Lingering along shopping streets some days before christmas is an ambivalent adventure. You may start with a smile on your face, almost loughing at all these stressed out creatures passing by. People jamming chinese pasta while walking and aiming at the next store. Lights guiding you, getting you down on a runway, discharging directly at the abyss of another store. Flight-controllers failing constantly - collision with other planes - I am not Bruce Willis - this is bare life. A pug with hoody passing by - cars honking at bikers - bikers shouting at walkers - me being upset cause my smile vanished into a "get the hell out of here"-expression - wonderful christmas time.
Ignore the moral spin of the story; its just an description of what I´ve seen - christmas aint the feast of love, charity and reflection - at least the days before - it is the feast of pugs with hoodies; of warfare on a sane mind; of mere destruction and evilness. More concise - the days before christmas - are anti-christmas.
In that sense - I wish all of you a joyful (anti-)christmas and some nice days with nice people.
We are far from home, but we're so happy
Far from home, all alone, but we're so happy
After every sunny day
Came a stormy night
That's when Finner would say
Keep your heads held high
We are far from home, but we're so happy
Far from home, all alone, but we're so happy
We came here on his back
And we caught your eye
The salty ocean wind
Made the seagulls cry
Autumn is coming over us. Colorful leaves falling down the marple trees. Kicking fallen chestnuts when passing by. And sometimes I remember back when we were in Iceland. Like the leaves, memories fall down and vanish. Still what is left, is the hope that they will regrow. Patrick filmed because "we forget". And for sure he is right, but I am afraid I will never be able to forget. Because Iceland changed me in a manner I never thought it would. Forgetting pictures, explicit thoughts is one thing, but this year up there in the north, to bring it to a point, made me realize some odd things: That everything is substituteable. What was important to me once, is adicable now. That ‚home’ is a very vague concept when you are basically free to go whereever you want. That having good friends, a family who cares, does not make them to understand everything, even if they try hard.
It is not necessarily just Iceland, probably it is much more, but Iceland induced it in some way: That I can´t even rely on myself to understand everything. I feel extremely free, but vulnerable on the same time. Maybe it is just growing up. Maybe it is more. But this uncertain feeling that everything can change in just a year makes it more and more difficult for me to bind to something, or someone. So in fact, I live the moment, I live it hard and with joy. I see damn lot rainbows down the road. I am attracted by the presence. Because it is something which is for sure. Which is fact. However, it makes me restless: rushing from adventure to adventure; the breaks within becoming shorter and shorter; with every single step I make, asking myself where it will head me to.
I could have saved all the writing. The lyric of the song just say the same in different words: We are far from home, but we're so happy. Far from home, all alone, but we're so happy.
Iceland induced all this brainfuck and paradoxically it was also the last place where I felt home. And as it would not be enough, an Icelandic band can concentrate all this diffuse feelings I have, into two lines of lyric. Sniffing it, just showed me that we are never „all alone“ and Iceland offers some really gifted artists. But. We all knew that, since we lived there.
Wish you all the best and looking forward to see you in some future, which for sure will turn into presence some near time.
I claim our life is like looking out of a window. There is a frame, which defines what we see. It is a snapshot of our present life: The past and the future, hidden outside the frame. And still they are influencing what we see. Because where we have been and where we plan to go is in some way what we actually are.
Exactly one year ago I began my journey to Iceland. I look out of the window of my room, down the street. I still remember the feeling: leaving to the greatest uncertainty, to the adventure, to a future, which now has turned into past. Expecting to look down to everything beneath 66° North. To find everything illuminated. But all I found was a fucking Peace Tower. One single stream of light, of answers, hopelessly failing in providing what I was looking for. But then, by spring, the endless light came. Going to Samkaup five minutes before closing time. 10:25 pm. It is light outside. A T-shirt and a short should fit. Brrrr. Two degrees. Freezing! So what? Who cares? Who cares about the temperature? I can swim in Jökulsárlon. I prove it.
