours of darkness this time of year.
We’re taking electricity converters for our gadgets, camera and my phone, which, alas, will have to suffice as my computer, plus a bag of guidebooks and maps. I expect that my column about our experiences will be thumbed on my phone.
It’s going to be an adventure! Especially since we will spend the 10-day trip traveling around the entire island nation of Iceland in a small recreational vehicle. Ah, you know we love a land yacht. But this was not our initial thought. However, research revealed that 10 days in a rental RV was about half the price of 10 nights in a hotel plus rental car.
It was a no-brainer, especially since we adore traveling by RV and Iceland is noted for its RV culture. You can stop and stay anywhere—tourist sites, in cities, on farms and, of course, numerous RV parks. Sounded like fun to us.
We are set to travel to the land of glaciers, volcanoes, geothermal soaking pools, waterfalls, ice caves, puffins, whales, herring, and fish soup. Oh, and geysers, which they pronounce geezers, which prompts me to ask what we old people are called.
But here’s the scary thing about our 10 days on the road. I have reluctantly agreed that except for our first night in Reykjavik (and I will explain this in a moment), we will make no advance reservations or plans to stay in particular places. This consummate, (some would say pathological) planner will be flying by the seat of her pants, without a net. Wherever the trip takes us. Yikes! Yes, I have packed my anti-anxiety drugs.
I’ll let you know if we wind up sharing quarters with chickens, goats, or Icelandic Trolls (a thing, apparently). About the Icelandic language: challenging! Fortunately, almost everyone in Iceland speaks English. But as in all countries, the natives appreciate foreigners making an attempt at speaking the local tongue. We will try, but it’s going to be crazy. From the Seljalandsfoss Waterfall and Kirkjubaejarklaustur town to the Snaefellsnes Peninsula and Upper Borgarfjordur, we’re in trouble.
Maybe we should stay only in the towns of Vik and Hofsos just to make it simpler.
Now, about our first night in the capital city of Reykjavik: We fly overnight on August 5, arriving at 6:30 a.m. on August 6—just, by happenstance, hitting the city on the last day of the week-long 2016 Iceland Pride Celebration. We’ll be in time to attend the big parade. And it is big. In 2014, over 90,000 people (one quarter of the country’s population, by the way) came to celebrate and catch the carnival-like festivities.
So we figured we should drop our bags at a hotel, get in on the Pride events, watch the parade, and then crash for a night’s sleep before setting out on the Ring Road in our rented RV. From the renowned Blue Lagoon to the famous fjords, we’re hoping for a major adventure.
Iceland’s most famous celebrity is the singer Bjork. If not remembered for her music, she is noted for that ridiculous swan dress she wore at the Oscars one year. I prefer to applaud Iceland for electing the world’s first female—and first openly gay prime minister, Johanna Siguroardottir, in 2008. Way to go, Iceland.
I’m looking forward to my first sip of Brennivin, Iceland’s signature distilled beverage. Bottoms up or Skol!
August 2016
BACK FROM THE LAND OF FUMAROLES!
Okay, I’m happy to report I survived my free-range Iceland experience. We did not sleep with chickens (although we had close encounters with sheep), always found a convenient campground, and still prefer vodka to their bitter Icelandic schnapps.
While it was 105 degrees and sizzling in most of the U.S., it was 52 degrees and wet in summery Iceland. And we had about 20 hours of daylight each day to enjoy the weather. What were we thinking?
Actually, the trip was pretty amazing. We traveled around the entire country in a small RV along Iceland’s famous Ring Road. When the guidebooks said it was easy, they hadn’t imagined my mate re-learning a standard transmission on roads with no shoulders, unless you count a 10-story drop to the sea as a shoulder. We spent a lot of time screaming.
The occasional flimsy guardrail looked like it wouldn’t stop a rolling trash can—which, by the way, pretty much described the RV after a week of muddy feet, sodden clothing, and fish sandwiches. My mate did all the driving, as I never did learn to use a clutch and shift for myself. Badabing!
If the road wasn’t scary enough, you’d see a warning sign with a giant exclamation point and then have no translation of the word under it. “Sheep in the road!” would have been a good guess. Not to mention the frequent one-lane bridges where you’d play Icelandic chicken with the cars coming the other way.
But we saw fjords, volcanoes, lava fields, glaciers, waterfalls, those free-range sheep, puffins, black beaches and icebergs. Ate a lot of fish. Visited unpronounceable places. Loved the people. Soaked in thermal pools, saw a geyser and gawked at fumaroles—rock piles belching stinky, sulphurous steam.
Unlike the U.S. where there would be fences, walls and other impediments to getting up close and personal with the attractions, Iceland trusts its visitors not to do foolish things. Although near the fumaroles burping boiling liquid, there was a small sign noting, “Do not reach for hot water or steam, nearest hospital, 65 kilometers.”
