Gnarr Read Free

In Finland, it’s the most natural thing in the world to wander around stark naked in front of strangers, without feeling ashamed of your body or the bodies of others.
    In Icelandic swimming pools you can regularly see foreign visitors who find this unabashed nakedness strange. The tourists wrap themselves up tightly intheir towels before coyly discarding their underwear and getting into their swimsuits. These inhibitions always amuse us Icelanders—while we, with our towels thrown casually over our shoulders, let our freshly showered breasts or dicks cheerfully dangle as we stroll around.
    As long as I can remember, in Iceland it was all pretty straightforward. Here, strictly speaking, nothing happens. The country has just 320,000 people, so if someone falls off his bike, it’s worth at least a headline in the daily paper. If celebrities from abroad come to visit, they often emphasize how enjoyable and relaxing life is with us—in contrast to the grotesque media circus that springs up around them everywhere else. There are no tabloids and no paparazzi.
    The most famous Icelander is Björk. Despite everything, she’s always remained herself. Abroad, she constantly has to flee from fans and journalists who pursue her into every little corner, while in Iceland you run into her in the pool, on the bus, or in the shops. In general, she’s left alone.
    In Iceland I was famous by the time I was fourteen. I was a fourteen-year-old with a Mohawk and a ring through his nose, and this too was news. By the time I was thirty, and earned my living as a comedian and actor, almost every child in Iceland knew me. Whenever I was appearing in some television series, the city wasfilled with huge advertising posters with a picture of me on the walls of the houses. And when I got onto a bus, it was quite likely that the bus would be running ads for me too.
    It was quite a sensation if somewhere or other some elderly guy
didn’t
know who I was. Once, somebody told me about one such old timer who in all seriousness had never heard of me—this aroused laughter from those standing around. As you can see, being famous is different in Iceland from what it is elsewhere. In Iceland, everything is boringly normal. Even celebrity. People know that before you go swimming, you stand there naked in the shower just like they do.
    The only practical use of celebrity is that it sometimes saves you having to queue for the clubs on the weekends. But at clubs, like everywhere else, you’ll most likely have to join the line like all the other well-behaved folk. Even Björk joins the line at the end and waits until it’s her turn, and everyone finds this normal. Sometimes a bouncer decides to show her preferential treatment, but the bystanders find this misplaced and awkward.
    The Icelandic state of mind is dominated by the seasons. Summer is the best time. On the “first day of summer” (which according to the calendar is the third Thursday in April), we all wish each other “Have a great summer!” This is a nice custom. In summer, everyoneis happy. There’s hardly an Icelandic poet who hasn’t, sooner or later, sung about our summer, our wonderful summer, which is so much better than any other summer in the world. Although not all that much better, actually.
    We have to use the power of positive thinking, to enjoy the half-full glass. The thermometer rarely manages more than 20 degrees Celsius (68°F), but the minute it hits ten degrees (50°F), we pull all our clothes off. Temperatures much above this are considered a heat wave. In summertime, the living is easy. And when someone indulges in pessimism, we just turn a deaf ear. Everyone’s optimistic and cheerful, we’re the happiest people under the sun—because it’s summer.
    With the fall, comes fear. The days get shorter and the nights, as a result, longer. Suddenly our worries are back. We wonder whether it’s going to be a hard winter.
    When winter comes, we stick our heads under the