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Iceland – Part I

Travelers always give the best advice. Over the years, word was spreading like wildfire: Trust me. Go to Iceland. Ask yourself what you’re looking for, and Iceland will have it.

Since I don’t trust online forums or professional travel writers—most of whom are middle-aged and married—this was all I really needed. The main thing that had hindered me from going to Iceland in the past had been the insane air prices, which averaged around $2500 for a roundtrip ticket. But when I looked it up in March, they were an unbelievable $1000. Only problem was that all of my travel buddies had become lamer than a co-ed fantasy football league. Axe had a hazy summer work schedule and couldn’t give me a straight answer; ODR had become employed to an engineering company that gave him a whopping five days off a year; and Punchline was still broke after spending thousands on his wedding a few months prior. From the looks of it, I’d be going solo.

Then one night at Woody’s, I ran into Naomi, an old college friend. She knew about my book, and had been to Havasu spring break with me a couple times back when we were undergrads, so she knew I was scum. Being a teacher, she got the same time off as me, and after ordering drinks at the bar and lightly discussing the idea of “Oh, we should travel together!” we went our separate ways as I turned in another 0-fer at Woody’s.

A few weeks later, I got extra antsy and nearly booked a solo plane ticket, when I remembered my conversation with Naomi and decided to shoot her a text: So where you gonna go this summer? She threw out some crap about camping in Africa, which I immediately vetoed, and presented my Iceland plans. She was sketchy at first, but I told her to do some research and get back to me. After discovering that National Geographic had rated Iceland as one of the top ten hiking destinations in the world, Naomi confirmed she was in, and we booked our flights.

The Naomi I knew in college was a party girl, always up for a good road trip. The current 31-year-old version of Naomi was still somewhat of a wild child, but had become more active and spiritual; she taught yoga on the side, chose reading over TV, and consistently did weekend hikes, camping trips, and the occasional triathlon. It was tough to see myself traveling with…a female, but I knew Naomi understood me enough, was cool, and any looming hook-up drama between the two of us would never be an issue (she had a boyfriend; I was after Icelandic girls; and plus, “it’s not like that”). Off we went.

We arrived in Reykjavik on a Thursday. Iceland’s capital city had a population of roughly 120,000, though the city looked a lot bigger. The buildings and houses were all white and squarish with colored roofs; and the streets were rather quiet, more buses than anything else. Apparently we’d come just in time for a national four-day weekend, which could only mean good things for the night scene. After booking some upcoming tours and events at the front desk, Naomi and I checked into our hostel and took much-needed naps.

Unlike Friday and Saturday, the bars were only open until 1. We went downstairs to the hostel bar for a drink and began our night. We learned earlier that 5% of Iceland’s population was at a huge annual music festival all weekend at the Westman islands, which meant all the fun Icelanders were probably over there (we were so sold on this event, that we even booked ferry tickets to go there Saturday night. Well, at least I was sold; Naomi was convinced it’d be all high school and college kids).

Reykjavik had been dubbed by many as the party capitol of Europe, so I was expecting seismic mobs of horny attractive people, endless bars, exquisite nightclubs, and the best music on the planet. As we finished our drinks and walked into our first Icelandic night—sort of, in summer months it doesn’t get dark in Iceland ‘til close to midnight—it was somewhat of a letdown. The good thing about the party scene here was that all of the bars and clubs were on the main street, so I never had any distractions to get cute or greedy and try to cab it somewhere twenty minutes away (we’d made it a point to book a hostel on this street). But as we barhopped, we realized that every spot was loaded with goddamn tourists. While Naomi got hit on by a middle-aged bachelor party from Toronto, I roamed the bar to find myself in one of the biggest sausagefests I’d been in since maybe 2009. There were girls, but they all grumpily sat in chairs against the wall surrounding the seedy dance floor like Napolean Dynamite’s dates. After one drink, Naomi and I took off.

We went to a few other places, but it was more of the same middle-school-dance confusion. Sometime around midnight we ended up at a place called Austur that actually had locals inside, and enough space where I could chill without having to snake my way through loud-ass Canadians.