There may not be much sense it what I am writing. Because it is still hard to find words for everything. Maybe I should end it much more simple: The last year was amazing. And I know for sure, that my life changed. There may not have been something you may call a 180° turn. It was much more: It was a perfectly landed 1080°. No one is clapping, no judges are giving me marks, there are no winners, no losers, no prizes, no rankings … it is just life, just spinning around the world, feeling a bit dizzy, full of endorphins, opening and closing windows, cleaning windows, smashing windows. I am looking out of the window of my room: I see a field of corn, houses, blue sky with towering-up, white clouds, a red car driving by. But as I look closely: I see everywhere I have been, and everywhere I will go.
The photograph is showing a window of a public toilet somewhere at Faroe Islands shortly before I arrived in Iceland. I had no idea what is waiting for me. But as usual, just giving a shit about doubts and enjoying the view, turned out to work.
Oh Iceland where are you? Sometimes I just think I can go out an imaginary door, again stand in front of askja-building, lighting a self-rolled cigarette. Icy wind blowing in my face. Around me only darkness and the greenish shimmering light of the ten-eleven store on the other side of the field.
Sometimes I just think about the term “Seltjarnarness” and my endless attempts to pronounce it perfectly. While driving with bike, against the wind, it was ALWAYS against the wind! Saying it loud “SELT-JAR-NAR-NESS” FASTER! “seltjar-narness” BETTER! “seltjarnarness” HARDER! “SELTJARNARNESS” AHHH --- PERFECT!
I think about these “for a minor reflections concerts”, these sounds, which just made me feel to be at the exact right spot at the exact right time with the exact right people. I think about all this shit, about these fucking cheap beers at Kaffi Grand. About leaving in such a hurry, that I just realized what is happening when I saw the people at BSI waving after me. Fuck, I was drunk! And still I remember one tear running down my cheek. At the same time smiling and laughing. It is like this paradox physical condition when a material is solid, liquid and gaseous at the same time.
Iceland made me reach my triple-point. And under all this pressure, everything erupted. Everything was buried underneath a huge layer of tephra. There is just black sand. No paths, no footprints, no plants, no orientation, just nothing I could refer to. I was happy and sad. Free and captured. Everything is familiar and still distant. I am sleeping with open eyes. Was it all just a dream?
Oh mighty nature you have spread your power by wind and birdshit. And I begin to realize that every goddamn lavafield will soon be vegetated again. Oh gentle spring will come, rising toward the sun, and soon there will be fields of moss, to lie on. Watching the sky changing its colours with open eyes. Surtsey has proven it.
Boots made in Germany, bought in Iceland, meet Austrian Alps!
I just rubbed my face with some creamy, milk-containing shampoo. Like the one I had in our flat in Graenahlid. It was there when I came. No one used it except me. And I emptied it on my last shower before I left. Putting meaning into something completely meaningless. Either it was just me or the hope that putting meaning into everything will make it harder for me to forget. The water was rinsing down the smell of smoke from the last night. My eyes were closed, and in my mind I started imagining the window left of me. The rusting, orange building machine. The greyish gras, still waiting for the summer to come. The garden, in which nothing grows but stones. And Esja in the background. The plateau still covered in white, waiting to melt until I leave…
I opened my eyes. It was all gone. Lost in some wired, fucked up world of fading memories and future expectations. Watching the photos of people, who are still there, makes me feel I am still part of this, but at the same time I am torn apart, because I know that I am not. Thinking about going back for some time, but knowing for sure that it will not be the same. Thinking about the great times, and the opportunities I left out. I am not this kind of person who easily gets stuck in the past, but to be honest … I don´t know … I don´t know what I have expected but I really miss it. That is all I can say about it …
I guess in the past days and weeks I often thought about, what is home, where is it, and what does it mean. And still, I haven´t found any sufficient answer to this questions. Probably it just needs some time. Because like in most cases we won´t find the answer by asking the question over and over again. All in all I am quite fine, and although watching photos of Iceland make me feel like some part of my life is missing, I also feel that it has to be that way. And there is not so much I can do about it now. So what about this explanation "Home is, where your heart is"? Sucks! Cause I don´t know. So I would rather choose "Home is, where you dance" at least for those exciting days. Because hearts just can´t travel with the speed of an airplane. But we can dance, with the speed of light. Definitely!
I never got the meaning of FM Belfast´s Underware. But I guess it is one of the most awesome and beautiful party songs ever performed on stage. As we were driving back from the Isarfjödur music festival, their song was still stuck in my head: We come from a place where we count the days… And arriving in Reykjavik again, made me definitely start counting days: Five.
