This was the pinnacle of Iceland for me. No, not the Blue Lagoon or expedition around the Golden Circle, but a striking visage transplanted on the side of a derelict warehouse by the port of Reykjavík. I don’t know where it’s from but it has something of the Persona (1966) about it. The capital had a lot of this going on – graffiti artists spraying walls seemingly willy-nilly, and in broad daylight. Avant-garde ghetto.
Being back in Oslo was like returning to the office late at night because you’ve left your house keys on the desk – it’s a veritable grind. And then upon exiting for the car park you find you’ve been billed for the trouble.
Extortionate prices and a prosaic air characterise proceedings. I’ve seldom so struggled to pick out positives amidst the nausea; the capital has the delightful charm of a dilapidated skip. Boring, lifeless, and rather without purpose, I think I’d rather run around an Edinburgh B&Q for half a week in my underwear than go back for a third time.
Nevertheless, there remain some highlights from my four-day bimble:
1. The company was cracking, Duty-Free purchased alcohol further amplifying the extended soirée.
2. The hostel Wi-Fi was decent.
3. I stumbled across a seagull the size of an albatross. This amused me.
4. Norway’s Resistance Museum enlightened, and displayed an impressive array of period pieces.
I am told that the ugly tedium of the city in no way reflects provincial Norway, nor the country’s incredible wilderness. I shall investigate and report back.
Wanderings and ... wonderings. 