The Grapevine can finally firmly recommend a guidebook for getting around our hometown of Reykjavík – our own guidebook, Inside Reykjavík. Not that other travel books from massive, impersonal conglomerates are evil or inaccurate; we typically consult with them in exchange for free dinner, and we can say the authors of other books are often well mannered and… not evil. But our book is local. True, written by an American jackass, but at least an American with a vested interest in the country, and three years of hard Icelandic living under his belt.
Here’s why you need Inside Reykajvík: you can find out about how to relax, how to party, how to start a decent conversation, even how to get out of the city. And we have photos, yes, photographs. Many of them. And handsome maps.
Truthfully, we just can’t say enough about how good our own work was. If only we had the linguistic skills to describe how strong our linguistic skills were in writing the book. But we don’t. Since we sent the book to our publisher, Edda Press, we have grown tired, dumb and lazy.
Which is one more reason to buy the book. We can state, for the record, that we will never be that good again.
Fellow tourist, expatriate or self-conscious Icelander, imagine the day you pick up our fine book as the day you get married or fall in love. That significant other, which in this case is 170 pages of photos, text, design and passion, is supple, smells good, and, most importantly, all yours, will grant you both your wildest dream and your deepest, most fulfilling need. Take us. Take us now. Go to the bookstore, grab our book, throw down your money, and bond. Bond. Bond.
Because when you are done with the book, we will never quite fulfil you in the same way. Afterwards, you will read us and think of what once was. And either that will be enough, and you will smile sweetly as you read us and believe yourself to be in a promising relationship, or that one moment between our silky smooth pages will be the beginning of the end, and you will wander around, picking up sexier, more flashy street trash that can’t satisfy you as we once did, but that won’t remind you of those haunting memories. BC