Who goes to Iceland for New Year’s Eve?

When my sister sent out a blanket email to her friends back in June, I was in a terrible place in my life. Weeks before I had just been dumped by the woman I thought I would marry. I had sold my condo to move into hers but after the breakup found myself in a high rise rental nursing a broken heart. I’m a big believer that during crisis I’m best off doing what others tell me. The email my sister sent said simply, “Who wants to go to Iceland for New Year’s Eve?” My mind flashed to instances where people vacationed to Reykjavik and reported that it was one of the best vacations of their life. It took less than thirty seconds for me to reply. I was in.

I believe the original group was seven, but in December I learned that it would only be my sister, her husband, and me. We picked up a few books about Iceland and started reading. My knowledge of the country was nil. I was familiar with a few Bjork songs and knew they had the world’s first woman president. Oh, and something about the northern lights. That’s it.

We spent six days in Iceland exploring the country. The weather was better than Chicago and averaged around 32 degrees. Cold but not miserable. At this time of the year the sun comes up around 11:15 am and departs at 3:15 pm. If you wanted to see stuff without flashlights, you needed to plan your day.

I’m going to focus on a few events and sights, but spread over a few posts. Let’s start with Iceland’s most popular attraction, The Blue Lagoon. This is not to be confused with the Brooke Shields film of the same name where she plays a nude fourteen year old who falls in love living in the jungles of the South Pacific.

By the way, how did that movie ever get made? Must have been the pervy-est pitch meeting of all time. “No, don’t worry – we’re going to tape her long hair over her cans so you can’t see the nips. It’ll be classy!”

Iceland’s Blue Lagoon is about an hour’s drive from Reykjavik. Because it’s so popular you can’t just show up – you need an appointment. Oh, I haven’t told you what it is. It’s the world’s largest geothermal spa. Crap, you probably don’t know what a geothermal spa is. Well, I don’t either, but here’s my best attempt at explaining. 100% of Iceland’s power comes from renewable sources likes sun, wind, and water. Because of the volcanoes in the country, the lava underground heats up the natural water. Power plants take in the hot water and harvest electricity and then ship the water back out into the earth. Near the Blue Lagoon is a power plant. Instead of just feeding the water back into the ground, somebody figured it would make for a fun spa experience and built a huge pool. The water leaves the power plant and tunnels into the Blue Lagoon where it swishes around for two days before naturally returning to the earth. It’s a milky blue color and averages just under 100 degrees Fahrenheit.

When you arrive at The Blue Lagoon the first thing you notice is how many other people are there. There’s hundreds of other tourists running around and if you are looking for a relaxing spa day, this isn’t going to meet your needs. Odds are your idea of relaxing is not to swim around the world’s largest jacuzzi while it snows on your face. Because that’s exactly what happened during our trip. Well, it actually did much worse than snow on my face. But I’ll get to that in a minute.

My brother-in-law and I booked massages and I thought we’d be shuffled off to private interior rooms with folding tables, patchouli incense and bad new age music. Nope – this massage would be done in the water. Outside. We quickly showered (a requirement before entering the lagoon) and stepped outside to find the water-massage area.

We found our courage and stepped out into the air, glancing around for the water-massage area. It was a good fifty yards from away and the cold air pierced my body with impressive force. I couldn’t run because the deck was littered with snow and ice and the risk of slipping was very real. Plus, it’s important to look cool in front of other people, so I shuffled over at a pace that suggested “Huh, is it cold? I hadn’t noticed.” I’m sure the other tourists were impressed with my ruggedness. Meanwhile frost had developed on my chest hair and I could no longer feel my feet. We reached the massage pool and quickly stepped in the water. The water was so warm that within a minute I no longer noticed the outside freezing temperature. I was comfortable. There were eight masseuses, seven of them men. My brother-in-law and I both prayed we’d be assigned to the one female. Nope. We got dudes.

Let me explain the water-massage setup. It’s a pool where the massage recipient lays on a flotation mat, face up. There is a blanket on top of the body to protect exposed areas from the cold. Each masseuse wore a thick bodysuit and wool winter hat. The men have dense beards. While I didn’t snap a pic of my masseuse, he looked exactly like this.

