Hot Dogs
On my way out of Iceland I stopped at the airport hot dog stand. Baejarins Beztu Pylsur sells iconic Icelandic hot dogs. Dogs covered in sweet yet tangy mustards. At first, when my hand grasped the soft bun, I thought it was just the sauce. I thought, is this all there is? But beneath the dog, were both crunchy and raw onions; and I was delighted and surprised by the crunch. I bought two T-shirts one for me and one for George. The back featured a nice hot dog man. Happy to be alive. Happy to be a hot dog. His joy seduced me into buying matching shirts for me and my love.
Want to know a deep dark truth about me? I buy or inherit novelty T-shirts and wear them every night when I’m lounging at home. I wear them for days, even weeks. Until I buy or inherit a new novelty T-shirt and the cycle repeats itself. I’m currently on day five of wearing my hot dog shirt. It’s a little sour in the pits. And when George’s dog, Rabbit, puked yesterday morning, I thought, oh no, I hope he doesn’t throw up on my hot dog shirt.
The original hot dog stand is in downtown Reykjavik. I passed it while on a horrendous walking tour. Although tempted to get a hot dog right then and there, I couldn't pull myself away from the tour, which ended up being part Fringe-Festival, part one-person show, and part dying stand-up routine.
I felt bad for the guide. By the time I had the idea to ditch, it was too late. I was one of seven people left. More importantly, the theatre nerd in me sought to understand why this dude sucked at his tour.
Instead of a tight-five, he delivered a bloated two hours. Full of sarcasm, a few voices, imitations, mime, and long pauses, in which he carved out time for us to laugh. We did not laugh.
The guide was torturing me. But I kind of liked it.
He hated when I asked questions. When the topic of constant daylight in the summer came up, I asked “when is your bedtime?”
To which he said, “come to the bar after this and you'll find out.”
I didn't want to kiss him. I simply wanted to know if he never slept. And I wondered what constant daylight did to a culture.
The problem was his lack of improvisation. He wanted to follow script for his little show. It would have been better for him to acknowledge the random questions from his audience. This would have made everyone comfortable knowing he was in control, but ignoring us made him appear less in control. You have to appear in control by losing control.
At the end of the two hours, he left us in front of a Christmas shop. I hadn't seen much of actual Reykjavik. But I did see how to not perform stories for strangers. Maybe that was more fun for me.
*
I’ve been thinking a lot about traveling and making connections. I used to feel like I had to see everything. And I used to feel like I had to connect with other travelers. I travel a lot differently at 31 versus 21. I just want to lay or sleep or get a massage. So, on my first day, I went to the Sky Lagoon. I met a lovely group from Atlanta. We exchanged names and cities. The typical traveler talk, but I wasn't desperate for their friendship in the way I would have been in the past. We did the seven-step soaking ritual at the same time, but I was there to chill. Not to make friends. And that felt kind of cool and empowering to let myself be alone.
I went to Iceland for a writing workshop through Writing Workshops. One afternoon my crew of amazing writers went to the iconic Blue Lagoon. I layered my hair with conditioner and didn't put it in the water. We drank wine and talked about our lives and feelings because we'd already shared our names and cities. On Thursday, we walked to a waterfall at the national park. While I enjoyed the beautiful rock formations between literal tectonic plates and the clear blue of the rivers and pools, I mostly just wanted to talk to my new friends about movies and TV and books. We spent our hike sharing what inspires our art. This felt like a deeper connection than the ones I had with travelers in the past. I didn't see a volcano, a glacier, or a puffin but I made these new connections. My community, often long distance, feels fuller thanks to these individuals. Even the walking tour guide brought us closer, as he tortured us into camaraderie over a common enemy. Him.
Lately, traveling has felt hard. I mean I do it almost every season and sometimes multiple times a season. I travel every Christmas. The purpose is to visit loved ones and family. I hadn't traveled just for me just because in a while.
When I used to travel just because, just for me, I thought I made sturdy deep lifelong connections, but I actually can't remember the last time I talked to someone I met through traveling. I like their Instagrams. Check up on them through Facebook, but most of the time I have no idea what they're doing. Maybe traveling doesn't build connections, maybe it tricks us into thinking we do. The anxious need to not feel alone makes the communion feel deeper than it is. The feeling of: Thank God I have someone to talk to in this moment. It was better to talk about the visual or cultural beauty I was experiencing rather than letting it eat away at me in silence. And I know first-hand what it feels like to express that beauty physically with someone I barely know. That can feel electric. Perhaps, it is simply a cross continent energy exchange. We pull the energy from the airplane, the quick exploration of foreign city streets, new foods, new language and all of it collides into one still moment of connection. Ten years ago, I searched for that charge constantly and learned that it eventually fell flat. Hardened. Solidified lava after a volcanic eruption.
Communing with other writers makes connections with more substance. I don't collide into writers. I gather with them. When they let me read their work, I feel like I get to temporarily hold their experiences, and every thought and feeling informing that experience. This is probably why I still feel connected to writers I've travelled to meet. We are not only bound together by a temporary moment but by our artistic diligence.
Sitting at the airport hot dog stand, I can't help but feel grateful I did Iceland this way. A little bit of art. A little bit of travel. Electric yet grounding. I didn't see everything, but it didn't matter. I read beautiful work and discussed a shared passion with new peers. What juicy writing I read. What a juicy hot dog. What a juicy life. And a pleasure to share the experience with other writers who understand the beauty of a good hot dog description.