Looking back it is quite funny which was a major reason why I decided to extend my stay here in Iceland. I wanted to experience Icelandic Spring. And hells yeah, I am experiencing it. Snowstorm. Hail. Rainbows. Free Coffee at N1. It is great! But honestly, after nine month in Iceland I am still surprised by this country. How can you possibly create a calendar, in which a day like this is already referred as summer???
Spending a weekend in the Westfjords, in Isarfjodur and Nupur, the place, where everything began, unavoidably made me think about … What this stay in Iceland meant to me. And what does it mean, to go back, to whatever or whoever is waiting for me. All the time I thought, before I leave Iceland I will produce a fucking awesome blog-post: summarizing all this crazy shit, showing a lot of fotos, thanking all the people for the great time, add some pathos and put everything into the oven for 45 minutes. But somehow the oven seems to be broken: There is just no sense in highlighting some special events, because it would deny the meaning of some other ones. It´s not right to mention just some people here. Because there were just too many nice people around. It is a petty that I will not be able to see all of you before I leave. But, it would not even make a difference. To be realistic - most of us will probably never meet again. So I will basically avoid putting too much pressure in seeing every one of you, and just think about the good time we had all together. Either we just shared a beer, went on a trip, lived together, loughed together, shared thoughts, doubts and worries, or made an awesome barbeque at beginning of February ... I guess ... every one of you ... is a little part of this Icelandic puzzle. And of course I like the pieces of the puzzle, but what I really love... is the puzzle itself. Endings are never easy, someone said…
"Things rarely go exactly the way you want them to, so sometimes you make due with whatever you can get. Endings are never easy; I always build them up so much in my head they cant possibly live up to my expectations, and I just end up disappointed. Im not even sure why it matters to me so much how things end here. I guess its because we all want to believe that what we do is very important, that people hang onto our every word, that they care what we think. The truth is: you should consider yourself lucky if you even occasionally get to make someone, anyone, feel a little better. After that its all about the people that you let into your life..."
So don´t get me wrong. I am not and will not be disappointed by how it ends. I just think this are some beautiful and true words. And I hope I was able to make someone, anyone, feel a little better: That I also was a puzzle piece, of the puzzle of someone else.
And after all, I have to say. This is not the end. Because endings assume that something is over. But Iceland is not over. Iceland is much more than an island, a country, Háskóla Íslands, Laugavegur, FM Belfast or some trip along the south coast. Leaving all this, will change nothing. Iceland opened my eyes. Get to know every one of you, hearing all your stories, being part of your life’s ... just made me realize .. that there is so much more in life than ... what I have been doing so far. Iceland made me realize that we are our very own architects. That we really can do whatever we want to. And that I should consider myself as fucking lucky ... because there is so less, which restricts me. This freedom is amazing. And at the same time it makes everything so… foggy. I have no idea about anything right now: Will I come back to Iceland? What about all the people? Are they just portioned friends, like the narrator of Fight Club claimed? Will I continue living in Vienna, or just seek the next adventure? Do I need this routine and security in my life a study can provide, or can I really live freely and just do whatever I am up to? Right now: I just know one thing: On Saturday I am going back to some place, I left a long time ago. At least it really feels like it. And my god, this sounds pathetic. But another thing I know for sure: Iceland and every one of you will stay in my heart, and will accompany me in whatever I will do. Feel free to visit me in Vienna…
There are neither appropriate words nor pictures. There is no way to express everything I feel. But for not even trying, it is too important to me. I wish all of you all the best for whatever you will do. You are great people. Always remember that!
All the people in Iceland will know why the topic of todays post, is "Wind". A friend of Sebastian, who arrived today at Keflavík had to wait four hours in the plane, because they were not able to dock on the airport. Half of Snaefellsness is impassable and even parts of the ringroad are marked as closed due to heavy winds over 30m/s. This day also made me think about our planned trip in the highlands. We will need a damn good constructed tent for this conditions. Anyway. Going to Samkaup was fun. Going back was not. It´s just some fucking moving air, but damn it matters wether it blows in your face or in your back.