Before I discuss my interactions with chicks, it’s worth noting that I read somewhere (some blogger named Roosh) that Icelandic women don’t like to have long conversations and make out all over the place like they do in the states. Supposedly, the city is so small that everyone knows everyone and the girls don’t want to be judged by their peers. Instead it’s optimal to have a five-minute conversation with one, give them space, and when the bars begin to close down, find those planted seeds, ask them, “Where’s the post-party?” and then take them home for a fuck. And you have the get-to-know-you conversations afterwards. Other than turbo sluts, only female baboons would ever value physical pleasure with a stranger over mental stimulation, so I didn’t take that guy’s advice too seriously. Although I did plant a few seeds with girls, I’d later find out they’d all come with a big group of friends.

There was one exception. Earlier I’d asked some brunette/redhead (I couldn’t tell) where the bathrooms were. She enthusiastically guided me around the corner and pointed to some stairs. With the bar now closing, this girl—sitting alone in a chair now–was literally my only option. She was about a 5 (though Naomi would disagree), in her thirties, and had a worried look to her. Fuck it. She was Icelandic; I was horny; and she was cute enough.

“So where’s the post party?” I asked her.

“You again?”

I smiled. “I found the bathroom.”

“Yes. I know. I took you there.” She paused for a moment. “What is your name?”

And just like that, I knew she was good to go. A few questions later she asked what hotel I was at. I didn’t want to tell her I was staying at a hostel because the chances of her thinking I was crashing in a six-person dorm might turn her off (our room was just Naomi and I), so I told her I was staying at a place “just up the street.”

As we exited the bar, Naomi appeared out of nowhere and joined us on our walk home. Naomi introduced herself to the girl, whose name we learned was Klara. There was a moment of awkwardness as we trudged down the street. Klara didn’t know what to make of the situation, so she quickly asked me, “Is this your girlfriend?”

“No, we’re just friends. She has a boyfriend back home.”

She gave me a look of confusion and continued on our stroll. Naomi has a tendency to embrace the company of strangers, so she and Klara struck up a conversation; I occasionally chimed in here and there, but Naomi provided most of the entertainment.

When we arrived at our room, I cracked open one of the Viking beers I’d bought earlier and shared it with Klara. Annoyingly, Naomi remained in the room as well, munching on an old sandwich. After ten minutes of shooting the shit with Klara, I was getting horny and impatient, and with Naomi still in the room, nothing was ever going to happen. When Klara wasn’t looking I went to the Notes app on my iPhone and wrote, Omg give me like 10 minutes. I stealthily showed it to Naomi, who nodded and proclaimed she was gonna go brush her teeth.

Klara and I made out for a bit, but she didn’t let me do much more—other than lamely suck on her right boob. Then Naomi returned from the bathroom and hung out for another few minutes until I gave her a wide-eyed look to indicate that I was viciously horny and she should leave, which she finally did.

It was all for nothing. The Naomi factor had caused Klara to feel judged. She said things like, “What did you expect was going to happen when you brought me here?” to which I lied, “Nothing, just have a beer with me, and maybe make out.” After that she claimed all foreigners think Icelandic girls are sluts. Then she told me how weird it was that there was a girl here and how she thought Naomi and I had to be hooking up. No matter what card I played, aspiring detective Klara wasn’t having it. Finally, she got a piece of paper from her purse and wrote down the name of the bar she was going to tomorrow. “Meet at 5 a.m. outside of Dillon’s Whiskey Bar tomorrow, and I promise you things will be different.” (So tomorrow I should expect sex, but tonight I shouldn’t? Makes sense…) Too bad she wasn’t cute enough to waste a Friday night on, so I told her how it was:

“Yeah. That probably isn’t happening. This is it. I’m right here. Just stay and party with me now.”

She paused a moment, looked at the wall, then back at me. “Meet me at Dillon’s…5 a.m.” She put her purse on her shoulder, leaned over to kiss me, and left.

