I spent a good chunk of the weekend working on an article for Rob and Dream Not of Today. It was a lot of fun; Palli and I spent a good two hours out among the protestors. I managed to drag words out of a surprising number of people, given the rather reserved persona of your average (sober) Icelander.

Still, in the process I received my fair share of glances bespeaking puzzlement - or other, less kind, emotions. But nothing untoward was said or done; most of the natives seemed content to answer briefly to whatever basic questions I could formulate on the fly.

There’s a bunch of behind-the-scenes stuff that went unpublished for the article; interesting tidbits that didn’t quite fit into the established narrative. I’ll reproduce them here for the interested.

• Several people carried blank signs, in both rectangular and disc-shaped form factors, and offered the sign-less markers with which to construct their own.
• A woman carrying a large European Union flag, mounted on a thin PVC pipe so tall it listed under its own weight.
• A gentleman on stilts.
• A picketer with UTSALG emblazoned across a depiction of the Icelandic flag. The phrase is Danish, meaning “For Sale”. Remember that Iceland was ruled by Denmark for hundreds of years.
• Another sign: Látum Auðmenna Borga. Let the Rich pay.
• The orator’s speech mentioned support pouring in from the countryside, naming towns as far away as Austurfirðir - clear on the opposite side of Iceland.
• A sign: Landrað Af Gáleysi Er Landrað. Strictly translated, “A treason of incompetence is (still) treason.”
• A ladies’ choir singing softly in front of Alþingishusið - the house of Parliament - just after the “main” protest concludes.
• Several small white splatters on the facade of Alþingishusið. Dried eggs from previous evenings’ protests.
• A blue bag strung up from a lamppost. Further inspection, and the questioning of a nearby woman, reveals that it is a falcon. They’ve lynched, in effigy, the symbol of the Icelandic Independence Party. That would be the party of Geir Haarde and Davið Oddsson, both widely blamed for various aspects of the crisis.
• A woman carrying a sign: Ókeypis Knús - free hugs. “An interesting way to boost spirits,” observed Palli.
• There are no (visible) policemen near the protest. One, in a bright yellow traffic vest, ensures that no one befouls the garden behind Parliament.

Strange times indeed.

This ‘burg is a curious beast. I lived here nary three years. And when I left? Sick, and sick to death, I was of it. Still, here I find myself, on layover between San Francisco and Atlanta - a new world and an old, or so I would imagine the lack of parity. Reliving all the slights and inadequacies I recall from that lost trilogy of annualities can only make one wax philosophical. Or, at least, sophistical.

Today, a particular conjunction struck me as extraordinarily metaphoric of the City of Los Angeles and the bizarre subset of humanity that chooses to call it home. A conjunction involving a rump of pork, frosted and roasted in a most commercial fashion.

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The reason I’m here in LA is to clean up the last loose ends I’ve got before embarking on the more exciting legs of the World Tour. Little things like closing out bank accounts, settling taxes, getting rid of my car, and so on. This means I’ve spent a lot of time tangling with so-called ‘customer service’ systems, more often impotently than not.

Most were the common story, punching information in via keypad in a vain effort to categorize my request, prior to being dumped on Tier 1 and thereafter repeating earlier entries verbally to the peon who was more than likely being just short of actively whipped by some unseen overseer.

Two particularly hostile systems, however, stand out from this Rorschach blot of communication.

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