This pic is from a trip so Snaefellsnes, where it is basically windy all the time. As Eric said "we had a really great time until Marcus got shot in the back" (at least it looks like it) We really had to try hard to conquer the wind and reach the beach. Haha... now I can even say it. Peeing is also quite hard under this conditions: So I tried to get some shelter behind a stone, but this made the aircurrents even more unpredictable. So the fluid went up (i have never seen this before) and then somehow back again... haha.. yeah it was as well raining a bit. I was the master of disguise... MUAHAHAHAHAH!!! To my defense it was 25 m/s.
Do you sometimes had the feeling that in Iceland whereever you go the wind is blowing in your face. Or at least also in your face (because sometimes I have the feeling the wind is coming from all four directions at the same time). But this is over now. At least for me. The wind is carrying me. It is blowing from the back. With at least 30m/s. My roads are cloased. There is only one direction left to go. Towards an end of this ERASMUS-Iceland. My god, I have no idea what I am writing here. I write, that it is over soon. But, that cannot be. It just started. I can remember. It was just some time ago when I arrived in Seydisfjödur. And all the people I met. Going to Landmannalaugar with Bob, Victor, Radka and Domenico. Ruining my car at Hekla, and still heaving one of the most beatiful hikes in my life. Making "Käsespätzle" in Djupavík bathing at Krossnesslaug directly at the sea (this picture will always stay in my mind, the beautiful orange sunset behind the mountains), haha.. jumping in Jökulsárlon, just to make a photo and show off with it (it worked!), our nice little near-death-experience in the Eastfjords, or Nina, who took a crap about knee-deep snow, and just continued walking with her fucking convers-shoes and my jacket, which was at least five sizes too big for her. So many beatiful memories, and so many nice people to share it with... damnit ... right now, it feels like the wind will just blow you off the cliff. Like the german tourist in Látrabjarg. Haha, and while he felt down, he continued making photos of himself smiling; at least that is our theory. And I kind of like it. And as I fall down I will just grab the edge with my little finger. Return in summer and give Iceland an ending, which it deserves (from North to South), hopefully a happy one. And then I will just let it go. And realize that just half a meter under my feet there is the safe ground. There is just this short moment of uncertainty. The moment where you realize you released the edge, but don´t feel the ground already. But after this, there is this great freedom again, of doing what you like to do, seeing the people you love and going to the places you want to. And after this time here in Iceland I know much more about it. And at the same time much less. It is like the wind. You don´t know from which direction it is coming. But somehow you are really happy that it is there.
Zeit ist relativ. Das maritim-arktische Klima, welches sich in Temperaturen zwischen -10°C und +5°C, einen immer wiederkehrendem Zyklus von Schnee, Eis, Sonnenschein, Wolken, Regen und schmelzendem Schnee, niederschlägt, könnte darüber hinweg täuschen das die Zeit unglaublich schnell vergeht. Es ist immer noch Winter. Und so hat man die Legitimation (zumindest sehe ich das so) jeden Tag bis weit in den Vormittag hinein zu schlafen und auch sonst die Dinge ein bisschen gelassener anzugehen. Doch gerade diese Ruhe steht in krassem Widerspruch zu dem was bevor steht. Es sind noch viele Dinge zu erledingen. Und viel anstrengender als das ganze Organisatorische wird es hier, die ganzen Zelte abzubrechen. Und wo anders wieder neu aufzubauen. Wieder einmal. Ich glaube ich werde den Frühling dieses Jahr einfach überspringen. Dieses ganze aufblühen, Energie tanken, Blüten tragen spar ich mir heuer ich stürze mich ohne lange Aufwärmphasen ins Abenteuer. Wenn man ohnehin nicht genau weiß wohin es geht, hat es ja eigentlich auch nicht gerade viel Sinn alles durchzuplanen. Ist ziemlich aussichtslos. Ich mag den isländischen Winter. Aber ich freu mich schon unglaublich auf den Sommer. Egal wo.
O Spring, Where Art Thou?