Naomi returned shortly after. “You sure know how to pick ‘em, Dave.”

Drunk, horny, and frustrated, I spoke my mind. “It would have been better if you never came into the room with us.”

Naomi got into bed. “Well this is my room, too.”

“I know. It’s just that, you being here made her feel judged. But whatever, it’s not like she was that great anyway.”

We left it at that and got ready for bed.

(To Naomi’s credit, she’s not exactly experienced at traveling with hook-up fiends like me, so she didn’t quite understand the wing-woman role. Plus, had I brought home a more attractive girl, I’m sure she would have given us space) (Also, I wrote this knowing that Naomi would read it, and don’t really forgive her as much as I say I do)

We spent Friday doing an all-day bus tour around the Golden Circle Road. It’s the most popular tourist route in all of Iceland, stopping at famous waterfalls, hot springs, craters, and churches. The ride reminded me of driving through Norway, only much flatter since the entire island was created from volcanoes. The lava-coated terrain was blanketed in a lush layer of moss that made the entire landscape look like something from Zelda’s Ocarina of Time. I’d sit there, stare out the windows, and never get bored. And the air was so clear that you could see mountains and glaciers that were dozens of miles away, yet appeared close enough to reach in a quick jog. Pure magnificence.

Naomi is apparently one of those people who gets “car sick,” so when the bus dropped us off at our hostel around dinner time, she was already talking about taking it easy that night. Since Friday and Saturday nights in Iceland follow the typical Euro schedule, I tried to explain to Naomi—who claimed to be a Europe-partying expert because she spent a week in Barcelona a hundred years ago—how the bars don’t get started until one. She disagreed with my 1 a.m. theory but somewhat went along with my eat-nap-get-ready-at-midnight plan anyway.

I still had yet to see a significant amount of attractive Icelandic girls. Thursday night no one was out, and other than a few I saw at the airport, I still couldn’t tell what all the “Icelandic girls are hot” fuss was about. That all changed Friday night. Naomi and I left our hostel shortly after one, and hit the suddenly crowded streets. It was a complete 180 from the previous night. Icelandic people were everywhere, and even though it was fifty degrees outside, the girls were still dressed like it was August in Arizona, hardly anyone wearing more than one layer (I don’t know what it is about black leggings on women, but it’s so damn sexy).

Someone once asked me what I get out of writing stories like these. First and foremost, I write to learn about myself; I never know what I actually know until I write it. Second, I feel like I’m contributing to the world in some small way. Lastly, I write because interacting with chicks, hooking up with them, getting rejected, and then writing it down is basically an unofficial way of studying women. As a man torn between monogamy and autonomy, I want to know which path will lead to a happier, more fulfilling life. So it should come as no surprise when I say that I am truly fascinated by women—the way they dress, talk, walk, smile, frown, flirt, dance, make faces, get emotionally upset, look in mirrors, react to the unusual, decide on an outfit, ogle other girl’s outfits, gawk at men, sip drinks, eat candy bars, sit on couches, fix ponytails, adjust bra straps, stare at penises, cross legs, show attraction and disgust. The list never ends.* One thing that draws me to different parts of the world is to find out what makes their women unique. And now that I finally had my first real look at Icelandic women, I still couldn’t tell culturally what set them apart, but as far as physical attributes, they for the most part had a Norwegian look to them, but with a paler and slightly cleaner complexion—which is likely due to the lack of sunlight they receive; they get a cruel two hours of sunlight certain days in winter. As far as overall beauty goes, they weren’t quite up there with Croatia or Belarus, but their perfect skin and Scandinavian features certainly put them near the top of the list.

*I still don’t understand why Universities don’t offer classes on dating and relationships. All heterosexual men should be able to take a class to learn about women, and vice versa (Psychology and Human Sexuality courses don’t count), since most people are clueless about their gender counterpart and how they operate, their body language, what leads to attraction and seduction, how to text, date, sustain healthy relationships, and basically act like a man or woman. It’s apparently required to take two years of a foreign language that will teach us how to communicate at a 20% level in a language 90% of us will never even use again. Yet we ignore educating people on the driving force behind every human being: the opposite sex.

