And You Call Yourself A Writer
Mock turtlenecks and cardigans, corduroy suits and long coats, detailed dress shirts, neck scarfs, and patterned pocket squares. Freshly polished Oxfords, ties tucked neatly in waistcoats, high heels and blond hair, fedoras, and red wine. The ballroom is a show-off, with decorated cornices and crown moldings, eaves on the outside, and ornamental chandeliers shining off decorative trim on the in. The floor is grown-up hopscotch, each square in a color that compliments the other. A grand plan of coordination and attention to detail as the eight feet high doors hide the cafe behind them and conceal more preferable conditions.
I almost skipped the whole thing entirely. A shot of espresso and a Bríó at the counter. A room, a ballroom, a grand ballroom full of writers? No, thanks! I can't imagine anything more pretentious and may be the most unbearable grouping of man. The opening ceremony, partly in Icelandic with English subtitles projected on a screen behind the speaker. Hannah Kent rejoices, expressing her love for the Island. I agree with the words, but to me, the emotions feel feigned; then again, who the hell am I to judge? Steeped in intimidation, I squirm, and the room heats up by at least 12 degrees Celsius. I see Helgason enter, I'd like to approach him as I added 101 Reykjavik to my library yesterday, and I felt that familiar yet rare feeling of inspiration. I have a pen and the book in my bag. Do I dare approach? I'm sure he gets it all the time, especially around here. Based on my progress in the book, I'm surprised he's shown his face amidst the attending authors who primarily muse on no-no words and subjects more sensitive. I think, "It was a different time" This excuse works successfully for Icelanders as he's a hit in the grand ballroom. There I go, judging again to protect whatever inadequacy I feel in the presence of those more accomplished. After all, I wasn't invited! I attend out of interest and the hope someone notices me like a rich man notices a model in one of the many nightclubs peppered throughout the city. The opening ceremony concludes, and I smoke two cigarettes by the pond with one eye on the ducks and the other on the door waiting for him to exit for fresh air or a cigarette if he hasn't quit. Intimidated by the geese on the shore a few feet from the doors of I∂nó, I think it's probably more because I feel exposed and vulnerable. Everyone in the ballroom and outside of it has someone. While my single-engine Cessna flies fine through choppy weather, on this day in Reykjavik, at the literary festival opening ceremony, I feel my propellors stalled out and frozen.
At the bar, the bartendress looks at me wide-eyed, eager to take an order. I hesitantly request another out of habit and compulsion. The bartendress is young and pretty, a face I could confide in concerning my nerves and desperate plea to remove myself from this disaster. Two beers won't cut it, and I consider the night a bust. While you could argue I need more of it to achieve the benefit, I feel the urge to back away from the bar and stray from the ballroom where real writers converse and hurl stories at each other like teens throwing tomatoes in a food fight. I step out again, watch the ducks and the door in a split screen, and pray for courage to re-enter. I must admit, I parted shortly thereafter and contumaciously hit the bricks. Not all hope is lost, the festival spans several days, and I'll eventually have my chance. I suppose this day is a mulligan of sorts, a day to reflect on my relative unease, my relative fear of those I ponder are my peers, but even that contention may be a stretch.
The Galerie des Glaces Hall of Mirrors by Jules Hardouin Mansart (1646-1708)
