I totally understand why the city of Reykjavik shuts down all the bars at 1 a. Sunday through Thursday. Normally, I'm against outlandish blue laws that prevent me from having more fun. In the 'Javik, however, I get it. One night out here on a Tuesday and I can understand the kind of evil that probably goes down on a Friday night.
Some quick lessons learned:. Look around! There are no prostitutes anywhere. No ladies in the skimpy clothings going, 'Hey baby, you wanna ride? We arrived at the Kex Hostel and Bojo literally bumped into a guy from his engineering program back in school.
He was traveling with another Miami alumn, so there were the five of us--four Miami grads--trying to explain to everyone that this was all just a random coincidence. This thing was like Jaeger that had run through the sphincter of a swine with colorectal cancer. It was a licoricey, maple-syrup-type, soy sauce concoction that I wanted to spit back into the shot glass. Trinetti, who is supposed to be on a seven-month trip and for whom this was day three, bought ten of them.
Good luck keeping that pace up, my friend. Even with a financial crisis, even with a highly devalued currency, this town has us bleeding money.
A beer, it seems, is about the equivalent of 6 to 8 dollars, and this is just for the pisswater Euro equivalent of Bud. Of course, since I have no conception of what I'm spending a thousand kroner here, two thousand there--every time I pay for a sandwich I feel like a Zimbabwean Deputy Secretary of Extraction or something , I'm simply not paying attention. It's not on anywhere, so don't even ask.