Back to Friday. We had to catch an early-morning bus ride to reach the ferry that would take us to the island festival, so Naomi had two or three drinks, chatted up some locals, and then crashed sometime before 3. After she took off, I wandered the crowded streets alone, and entered a Texas-style bar called Lebowski’s. I was still sober, which meant I was still in my natural introvert state, which spelled disaster for picking up chicks. Truth is, without booze I’d never get laid at bars or clubs. Typically, my personality refuses to blossom until I’ve spent weeks or sometimes months knowing someone. But the beautiful thing about whatever genetics my parents bestowed upon me is the influence alcohol has on my behavior. And I’m not talking about basic liquid courage; having the balls to talk to girls doesn’t necessarily mean much. Alcohol has a much more profound effect on my system. Not only does it shrink my personality-comfort thing from weeks down to a few seconds, but it extracts all self-doubt, monotony, and fear in my voice and demeanor, and it injects me with confidence, animation, and extrovert abilities that turn me into a valiant womanizing warrior around girls with whom I’d otherwise have no chance. If I put on Jim Carrey’s mask from the movie The Mask it’d basically turn me into Drunk Dave Glenn (Alcohol also zombifies me to vagina—in addition to making me say and do stupid shit from time to time—which is a curse I’m willing to accept).  Yet as I sipped my beer alone at the bar, I was starting to fade. The girls all seemed to be in dude-saturated groups; the dance floor was an obnoxious obstacle I had to slog through to reach the bathroom I so frequently visited; Naomi casino pa natet was asleep in our room, reducing my below-the-neck hook-up probability considerately; and the early bus ride loomed heavy on my mind. I should probably just call it a night.

Fuck that! Sandbagging a Friday night in Reykjavik was completely out of the question—though I won’t lie, I was very close to throwing in the towel. Instead I downed what was left of my beer and immediately ordered a Vodka-redbull. I was going the distance tonight.

After chatting with some blotto British dudes (who were strangely obsessed with Tom Brady) and wasting 20 minutes talking to a German chickenhead who proclaimed she was gay 19 minutes into our conversation, I hit the streets in search of other options.

The main road was twice as bustling as before. Gloriously buzzed, I crossed to the right side of the street to find a group of three chicks walking and laughing (Usually I stay away from groups of three or more, but this was Iceland; anything goes). Two were fat blondies; the lone brunette had a Jennifer Connelly look to her. Very sexy. Her only downer was her outfit, a hideous puke-yellow sundress, which probably meant she had a bush. But whatever.

“So where are the good bars here?” I asked the group.

“They are down that way,” Connelly said. Conveniently, she was in outside position and closest to me. “Where are you from?”

“California. You girls aren’t Canadian, are you?” They laughed.

“No,” said Connelly. “Why would you think that?”

“It’s a long story. So you’re Icelandic, then?”


“Okay, good. I hope you guys know where you’re going.”

“Come with us. We’ll show you a good bar.”

It was a solid five-minute walk to the bar, which gave me plenty of time to chat up Connelly, whose disgusting name was actually Engla. She was 30, worked as a high-end secretary somewhere, and conveniently lived by herself in a flat that was two blocks off the main road. As far my staying-in-Reykjavik-with-a-female-roommate-who-was-asleep-in-the-room situation, I’d hit a potential jackpot.

The bar was hipster galore. It was a five-dollar cover to get in, but instead we chilled on a grassy area outside the actual bar, which was also packed with tight-jeaned people lying down, reminiscing, and smoking cigarettes.

At this point, I had known Engla maybe ten minutes, but it was already past 4, so I figured it was worth a shot to throw out my let’s-fuck line. “So do you have any beer at your place?” I asked her.

“I only have wine,” she said, smiling.

“That’s fine. I hope it’s red.”