Time is relative. The maritime-arctic climate in Reykjavik, which results in temperatures between -10°C and +5°C, an eternal cycle of snow, ice, sunshine, clowds, rain and melting snow, can easily cheat our minds. Time is passing incredibly fast. Still, it is winter. And so we still have the legitimation (at least I think so) to sleep til almost midday, in general: take things slow and with comfort. But this calmness conflicts with the things, which are ahead of me. There are so many things I have to do. There are even more I want to do. It will be really hard, to quit all this here. I have really no idea, how things are going to work out after this „Iceland experience“. In some strange way I hoped to find out what I want to do in my life, what kind of person I am, with which people I want to share all this. But of course it was not so easy, and in fact everything turned out to be much more complicated than before (which is great, because this is, what life makes lifeworthy. Still…) I am afraid coming back to Austria is going to be much less „coming back“ than I hoped. Facing all this questions, which were thrown up here… a comeback will not provide answers I am satisfied with. I guess too many things have changed that a comeback is to a status-quo is even possible. Maybe I am overthinking all this again. I am just not good in dealing with uncertainty…
There is still over a month to enjoy here in Iceland. So probably it is way too early to make a résumé. I guess it´s time for spring. And then, we can just see what happens.
Reykjavík is the city of gloves and/or mittens. The time in which it is more comfortable to wear gloves than not to do so is longer than in most other cities in the world. Gloves are accepted as a useful tool to protect your hands from cold and wind, but still mostly they are not appreciated as something really worthy. So it comes that you will find more gloves lying on the streets than for example carkeys or wallets. I guess two years ago, I began to think that it would be a pitty to leave the missing mittens on the street, to let them end up with no use for anyone. So I started to collect them, and by the time it became, yeah let´s say quite a strange hobby.
By now I have collected over hundred of gloves. And in Reykjavík I was able to take this profession to a higher level. There are hardly any days in which I don´t find a glove somewhere. Following the strict principle that I only take the gloves, where the possibilty that it will be reunited with the original owner seems not likely at all . And it always makes me happy when I find one. It is like a unwrapped present from a complete stranger. I found out that about 80% of all lost mittens are for the right hand, and was wondering about it for quite a long time. Until someone told me there might be a link to the fact that ten to fifteen percent of alle people a lefthanders. So it is quite logical that you use your superior hand for example lighting a cigarette or pay at the shop, untake your glove and by accident lose it. Against all odds I found another person who has the same hobby, and last party we ended up exchanging gloves, like we did it in our childhood with stamps or toy cars. People start to bring me gloves they find somewhere. And after all, it does not seem to be so strange anymore.
The Megamitten project, is something I did today. It was like this blog entry a result of major procrastrination, a great effort in not doing stuff for university. Don´t mix up with the "Missing Mitten Project" which describes itself as: "Lost another mitten? Don´t worry. Make it into a cute, tiny, stuffed animal"
In the Megamitten project leading scientists went for a glove-finding-mission and tried to answer how many mittens you can wear on one hand. The answer is: 42! ... no just a joke... actually it is just ten.
When you sew this monstrosity together it could be the perfect glove for people with really long fingernails.
Last week I paradoxically did something I never dreamt of before. I bought gloves. For real money. Wuhuu... but they are awesomely awesome, windproof, warm and with a silicon surface for extra grip. Worth every penny. Hopefully =)
So, if you need some extra gloves. You know where to find me.
Und wieder neigt sich ein Monat dem Ende. Mit dem unweigerlich aufkommendem Eindruck, dass alles hier irgendwann ein Ende hat, werden auch die Tage wieder länger. Island ist gütig, denn indirekt proportional mit der näher kommenden Abreise, nimmt Tageslänge, Tageslicht und Sonnenlicht zu. Und irgendwie denk ich mir, dass ich mir schon ein bisschen Mitternachtssonne verdient hätte. Daraus kann ich mir Marmelade machen, die ich mir dann daheim aufs Brot streichen kann. Also in jeden Tag mit ein bisschen Mitternachtssonne starten. Zumindest gesünder als ein Nutellabrot oder sich schon früh morgens ein Knoppers ins Gesicht zu schieben.
Die Mitternachtssonne ist ein scheues Ding. Aber wenn man ganz genau hinschaut kann man sie sehen. Vorrausgesetzt man ist zwischen 5. Juni und 6. Juli irgendwo nördlich des Polarkreises. Dann, und nur dann, braucht man eigentlich gar nicht mehr so genau hinzuschauen um sie zu finden.
