Icelandic Hot Dog Stand and Signing Your Name 250,000 Times


In the summer of two thousand eight. My wife sarah. And i traveled to europe with another couple. Our friends laura and ryan. I like laura and ryan a lot but one thing you need to know is that they are the sort of people who really try to suck the marrow out of life and make the most of their brief flicker of consciousness and all that stuff. This is very different from my style of traveling wherein i most of the day psyching myself up to do one thing visit a museum perhaps and the rest of the day recovering from the only event on my itinerary. The trip took us from denmark. Sweden and then on to iceland a small and mostly rocky island nation in the north atlantic. That attracts tourists primarily by offering free stopovers to anyone who flies iceland's national airline. Iceland air. I was interested in visiting iceland partly because i have a longstanding fascination with tiny nations and partly because my publisher jewish strauss gable had told me she loved this one hot dog stand in iceland called bayern's be to answer the trips to sweden and denmark had been lovely there were smorgasbords and museums but the highlight had been an evening spent with ryan's swedish relatives. Who lived on the shores of some vast lake in the swedish wilderness. They welcomed us to their home and proceeded to get us blisteringly unprecedentedly. Drunk on sweden's national wicker bronfman. I do not often drink to excess. Because i have an intense fear of hangovers but i made an exception. That evening ryan's relatives taught us swedish drinking songs. And they taught us how to eat pickled herring and my glass kept getting filled with bronwyn until it lasts the eighty year. Old patriarch of the family stood up and spoke his his first english words of the evening and now the sauna

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