She looked away in thought for a quick instant, then turned to one of her friends—who was suddenly eating a huge vanilla ice cream cone she’d acquired at God knows where—and spoke to her for maybe fifteen seconds. The friend nodded her head in an understanding and approving manner, then Engla turned to me, said, “Let’s go,” and we marched off.

As we walked to her place, I was baffled at what just happened. Not only did I not get cockblocked, but the level of approval from her friend was hall-of-fame worthy. She didn’t get jealous, needy, or judgmental. She didn’t try and convince her to stay, or tell her how she disapproved of me. In all my life, I’d only seen that kind of…cock-assisting a few times—mostly in Vegas and certain parts of Europe. If all girls were like that in Reykjavik, this city was an outright hook-up heaven. And I was God.

Engla’s studio apartment was L-shaped; the bedroom merged with the living room, and then there was a door to the kitchen where her two cats who, though cute, were meowing at an unacceptable rate. Jennifer fed the felines while I flopped on her bed, which was surrounded by Rastafarian bananas, voodoo-like sculptures, with colorful fabrics tacked to the walls and ceiling (Update on my Icelandic-women-culture thing: the hipsters are into Jamaican shit). It then hit me that I hadn’t even kissed her yet. Still new to Icelandic women, I hope she didn’t actually think I wanted a glass of wine. That all changed when she returned from the kitchen, took off her vomit dress, crawled onto the bed, and started making out with me.

My ugly dress theory was spot-on as I discovered Engla had a galactic bush (light brown). Remembering I was in Europe, I dove right in. She would have tasted good, but her pubic hair had a lingering scent. I didn’t care. I went to town. She eventually returned the favor, showing veteran penis experience. Then suddenly she looked up at me and smiled. “What’s my name?”

Fuck! Even though she’d told me just 15 minutes ago, I’d gone momentarily brain dead. I looked up, then right, then up again—because sometimes that helps me think. One second, two seconds, three seconds, fo—“Hengla!”

“Engla,” she said, still smiling—not as big as before though. Then she returned to my junk.

We fucked for the next two hours, both because I was whiskey-dicked, and because she was awesome in bed; and I was in no hurry to finish. After going through four of her condoms (I wanted blowjob breaks), we finally finished around 7 a.m.

Naomi and I had to catch the bus in an hour and a half, so I petted Engla’s cats, said goodbye, and made the three-minute walk back to my hostel. As I walked home, I still couldn’t believe how perfectly things had worked out. From 3 a.m. to 7 a.m. on that July morning I had gone from nearly giving up on the night to having a two-hour fuckfest with an Icelandic hottie on a comfortable bed a block from my hostel. I’ve come up clutch before, but never facing such daunting odds. Then again, things just felt different here. It was almost as if I’d found the one place on the planet that not only accepted me for who I was (a horny bastard), but also refused to let me blow it like I always do.

The night came with a price, however. I didn’t get a single minute of sleep, and we had a long day of traveling via bus and ferry, in addition to setting up camp on the island and getting situated. I dragged ass all day until finally I was able to take a two-hour nap in our tent around 4.

The beer/music festival was called “pjodhatid,” but pronounced with a “th” and with all sorts of Nordic crosses and dots on the letters. It’s been an annual Icelandic tradition since the late 1800s, and is essentially a massive four-day boozefest with the occasional performance from notable local bands. It’s the closest thing Iceland has to Burning Man or Coachella. Supposedly five percent of the national population packs onto this tiny island for nonstop partying, music, and orgies (one moronic girl I met the following morning said she hadn’t slept in four days). Two guys we talked to on our bus ride from the airport had flown out from New York solely for this event. And every travel agent at our hostel said that this was a must-go for anyone who wants to experience Icelandic culture.