Die Sonne bleibt Sonne. Egal ob sie nun zu Mittag oder zu Mitternacht scheint. Und wir werden noch alle genug von ihr abzukriegen. Mich wundert eigentlich wieso die Sonne nicht schon längst als kommunistisch gebrandmarkt wurde. Innerhin liefert sie Luxus für alle. Umsonst. Und sogar für Ausländer. Also Sonne bleibt Sonne. Aber das schöne Island gibts nur im Sommer. Das Island wo man mit Zelt und Schuhen losgehen kann um zu sehen wo man ankommt. Wo man unterwegs Blaubeeren isst und sich abends einen Fisch auf den Grill haut. Wo man nach Gletschern greift und durch die Fjorde schwimmt. Wo man die losen Schotterhänge runtergleitet und sich auf den Berggipfeln die Augen reiben muss. Wo man unter Wasserfällen duscht und seine Hände nach den Regenbogen ausstreckt. Dieses Island haben wir uns nach so langer Zeit doch verdient, oder etwa nicht?
Schließen wir dieses Kapitel ab, wie wir es begonnen haben. Mit ungewissem Ausgang. Mit Respekt vor dem, was vor einem liegt. Und mit Tatendrang sich auf das Kommende vorzubereiten. Ich hab Icelandic online nie gemacht, und auch heute gehen meine Isländisch-Kenntnisse nicht über ein "Eg heitir Bettina" hinaus. Und diesen Fehler gilt es wohl diesmal zu vermeiden. Denn die isländische Natur ist nicht wie ein isländischer Sprachkurs. Da wird man nicht mit Fisch gefüttert, bis man keinen mehr sehen kann. Und schwerwiegende Fehler werden nicht mit einem bösen Blick des Lehrers bestraft sondern durchaus mit dem Leben. Aber wollen wir das mal nicht überstrapazieren, in den österreichischen Alpen ist es nicht anders. Schließen wir Island so ab wie wir es begonnen haben: mit einer Reise quer durchs Land.
Aber erstmal klein anfangen. Das Buch aufschlagen sozusagen. Oder die Kassette einlegen. Je nachdem ob man eher der visuelle oder der audio Typ ist. Einen Schritt vor den anderen setzen. Und am Ende des Tages können es dann schon mehr als 30 km sein. Das Erste Kapitel. Akrarnes Halbinsel. Hab ich somit mal bestanden. Danke Markus für die Einladung. Es war mir ein Schützenfest. Und meine Beine hab ich auch nen Tag lang nicht gespührt. War eine nette Abwechslung.
This story is about Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull, who desperately try to find some cheap outdoor stuff at Skeifan. Actually its about me buying clothes, glorious victories and epic fails.
Heute eine Geschichte über Indianer. Crazy Horse und Sitting Bull, die auf der verzweifelten Suche nach Feuerwasser und Wanderstiefeln durch Reykavik irren und auf General Custer treffen. Also eigentlich gehts um mich, meiner Suche nach Outdoorkleidung, um glorreiche Siege und epische Niederlagen.
Indians knew, it wont work to put everything into an economic frame.
“We cannot sell this land. It was put here for us by the Great Spirit and we cannot sell it because it does not belong to us… As long as the sun shines and the waters flow, this land will be here to give life to people and animals.”
Paradoxically Mastercard, incarnation of all consumer whores, advertises itself with the slogan "There is some things money can´t buy". For example high quality outdoor stuff. Of course you can buy it with money, but not with the kind of money i have. So for a couple of days I am looking for good bargains, they call it "utsala" here in Iceland. This shopping-marathon has the name "Operation Winter". May the assault begin.
In honor of our indian ancients, and the wise story they told us, I will call the actual advance of Operation Winter "the Battle of Little Big Horn". Fought in 1876 it was one of the biggest victories of the Indians against the white invaders. It was Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse, whose men killed General Custer in the shadow of the black hills of Montana.
I cannot guarantee for geographical accuracy, but like Sitting Bull I was advancing from the West. Over the hill of Perlan I crossed Kringlanriver to enter Skeifan-Territory. Skeifan is a mighty tribe, who sell a lot of stuff; firewater, sportbows and outdoor stuff. The old chief of smoky bay Crazy Gnarr as well respects their honesty and ability to guidance. So to come to an point. The battle was glourious, the victory was mine, and I bought some new, fucking nice hiking boots (Iceland here I come again), a softshell windstopper and a 66° North hat.