My masseuse, whose name I didn’t catch but I’ll call Magnús (because it was probably Magnús) hoisted me onto the float raft and draped a heavy blanket across my chest. He asked if I wanted a towel to cover my face. “No, Magnús. Did you not see how I strolled over without discomfort even though my left pinky toe went into frostbite?” He shrugged and started the massage. I was a few minutes in and starting to relax when the first piece of hail hit my cheek. Within seconds my face was being pelted with small, stinging pieces of ice. “Uh, Magnús, I’ll take that face towel now.” He laughed and a few seconds later a towel draped over my eyes protecting me from the ice bullets. The next thing I knew I felt the face towel came off and I saw clouds. Instantly I snapped back into consciousness and realized the session was over. I had fallen asleep. In a hailstorm. Face up and in a pool.

I shook hands with Magnús and exited the massage area. He didn’t say how impressed he was that I could brave the elements, but I could sense it on his face. However, I will not be joining any viking armies to further prove my masculinity, but that’s just because there aren’t any decent viking wars going on right now. Which is a bummer because I’m certain I’d be excellent at pillaging. Plundering, too. I do, though, get seasick like you wouldn’t believe. I’d be heaving my guts before we left port. Bonine – I’d have to bring a shitload of Bonine. Or those tabs you put behind your ear. Oh, and I’d have to grow a beard, I guess.

The Blue Lagoon part II is coming next.

photo credit: acase1968 Johan Hegg of Amon Amarth via photopin (license)

There’s no way that last sentence was grammatically or syntactically accurate. I wish I knew stuff!

Well, I have an opportunity to redeem myself this weekend.

This Saturday I will be flying out to chilly Las Vegas for Blog World (now called New Media Expo). There will be around four thousand bloggers in attendance all there to hang out, learn junk, and network. And I won’t know even one person there.

Last year I wrote about the most fun and the most boring persons I met at BlogWorld. Since then we have stayed in touch and I would say that there has been solid,  developed friendships. Sadly both of these bozos can’t make it this year. One is pregnant and the other one’s company won’t spring for the ticket. I offered to let her crash in my room, but her husband was unhappy with this arrangement. Lame.

Now, I’m not a famous blogger by any means, but I do a respectable amount of web traffic. I’m number one on Google for “dick stories” for chrissakes. That is something, people. It’s not hyperbolic or an ego stroke to think a few of the people in attendance might be readers of this blog. But I don’t know one of them who are coming to this event.

Now, in the last post I talked about how I’m perfectly comfortable going to parties where I don’t know anyone and making friends. No big whoop. During the weekend I’ll do just fine going up and meeting people. I did this with five thousand women at BlogHer and never felt even the least bit awkward. Of course the idea of being in a group of five thousand women is exciting, in and of itself.

But two things do scare me. First are meals. I will have nobody to with whom to eat. There are but a few options. One is to find someone in a session and offer to take them to lunch. This takes balls. The next option is to approach a group of people already eating and ask to join their table of friends. This takes even more balls. Last is to just being my laptop, jump online, and eat by myself. This takes no balls.

I suspect I will do all three.

As long as I push through the initial fear of approaching strangers and adding them to dinner, then I’ll be proud of myself.

But to be clear, eating is not the scariest part of going to a conference alone.

The nighttime parties are.

Each night there are really fun and crazy parties put on by the sponsors. Now, you might think it’s easier to make friends at a bar than just walking around a convention center, but for me it’s not. I’m not exactly cutting rugs, dancing jigs, or poppin’ and lockin’ my way to the dance floor’s heartbeat. Also, I don’t drink. I can’ even order up four Harvey Wallbangers and send ’em down to the skanky chicks in the micro-minis. Also, the music is always way too loud at these things, so it’s hard to talk.

The good news is that everyone else is there pretty much by themselves. You’d think it’s all computer nerds but there hardly any nerds in attendance. It’s all passionate people who blog about food, travel, fashion, being a mom, or themselves. So, in a sense, this is another example of going to a bar all alone. The difference is that many of these people will be by themselves or with their one buddy.

You know, I just wrote myself out of the fear. I’m totally good now.

Okay, now that everything is fixed, why don’t I leave on a weird note. On 12/31/12 my traffic doubled. Why? I went to trust Google  Analytics  to find out. Turn up that I was #1 on Google that day for the lovely key phrase “New Year P**n.” I don’t think I’ve even written the p word ever on this blog. No idea. But, I am glad to get some of those perverts over here. They need to laugh, to.

Notice how I made the assumption that whoever comes over here is guaranteed to laugh? Oh yeah! I said it!

photo credit: amanky via photopin cc

I am sad about this. I actually had two offers that I both turned down. One was from friends who, ever year, go to this huge gala in Chicago. The week prior I had decided against it. I get dressed up each day for work – it’s enough. Ha. Sorry to laugh at my own moronic logic, but that’s actually how I thought about it. Also, it’s pretty expensive for someone who doesn’t drink. So, no to that one.