The event was in the middle of a gigantic crater, cliffs on all sides with an opening to the south, exposing the endless Atlantic. We set up camp in the middle of a large cluster of tents. The area was currently mellow, with a few groups of Icelanders chilling around a bonfire drinking beers. After my nap, Noami and I went to town to share a pizza, then we loaded up on mixers for the Vodka we’d bought back in Reykjavik (Buying alcohol in Iceland is like filling up an SUV’s gas tank at Chevron. A small bottle of fucking Smirnoff was almost 70 bucks).

Sometime after 8, everyone started trickling into the concert area, and before I knew it, there were literally thousands of people—half of whom were wearing neon orange or yellow rain suits because apparently a storm was on the forecast. A slew of different bands came on and everyone would put their arms around one another and sing along. Supposedly, midnight was when the party really started, so I paced myself on the drinking, while Naomi complained about some God-awful mixed drink she’d made, ultimately tossing the thing.

The rain came in waves. The first round occurred at 11. Naomi and I hurried to our tent and chilled for 20 minutes until it died down. When we returned to the main area, the place had somehow expanded by another two thousand people, neon outfits everywhere. Unfamiliar with Icelandic music, Naomi and I didn’t really know what to do except chill on the outskirts of the concert and observe. Things were just starting to get going when another rain attack hit shortly after midnight. We again hurried to our tent where we laid on our sleeping bags and waited it out.

I jerked my head up. Fuck! Without realizing it, I’d fallen asleep. The rain now gone, I glanced over at Naomi, who was out like a light. Once I came to my senses, I heard the pulsing music and screams down the hill and was able to relax. Thank God. I didn’t come all the way to this island to catch up on sleep. I got out of the tent, grabbed a beer, threw together a mixed drink, double-fisted both, then set them on the ground, popped some gum in my mouth, picked up my drinks, and headed back down. It was party time.

The music was still pounding in the distance. The green hill people had been chilling on was now blackened with mud, and everyone had migrated down to the concrete part of the concert. The night was just getting started.

A short while later, after returning to my tent for beer, I was on my way back to the concert area when I noticed two blonde chicks huddling around something.

“What is that?” I asked, approaching the duo.

Batta poosh jood-ima!” the taller of the two replied.

“Uh. What?”

“We are trying to hide from my sister.”

“Oh, yeah? I saw her up at the tents.”

She smiled, then paused and looked me up and down. “Where are you from?”


“California? Then why are you here?”

“I heard this is the best party around. What were you guys doing over there?”

The tall one said something to her friend who brought out a small tube filled with black powder.

“The cocaine is black in Iceland?” I asked.

“No. Icelanders don’t do cocaine. This is tobacco. Here, try.”

Having never snorted anything in my life, I figured there was no harm done by snorting the equivalent of half a cigarette (I later learned this stuff is called snus, and has supposedly become big in Europe). The tall one poured a small bump onto her hand and held it out to me. I clumsily snorted using my right nostril, but missed 20% of the powder, so I had to stupidly go back in for a second go-round (This is the last time I’m snorting anything, ever. Maybe I’m a supreme retard, but I perpetually felt like I had boogers in my nose, and my right nostril irritated the fuck out of me for the next week. Snus is the equivalent of drinking whiskey through your eye—only if you have throat cancer does it make any sense).

After they took a couple hits, we talked some more. I found out the tall one’s name was Kira, and the quiet one was Dalla. Both in their early 20s, Kira had a slender face and build with hair down to her waist; Dalla was built like a cheerleader—short, slightly muscular, and a perma-smile. Too bad Dalla lamely had a broken arm (the sling kind). Stoked on hooking up with either, I asked them my typical traveling-in-a-foreign-land question:

“So when are you guys coming to California?”

“If you fly us out, we will come. And we will have a three-way with you,” said Kira.

I looked over at Dalla quickly, whose smiley expression hadn’t changed.

“Yeah, right. How ‘bout this: we have a three-way tonight, then I fly you out.” This was a risky move, but I didn’t care. Even if they turned me down, called me creepy, and ran off, there were still thousands of girls I could go after.

“I cannot promise that. But we can give you a three-way kiss.”