But as always in big battles there were losses as well. Or at least victories, which I still have to wait for. The gloves are at no way appropiate for winter trips. The rain jacket as a hole in the back. And I guess the long underwear still has some problems in an asthetical point of view.So the battle might be won, but the war ain´t over yet.
Die Indianer wussten, dass es nicht funktioniert alles in einen ökonomischen Rahmen zu stecken.
"Wir können dieses Land nicht verkaufen. Es wurde uns vom großen Geist gegeben und wir können es nicht verkaufen weil es uns nicht gehört... So lange die Sonne scheint und das Wasser die Flüsse herab rinnt, ist dieses Land dazu da, allen Menschen und Tieren Leben zu geben"
Paradoxerweise wirbt ja auch Mastercard, praktisch der Inbegriff des Konsumdenkens, mit dem Slogan "Manche Dinge sind unbezahlbar". So zum Beispiel qualitativ hochwertiger Outdoor-Klamotten. Man könnte ein Vermögen ausgeben, wenn man denn eines hätte. Deswegen bin ich seit einigen Tagen auf der Suche, nach guter, leistbarer Qualität. Dieser Einkaufsmarathon trägt den Namen "Operation Winter". Möge der Vormarsch beginnen.
Ehre denen, denen Ehre gebührt. So will ich den gestrigen Vorstoß der Operation Winter, ganz in den Namen unserer indianischen Vorfahren stellen. Die Schlacht am Little Big Horn im Jahre 1876 war eine der größten Siege der nordamerikanischen Indianer gegen die weißen Invasoren. Klingende Namen wie Sitting Bull oder Crazy Horse verbündeten ihre Stämme der Lakota und der Cheyenne im siegreichen Kampf gegen General Custer und seine Mannen.
Ich kann für die Richtigkeit der geografischen Angaben nicht garantieren, aber so wie Sitting Bull rückte ich von Westen vor, über die Hügel von Perlan, überquerte ich den Kringlanfluss, und landete im Skeifan-Territorium. Die Skeifan sind ein mächtiger Stamm. Sie verkaufen eine Menge an Dingen: Feuerwasser, Jagdbögen. Und eben, Outdoor-Bekleidung. Der alte Häuptling der Rauchenden Bucht Crazy Gnarr achtet ihre Ehrlichkeit und ihre Fähigkeit zur Beratung. Um auf den Punkt zu kommen. Die Schlacht war glorreich. Der Sieg war mein. Ich bin stolzer Besitzer, neuer, verdammt geiler Wanderschuhe, einem Windstopper und einer ziemlich warmen Haube von 66° North.
Doch wie immer bei großen Schlachten gab es auch Verluste. Oder zumindest Siege, die noch auf sich warten müssen. Die Handschuhe sind auf keinen Fall wintertauglich, die Regenjacke hält nicht mehr dicht und die lange Unterhose lässt bei der Ästhetik auch einige Punkte liegen. Deswegen kann ich nur mit folgenden Worten abschließen: Die Schlacht ist gewonnen, der Krieg aber noch lange nicht.
Ich möchte euch bitten, vor allem das Video am Ende anzusehen. Meine Worte sind so unendlich unwichtig, im Vergleich zu manch anderen Dingen, die geschehen.
Während in Österreich anscheinend schon der Frühling vor der Türe steht (17°C heute in Wien) ist über Island der Winter eingebrochen. Zwar kann man bei angenehmen -8°C Aussentemperatur immer noch ins Freibad gehen, der Geothermie sei Dank. Die Gehsteige sind jedoch zugeschneit. Kümmert aber irgendwie keinen, da jeder mit dem Auto fährt. Ausflüge sind im Moment auch ein bisschen schwierig. Die billigen Leihauots, meist irgendwelche in die Jahre gekommenen Kleinwagen, sind den Straßenbedingungen nicht mehr gewachsen. Island ist wie eine Droge. Und wenn man nicht alle zwei Wochen rauskommt aus Reykjavik so kann es schon passieren, dass man zu zittern beginnt und grundlos irgendwelche alten Omas anschreit. Also nichts wie raus!