The other option was something that came up unexpectedly. Even though every fiber of my logic said to attend, I just couldn’t. Ladies and gentlemen (don’t you hate when writers or speakers throw that stupid phrase out there?), I simply chickened out.

Here’s what and why.

I hired someone last week whose fiance runs a bar. Actually, they now run two bars. This second one is brand new and they’re doing this big event for New Year’s Eve. In Chicago you’re  hard-pressed  to find a bar event that’s under $100. It’s just the normal cost of all-you-can-drink and eat stuff. I didn’t mind shelling out that money ten years ago when I was a boozebag. It was well-priced.

Her event at the new bar was only $50 for the whole night, including drinks. That’s a steal. So, even though I wouldn’t win on the spirits, I would stack as many Tostino Pizza Rolls as would fit on a mini paper plate. Now, she’s five month’s pregnant and I think she was going to run around selling shots all night. Which is a funny sight you’d have to admit. The point is, it’s not like we’re best pals (I’ve met her twice) nor will she have time to wax poetic to me. She’s going to be running around throwing Schnapps down throats.

Other than her I wouldn’t have known anyone else.

Now, in any other setting, I’m good. Invite me to a party where I don’t know anyone and I’ll go. I’ll make up a story about I how I used to bang the cousin of the host’s best friend’s sister. I basically interview people all day so I am constantly meeting new faces and talking. I’m good with people.

But the idea of going to a bar on New Year’s Eve where there would be nobody that I knew and walking around seemed odd. How do I explain that I just decided to go and spend $50 to hang out with nobody – no friends, etc. It’s sad, right? Also, imagine I came up to your table of single girls and introduced myself. How long before someone goes, “Where are you friends?” How do I respond? “Oh, I’m a loner. I roam at night in the shadows. No one can tie me down!” You’d think that was weird, yes? Yes. Yes you would.

Now, that’s the story I sold myself and, as a result, I didn’t go.

The TRUTH is that I could have attended and made it work. I would have gone, met people and simply said, “I didn’t have anything to do tonight – I know the owner and just thought I’d swing by. I’m D.J.” I’ve even extend my hand to shake, people! I’m good in public!

But I was afraid of doing it for some reason. I think it’s a control thing. I’d rather stay home where I can fully control my evening (albeit a lonely, sad evening) then go out and not have anyone to talk to. That was my big fear. Standing at the edge of the bar with nothing to do. But I could have always left had that happened.

I was beating myself up about this pretty good last night when I finally just said, “Well, I chickened out. It happens. I don’t need to shame myself. Maybe I’m just not at a place where I can do that on my own. Or maybe I needed someone to kick me in the butt. Either way I’m going to enjoy this time with myself. Next time I’m going to set up some event in advance so this doesn’t happen.”

Now, I’d love to say that I felt 100% better after that but I didn’t. But I felt 50% better. And that was a start.

I’m going to focus as much as I can on this self-judgment which never helps get me what I want. I hope all of you have a great start to 2013. Let’s all hit the gym tomorrow and stave off chocolates. Or, in my case lose 10 lbs before Saturday for the blog conference I’m attending in Las Vegas. I can do this. I know I can. Pray for me.

 
photo credit: George M. Groutas via photopin cc

A few things I noticed about being in Atlanta.

• Most men with intense southern accents I incorrectly assumed as gay.   Now, it is the case that Jessica lives in an area of Atlanta where gay men cluster.  Plus, many of her friends and neighbors were gay men.  So, I had to ask her several times when I met someone, “Is that guy gay?”  Not that I had an opinion about the person’s sexuality, but that I wanted to know how accurate my predictor is.  Turns out I was wrong nearly every time.  If you are gay and reading this, feel free to teach me the ways of gaydar.  Hands-on learning. if possible.  Zing!

• People from the south love long pauses between sentences.  Hey, no offense, but I have adult attention deficit disorder.  How about  speeding things up so that we can end a conversation within these next ten seconds?  The “three-Mississippi”  you place between every period and capital letter sends me into a mental frenzy.  We all have stuff to do.  Shift out of first.