I loved those steaming “hot pots” from the geothermal springs below the moonscape terrain, the touristy Blue Lagoon, the friendly people, and marvelous fish and lamb dinners. The ubiquitous waterfalls, lagoons full of blue icebergs, black beaches, whales, and puffins took our breath away.
Much of the country looks like the film set for Matt Damon on Mars. There are no trees except ones people plant on farms and in cities. We were cold and wet while everyone in Rehoboth was boiling and schvitzing.
By week’s end, we were mildewing. And don’t tell my wife, but I think my camping days are over. Every time I got in or out of the vehicle I sprained myself. The bed was like sleeping on an ironing board, and the bathroom was so small (How small was it?) you had to step out to change your mind. Bada bing.
The sun didn’t set until 10 p.m. and came back up around 5 a.m. Time was told on the military clock so our daily mantra was, “It’s 1700 o’clock somewhere.”
But if I can share just one trip highlight it would be our arrival in the capital city of Reykjavik on, of all things, Pride Weekend. And holy Donna Summer do they do it right!
Every single store, hotel, and restaurant flew rainbow flags, had rainbow-decorated windows, or had painted (painted!) storefronts and sidewalks the full spectrum. Hundreds of lamppost banners celebrated Pride, which had already been going on for days with shows, dances, movies, and more. Then came the parade. Iceland has less than 350,000 people, but at least 75,000 people stood waiting along the route—locals, people from around the country, and lots of international visitors.
It was a human rainbow—gay, straight, many, many families with kids, people of all ages, ethnicities, and style. Youngsters wore rainbow face paint and rainbow clothing, while even some of the public sculptures were festooned with rainbow leis.
Volunteer parade organizers were visible but not plentiful and there was no police presence, as none was needed. It was reassuring that the parade kicked off with Iceland’s version of Dykes on Bikes, an honor guard of local officials, backed up by a group from the American Embassy. Then came floats with disco-dancing drag queens, gay bar employees, commercial entities like banks and restaurants, and on and on, all to the soundtracks of “I Will Survive” and “Dancing Queen.”
Afterward, we left the Rainbow Gayla and shows to the youngsters and held out in a nearby pub. Everybody partied with pride and an infectious air of unity. So grand, in fact, that I wish our local Pride parades could be like this—everybody from businesses to elected officials all taking part, flying the rainbow and celebrating.
I can dream, can’t I?
August 2016
A WHALE OF A FAIL
So there we were in Iceland. You know me. Nothing is so bad if it’s worth the story you can tell. Well, this last one almost took me out.
One day, despite windy, rainy conditions we showed up at the dock in the town of Husavik, one of the more pronounceable places, to enjoy a four-hour whale watch and puffin hunt.
Already dressed in long johns, quick-dry pants, turtlenecks, sweaters and jackets, we were stuffed and then zipped into bright red, full-body flotation suits. Lurching down the pier and onto the restored wooden sailing vessel I could have passed for the Abominable Snowman.
Taking a seat and hoping not to move for the next half-day, I gazed at our fellow travelers. With everybody zipped up, hooded, and gloved, it was a HazMat team in Ray Bans.
So we sailed toward the Greenland Sea and it’s true, Iceland is mostly green and Greenland, they say, is mostly ice. The water was rough, wind biting cold, whales and puffins scarce.
As the boat could only get so close to the puffin-roosting island, the hundreds of white globs on the cliffs, purportedly puffins, could just as easily have been roosting marshmallows.
The boat pitched and rolled as we circled and circled the area, seeking whales. After a while the crew raised the sails and the captain turned off the boat’s noisy engine so we could sail round and round in glorious peace and quiet. Unfortunately, it was so quiet we could hear the unmistakable sound of humans at the stern, sending breakfast back to the sea.
After about three frigid, rainy, uneventful hours, with waves sloshing across the deck and hypothermia in the offing, we saw one enormous humpback whale break the surface of the water right smack in front of us. The mighty mammal then took a swooshing dive, displaying her majestic tail as she reentered the water. Really intense.
When a crew member shouted, “Possible whale at starboard!” I raced for a glimpse, skidded across the wet deck, lost my balance and, unable to course correct in my costume, crashed down on the slippery surface like a tree falling in the forest. And yes, if a tree falls and 40 tourists are there to hear the sound, it’s still humiliating. I went down hard, on my own majestic tail, flat on my back, arms flailing like an upended tortoise.
I saw my spouse, at least I think it was my spouse, gaping at me, horrified, from above. I don’t know whether she feared I was dead, or was frightened it was her job to get me back up. As it happened, it took a village.
