Colder For Having Been There, Part I of V

"Would you please put your cigarette out and let's go?"

"...sure, wait. Wait...it's my last one."

"Can't you get any more?"

"Yeah, at the duty-free shop. But it's so fucking cold out here. I would have to go back in to the warm and then walk
through the terminal and all the way back here. Thirty fucking minutes...that's fucking nuts.

"What about bummin' a couple for the road off those people?"

"Look at what they are smoking."

"so..."

"duMaurier, are you serious? They're Canadian, can't you tell? duMaurier cigarettes, flat box, bullshit flavor. For sure,
one of them will ask me something, anything. I don't want to talk to Canadians. I didn't fucking come over here to talk
to Canadians. I already know everything about Canadians. Curling, snow, Moosehead...what's to know."

"Asshole."

"OK...that's fair but I am not smoking Canadian cigarettes."

Out past the endless tarmac were jagged fields of lava rocks, signifying the geothermic history of this strange island. All morning the yawning passengers leaned their heads against the airbourne portholes and saw the terminally boring blue pool of the North Atlantic splash mindlessly between continents. Every now and then a Norwegian whaling vessel bobbed stupidly below. Although whales across the globe have been decimated to the point of alarm it seemed nearly impossible that these rusting fishing relics could ever be lucky enough to actually bag a plankton-eating behemoth. The oceans being too vast, too deep for comprehension. It was expected that the airplane would land somewhere near a city but there was nothing around except monotonous rows of manufactured US Army barracks. In some stroke of Cold War genius, a General so-and-so had negotiated an overlengthy lease for the rights to construct a airdrome on the tip of this frigid isle. This was greased by the addition of good old Yanqui dollars fattening the coffers of the local and national treasury. No doubt this rankled the feathers of the commoners and peasants who happened to have the misfortune of living on this strategic piece of mutually assured destruction but elected officials were given a sturdy mandate to do what they will. Dominating the northern end of this display of seemingly pointless human construction were twin terminals and their corresponding airplane hangars. A point of departure and arrival for cargo and travelers was their only similarity. The drab olive buildings preferred by the military complex of the Americans blended rather seamlessly into the surrounding lunarlike landscape. The utilitarian concrete pseudocity bustled with the unifrom mastrations of bored US airmen dutifully filling out their service to country in a decidedly unwarlike manner. In a stunning architectual act of defiance, a glass and metal artillary strike, the natives had erected a futuristic welcome mat to the ohhing and ahhing few who tread to this nowhere part of the globe. The blond citizens smiled and worked efficiently to promote the wonders of their country, all but ignoring their imperialistic neighbors secretly warmongering away the years. We had booked an extra three days here free courtesy of the airline. Most people politely said "thanks but no thanks" while they stopped here briefly on a United States to Europe intermission. Why we had taken them up on their generous offer I do not know. A little advance briefing of the history, flora and fauna, geology, and geography of this country revealed many hidden splendors to investigate but this was late March just south of the Arctic Circle, certainly no time to be playing fairy and elves in the countryside. An ominous warning was the darkened skies socking in the bay of the capital city. No aerial preview was to be had once we reached mainland. It was blindingly light here, though, at the airport. Three of us huddled outside the Jetsonesque automatic walkway and barely spoke.

"I am going to get more cigarettes while we are here. It's like a forty minute bus ride to the city and shit, duty-free, man."

"Get a carton, then."

Our female companion rolled her eyes and sighed audibly. She had already reached her boiling point of frustration during our lengthy stay in Amsterdam. The prospect of three more days with us was irritating enough but now she was dealing with the possible loss of our luggage and thus the rest of our money. Plus, she was having a extended hangover with her decision to cap off a truly superb world-traveler backpacker day by having sex with me, who characteristically was doing everything and anything wrong immediately after climax.

"Fuck your cigarettes and find us our fucking luggage."

"What the hell are we supposed to do about it? We asked, they are looking and now I am going to smoke until they answer."

"Christ, I am going to go talk to the Canadians and then I am going to the cafeteria. I am so sick of you two. Find out about our luggage."

She had begun to speak to anyone of any nationality that was not American. This was her obvious "fuck off" to us. It was working only in the fact that it would make me less likely to acknowledge the fact that we had sex and that I was acting like an immature jerk. An unfortunate side-effect of feeding me exactly the venomous poison that I wanted to eat. My male compatriot could care less. He was here to drink and smoke his way into believing that we were adventurous and daring. We were here to pay homage to Kerouac and Graham Greene and Paul Theroux and if anything the American on American coupling that happened was an aberration. A slight annoyance but overall meaningless act in the overall scheme of being unpredictable and dangerous worldly muckrakers. After all, any fucking worthy of mention would include phrasing such as the following;

the Indonesian girl
that Australian backpacker chick
ahh, that Dutch bartender at De Rokerij
Eastern European prostitute
those two Brazilians
and finally (at least for me) an angelic, Nordic-perfected, Icelandic goddess

The poor, pathetic office for lost luggage was buried deep in the bowels of the airport. Accordingly the cranky troll that controlled the fate of our money, our happiness was more in a mood of mocking our luck than granting us help. She directed us to the home office of the airling located in the city and confirmed that our bags were safely on the way to Minneapolis without us. Apparently they want you to stay a few days to explore their lovely country but would prefer if your clothes would kindly go home first. With the clothes on our back and little Kroners in our pocket we contemplated our next move. Precious last monies were spent on the duty-free carton of cigarettes and they came bounding back down the terminal hallway with the man. We all sat in the concourse waiting for the airline shuttle to take us into the city and to the unknown. Alliances were drawn, blame was assessed, anger sharpened, possibilties narrowed, and cigarettes were smoked. Then we were off, beelining through the barren lava fields.