Ach ja, da war noch was. Ich habe mir geschworen, dass der letzmalige Ausflug auf Esja, die letzten für meine zerschundenen 30€ Wanderschuhe gewesen sind. Der Parkerverschnitt mit Innenfell, erfüllt zwar alle Ansprüche in punkto Wärme, entäuscht aber durch extreme Unhandlichkeit, und gerade im hochgestylten Island fühlt man sich damit permanent undergedressed. Die gerippten Baumwollunterhosen waren mir damals beim Bundesheer schon vier Nummern zu groß, und dass man sich immer rechtfertigen muss wieso man zwei verschiedene Handschuhe trägt nervt auch mit der Zeit. Also wenn der Frühling nicht zu mir kommen will, muss ich ihn mir eben kaufen. Ob 66° North, Icewear, Zo-On ... Markenware wohin das Auge reicht. Scheiß teuer. Aber echt feine Qualität. Natürlich made in China. Was insbesondere bei 66° Noth überrascht, da die seit Jahren eine Werbekampagne auffahren wie geil sie nicht sind, und wie isländisch ihre Produkte. So wie etwa diese Werbeanzeige suggeriert.
In Djupavik. Leben nur Originale. Ja, das mag sein. Wir waren im Dezember dort. Dort leben übern Winter zwei Menschen. Ein nettes altes Ehepaar, die ganzjährig das Hotel betreiben. Wir waren die einzigen Gäste. Wieso geht die Klospülung nicht? Die Wasserleitungen sind über Nacht eingefroren. Den Mann aus der Werbung haben wir nicht getroffen. Auch das Ehepaar, das dort seit zwanzig Jahren lebt hat ihn noch nie gesehen. Dies hat uns zu einem kleinem Ad-busting veranlasst. Mit freundlicher Unterstützung von spanischem Exhibitionismus.
Ach ja. Der rote Faden. Operation Winter ist heute angelaufen. In einer ersten Großoffensive besuchte ich sämtliche Outdoorläden Reykjaviks um mich nach einigen Scharmützeln in der Umkleidekabine, mich zwecks finanzieller Strategieplanung in den sicheren Schützengraben zurück zu ziehen. Doch die Taktik steht. Das best mögliche Equipment zum best möglichen Preis. Es ist nur eine Frage der Zeit bis ich den Gegner zermürbe und eiskalt mit meiner Brieftasche zuschlage. Widerstand ist zwecklos!
Operation Spring war übrigens einer der größten Justizskandale der zweiten Republik. 1999 wurde ein vermeintlicher Drogenring ausgehoben. 127 Schwarafrikaner festgenommen, Verdächtige abgeschoben oder zu jahrelangen Haftstrafen verurteilt. Ziel war wohl viel mehr die Lähmung der afrikanischen Community, die unter anderem nach der Ermordung Marcus Omofumas, zunehmend politisch aktiv wurde. Zu trauriger Berühmtheit schaffte es die Urteilsbekundung bei manchen Angeklagten, denen der […] Verkauf einer nicht mehr feststellbaren, jedenfalls aber großen Menge Heroin und Kokain, an unbekannt gebliebenen Endabnehmer […] “. vorgeworfen wurde.
Über zehn Jahre später hat sich die Situation keineswegs gebessert. Während in einem Monsterprozess vorm Landesgericht Wr. Neustadt die Existenz von 13 teilweise willkürlich ausgwählten TierschützerInnen ruiniert wird, werden objektive, rechtskundige Kritikerinnen dieses Prozesses mit Klagen eingedeckt. Die Unfassbarkeit dieses Skandals lässt sich in diesen Zeilen nicht ausdrücken. Sechs der Angeklagten wird keine konkrete Straftat vorgeworfen. Dennoch sollen sie schuldig sein Teil einer "kriminellen Organisation" zu sein. Ihnen drohen bis zu fünf Jahre Haft. Im Anhang eine ARD-Reportage, der diesen Wahnsinn gut zusammenfasst. Weiters ein Interview mit dem dreifachen Familienvater, und "gefährlichstem Mafiosi" Österreichs, der seit Prozessbeginn auf Spenden angewiesen ist.
Angesichts dieser menschlichen Kälte, gegen die leider auch die warmen Socken, die ich mir heute gekauft habe, nicht helfen, kann ich nur mit Worten Max Liebermanns abschließen: „Ich kann gar nicht soviel fressen, wie ich kotzen möchte."