Kira put her arm around Dalla and brought her in. It wasn’t exactly a three-way kiss. It was more of a quick make-out with Kira, followed by getting Dalla’s slobber on my mouth area, then watching them go at it for a few seconds.

“Have you guys been with each other before?”


Kira fiddled with a purse they were sharing and started down the hill. “Come on, let’s go down,” she declared.

The concert area was a clusterfuck of dancing, singing, and shouting madness. Kira and Dalla continued to take snus hits while I sipped my beer and tried to get into the music, which was hopeless. Some God-awful Icelandic rap group was on stage making cacophony they thought was supposed to be music. Iceland is well-known for breeding musical talent, but this group had to be an exception. “These guys are terrible!” I yelled in Dalla’s ear.

Unbelievably, Dalla was bouncing and moving her head in unison with the stage-noise. She turned to me and shouted, “They are big in Iceland!” She continued to dance like a poisoned poltergeist victim.

With my beer almost gone, and the girls engrossed in the music while being thrashed around by the concert mob, I told them I was going to the bathroom, and then went up to the tent to restock on alcohol. Hanging around them in this shit-show not only wasn’t fun, but was doing nothing to increase my chances. Sure I was risking a prospective threesome, but unless a 60-year-old married couple is involved, I always fuck those up anyway.

Before returning to the concert, I made a round through the food area, then up around the tents. There wasn’t much going on there, so I returned to the noise. Kira and Dalla were in the same spot, but now some short brunette had joined them along with a tall blue-haired chick who looked just like Kira, but hotter.

Kira’s sister (I assumed) was wearing one of those stupid fake-tit Halloween things around her chest. She was in the middle of chatting with Dalla when I walked up to them and slowly squeezed one of the plastic boobs, which crumpled in my hand. The sister, clearly proud of her outfit, lurched her chest forward allowing me easy access. Dalla laughed, and I high-fived her immediately.

“Who are you?” I asked the sister. Ten minutes later we were making out. After smooching on and off for the next thirty minutes I could already tell it was going nowhere. She took me up to a white tent her group had rented, but it was loaded with couples—including some dude and Kira, who saw me making out with her sister multiple times but didn’t give a shit. Too bad Kira’s sister wasn’t nearly cool enough to simply hang out with, so I had to either capitalize or move on. Twice I asked her if she had beer at her place, then suggested we go there, and both times she said she couldn’t leave her group. I guess I should have known; only a true prude would wear a titty outfit to live vicariously through girls who actually liked their boobs felt (unless she was a tranny, which wouldn’t surprise me). I told her I was going to the bathroom and took off (In hindsight I probably should have gone after Dalla; the quiet ones of the group tend to be the wildest in bed, but she was nowhere to be found after I started hooking up with the sister)

I wandered around for the next half hour, but there wasn’t much left. The concert was over; all the leftovers seemed either too old or too young; it was windy as hell; and it was almost 5. I returned to my tent and passed out instantly.

Naomi woke me up a few hours later because she wanted to catch the 10 o’clock boat. Tired and groggy, I rolled awake and started packing. The wind was coming in hard. When I went outside, all I could hear was the flapping of the surrounding tents. Not a soul was awake. We headed into town because Naomi required coffee to get her through the next forty minutes of life. We boarded the boat shortly after and began our three-hour journey back to Reykjavik.

Sunday’s plan: Sleep all day. Party all night. Monday was a national holiday; surely the bars would be going off later.


Coming up in Part 2:

-Sunday night

-Naomi and I go on a big ass hike, things don’t go as planned.

-I go hard weekend #2—which inconveniently is Gay pride weekend—I continue to be sleazy anyway.


One last thing: I didn’t include this in the actual story because no matter where I tried to put it, it just didn’t fit anywhere and disrupted the flow, but I sent this whole thing to Naomi beforehand, and here was her text back to me: “BTW I left for a long ass time that first night…I showered and read my iPad on the staircase for at least half an hour till 3 am. That in and of itself is top notch wing woman status and needs mention.” Anyways…

Part II




Published inDave GlennTraveling