• Everybody is insanely hospitable.  I’ve lived in my condo building in Chicago for seven and a half years.  Out of the 33 units, I know probably twelve owners.  And I was on the board for three years.  Everyone I know that lives here is really friendly and nice.  But the idea of stopping in the hall and talking for more than twenty seconds is crazy.  I’m trying to get to my door, pretend I’m going to cook something with vegetables, and throw a Tombstone in the over on broil.  In Jessica’s condo, we stopped no less than 10 times over four days with five minute minimum conversations.  Try having a conversation with a neighbor for over five minutes.  You’ll run out of things to talk about at the forty-second mark.  Apparently in her building, it’s considered rude to not do a long chat in the hallway.  Weirdos.

I don’t mean to pick on the south.  I had a fabulous time, and will write more later.  Jessica was lovely, and here is a photo of us spending New Year’s Eve at a nice restaurant called JCT.

I hope everyone is having a great New Year’s Day, and if you’re reading this on any other day than Jan 1, 2012, you’re obviously one of those psychos that loves going through a blogger’s old posts.  I love you for that.

Read Part I Here, Sucka!

Read Part II Here, Sucka!

A woman I had never spent even a second with in mutual physical presence.

Also a woman that would fly in Tuesday night, drive with me to Peoria on Wednesday, stay through until Sunday, and drive back to Chicago to leave on Monday.

That is a pretty significant first date commitment for a woman. I have a tremendous amount of respect for that sort of courage. Either she really liked me, or was batshit crazy.

I am excited and relieved to report that she is both courageous and sane. And 5’10”. Take that gross, short ladies! You gross!

Standing at the bottom of the escalator in the airport, I became nervous waiting for our first interaction.

What if the spark that definitely existed on the phone wasn’t there in person? I was worried that we would be spending five and a half awkward days and nights together. And sleeping in different beds. And I just washed the goddamn sheets! Well, the sheets in the master bedroom. The guests in the second bedroom will never know the difference.

As she descended the escalator and our eyes locked, my anxiety dissolved. She was every bit as beautiful as I had fantasized about during our phone conversations. Without the full body leather one-piece.

Then my anxiety came roaring back. What if I wasn’t attractive enough for her? Yes, readers, even super amazing looking people such as myself are worried about looks. I know, it’s silly. I’m chiseled in everything fantastic.

She greeted me with a solid full kiss. Which made it awkward as I had to navigate over to baggage claim with an erection. I’m a rightie by the way. No, wait, leftie. I just checked.

Once we got in the car we did what you all wish you could do on a first date. We assessed each other’s physical stature verbally.

“So, am I handsome in person?”

“Yes! Are you disappointed in me?”

“No, you’re beautiful. Great job!”

She uncomfortably mumbled, “Thanks… ” not quite sure how to take me congratulating her on her appearance.

We held hands the rest of the drive home. Two hands on the wheel is neither necessary nor romantic. Be a man.

I don’t want to get into sordid details except to say that we engaged in much of the Kama Sutra’s first sixteen positions that night including that one with the double headstands and patchouli oil.

Obviously I’m kidding and would never reveal any, if there had been any, physical interaction descriptives.

Truthfully, I just wanted to spend intimate, quality time with Jessica, to hopefully further our connection. You can’t really start a relationship with sex in my experience. Plus, the best sex often arises naturally from the progression of connection.

Women, of course, know this. I’m still learning.

We had a lovely first evening and awoke the next morning and both went to work for a few hours. Her firm has a satellite office in Chicago.

I picked up Manny’s to eat in the car. Manny’s Deli is my favorite lunch spot in the entire city. It’s a Jewish deli that specializes in corned beef and pastrami. And for some reason, chop suey. I guess Jews love that crap.

We ate on the road, and wolfed down the sandwich. She used a fork, which secretly impressed me. I picked up my half  of the pastrami and corned beef combo and ate it with one hand. Then, we shared matzo ball soup. In the car. Whilst driving.

Yes, I said “whilst” – it’s better than “while.” Don’t take this away from the British. They need it.

We arrived at my parents’ house three hours later. My sister and mom were out running errands, although I’m not exactly sure doing what as we ordered Thanksgiving dinner from the country club.

My father greeted Jessica with a solid hug. He loves hugging.

By the way, the best part about being an adult is kissing women on the cheek that would have rejected me in high school when I see them now. I never miss a cheek-kissing opportunity.

In the next several days, we visited four of my friends at their parents’ homes, went to a jam session in one of my buddies’ basements, attended a big party, celebrated my mother’s birthday, and played Rummikub, our family’s favorite game.

Jessica fit in perfectly with our family. My friends seemed to really like her, and my each of my family members gave her a rave review.

She also did that awesome “helping out” thing that you hope your girlfriend does when you bring her home. Nothing impresses a mother less than a chick who never offers to help with the cooking or dishes. I dated one of those once.