Thanks to my 15 layers of protective clothing, all that was seriously hurt was my pride. Then, as if to celebrate the raising of the fallen Yeti, the crew served hot chocolate. While it was a charming touch, I had to wonder what genius decided to disburse fluids to people zipped into onesies who’d been without bathroom access for four hours.
I declined the Swiss Miss and immediately after docking, peeled off my snowsuit and ran for the WC.
And while it was a seriously long, cold and wet slog at sea, at least we got to see one spectacular whale take a dive. The rest of the passengers got value added. Thanks to me, they saw two whales go down.
And by the way, it’s amazing how much padding you can wear and still come home with bruises big as softballs. As I have said before, thank goodness it’s always 1700 o’clock somewhere.
September 2016
ICELAND’S BLUE LAGOON IS AN
UNNATURAL WONDER
Now before I get in trouble with Pink Iceland, a fantastic LGBT travel organization, let me say I loved Iceland’s famous Blue Lagoon and would go back in a minute no matter how much fun I make of it. But there’s fun to be made.
Some years ago, upon first hearing about the Blue Lagoon—Iceland’s biggest tourist attraction—I couldn’t wait to visit this natural phenomenon. It’s a swimming lagoon filled with seawater heated to 100 degrees by underground geothermal seismic activity.
Sort of.
When traveling from the airport to Iceland’s capital of Reykjavik, we passed a giant geothermal energy plant adjacent to the famous lagoon. How marvelous, I thought, that this natural lagoon, heated by underground thermal energy is able to generate heat and power for an entire capital city!
Yeah. Well, it’s the other way around.
Turns out that the bluish water, which indeed comes from geothermal seawater deep in the earth, is what’s pumped out of the power plant, creating the Blue Lagoon. And it wasn’t until the 1980s, when some public relations genius spied locals bathing in the warm pools caused by the run-off. “Aha!” he thought, “We will make this industrial run-off a massive tourist attraction and turn it into Iceland’s Disney World!”
It started with a trickle and one lonely bathhouse. Over the ensuing years, using natural lava rock instead of recognizable pool tiles, entrepreneurs expanded the run-off stream, improved the amenities, and now it’s a Shangri-La rising from the moonscape-like rubble that is suburban Reykjavik.
The Lagoon employs hundreds of people in an area that can use employment, and literally thousands of people visit it daily to bathe in the blue water and smear silica (that comes from the water) on their faces. Oh, and they buy beauty products that are beauty byproducts from the minerals in the lagoon.
It makes me darn proud of my public relations profession.
Weeks before we visited, we made reservations. There’s the Standard ticket, which buys entry and a silica mud mask; Comfort ticket, adding a towel; Premium ticket (our choice) adding a bathrobe, slippers, drink at the bar and a reservation for dinner complete with a glass of Prosecco. Oh, and an algae mud mask in addition to the silica.
The Luxury package added a host of expensive anti-aging products to take home but failed to include a total face-lift, so we figured it was too late for us and passed on the products.
Fast forward. On Blue Lagoon day, we arrive at the parking lot overflowing with tour buses, in the shadow of the power plant. We join the unwashed masses, chattering in a veritable United Nations of tongues, surging toward the entry.
We are each given a plastic high-tech bracelet, which knows which services we purchased, and gets us through the turnstile, where we pick up our towel, bathrobe and slippers. We move fast as the surging mob behind us threatens to overtake our position.
Rushed off to the ladies lockers, we arrive to find a large flock of naked women, chirping in any number of Asian dialects, Norse, and possibly Pig Latin. Terrified, I hug the wall, mouth agape, clutching my rented robe. Bonnie grabs me, points to a locker and demands I get out of my stupor as well as my clothes and head for the mandatory shower.
On the wall there are explicit directions for what and where to wash and monitors standing by to assure compliance.
“What are these, the orifice police?” I ask as Bonnie shoves me under the showerhead.
And then we all struggle into our bathing suits. Only women can understand the torture of trying to insert a wet body into a dry bathing suit. It’s an Olympic trial.
Well suited, we press our high-tech bracelet against the locker to shut it securely and join the now-washed masses heading for the Lagoon.
Ahhhh. I get it. The air is cool at 60 degrees but the water is gloriously warm. And blue. And the lagoon is so big (how big is it?) that the masses disperse, leaving us plenty of privacy as we float and swim and luxuriate in the comforting mineral-infused power plant run-off. Weird.
We swim up to the silica mask kiosk, grab a handful of white goop, and apply it all over our faces. It would have been easier with putty knives. The stuff quickly becomes drying spackle. I smile and a fissure opens along my laugh lines. I laugh because there are hundreds of bright white, spackle-covered faces around me, like a sea of mimes.