We drove back to Chicago on Sunday, had Chicago-style pizza for lunch, and relaxed.  For dinner, I met out two of her friends, and had a nice sushi and  barbecue  meal.  Don’t ask.  It was good.

Monday morning, when I drove her to the airport, we sat most of the way in silence.  This was a huge week, with lots of emotion, intimacy, insecurity, and romance.  It was like cramming a few months of dating into five days.  Hard to process.

I felt sad when I dropped her off.  Not  devastated, but very morose.  I already have my ticket for the upcoming New Year’s Eve, but this was still loss.  This new potential relationship was flying back to Atlanta.

Even though it sounds like this is going super fast, it really isn’t.  We’re both talking about our feelings and making sure we give each other the appropriate space.  I’ve pushed relationships in the past, and it never works.  You have to partner-up, and find someone who is on the same emotional page.  I believe we are. I’m excited for my future with Jessica. Our future.

However, if she dumps me, I’m totally going to start nailing my readers. Get your jerseys on, scrubs!

When I started getting some decent traffic to my site, I began to receive emails from readers. I noticed that nearly all of these emails were from women. I suspect that there are more women who read blogs than men. This may just be a result of many mothers who stay at home and raise their children. In fact, there is a whole “mommy blogger” category of blogs, and it is HUGE. Every year one of the biggest blogging conventions is called BlogHer which you have probably have figured out is for birds.

Now, of course, being a single man, I love the idea of women reading my posts. Even though most of the women who write to me seem to be happily married, it is nice to receive the attention.

But not all of them are married.

Some are downright single.

And hot.

My idea was, since I’ve saved up like 10 free flights over the years, to visit a few of these women in their hometown and go on a proper date. I would call it “Dates With Readers.”

Then I would write about the night, chronicling every part of the experience. The woman would also write about their experience with me, and whether they liked me, or if they had thought I was a total d-bag.

Would be hilarious.

And I had two lined up already. First is a fellow blogger, Karen, who, despite her gross old-lady name, is pretty and funny. Problem? She’s stationed overseas in the air guard in one of those middle eastern countries with the sand. Her blog is Chick in a Box, and I highly encourage you to read it. She’s great.

And she is totally in, but doesn’t come back to the U.S. until March. Plus, she might get blown to shit before that.

Next is Jaime who is a university professor in the southwest. Also pretty and very intelligent. Funny as well. I suspect she would make a great friend. She also thought it was a fabulous idea.

I felt like I needed one more woman to make this an actual blog “feature.”

So this random woman, out of nowhere, friends me on Facebook.

Full disclosure – She found me on Facebook by accident. She meant to “like” my ThoughtsFromParis page, and somehow ended up on my personal page. I’d love to say that she was a die-hard groupie who stalked me, but this is just not true. Sadly.

Her profile picture really grabbed my attention as her physical beauty really matched up with what I’m attracted to. Big, full shoulder blades, and a defined jaw. Just kidding. She was super hot in the traditional sense.

Second Full disclosure : The phrase “big full shoulder blades” is a reference lifted from a Bloom County cartoon where Steve Dallas, drunk on root beer, announces that he is attracted to women with “big, full shoulder blades.” God that was the greatest comic strip ever.

The bottom line was that I just had to talk with this woman. Except she had never sent me a message or attempted to contact me in any way. I didn’t even know she had read my site. I thought she might just be a friend of a friend. So I reached out.

When I learned she had read a few of my stories, I used that as a leverage point to wedge my way into her life. I just had to, you understand. She was that beautiful.

Her name is Jessica and she lives in Atlanta.

We exchanged phone numbers and I pitched the idea of flying down there and going on a date. She loved it and we tentatively planned on me coming down there for New Year’s Eve. Since we didn’t yet really know each other, this made sense, as we could spend the next few months chatting and connecting.

Also, if she turned out to be a psycho I could always bail mid-December.

The more I talked with her, the more I really started to like her. As much as you can within a few phone calls for somebody that you’ve never met in person.

And then I realized I didn’t actually want to go out with the other women. I mean, they are fantastic, and super fun and great supporters. But we were just going to go out as a joke.

Jessica and I were really connecting. I dropped the idea of going out with the other women, and decided that this was not, in fact, a joke. This was real.

I called my father to tell him of this woman I had met online. And he said something that was so outrageous and unexpected, I was speechless for a few seconds (the longest ever in my life).

You’ll have to wait until tomorrow for the rest of this story. What a dick move!

Until then, here’s a picture of a stoned dog’s birthday party.