The Denmark Issue

I've been meaning to write this piece for a very long time and every time I start the mental planning I sigh deeply inside.

Why?

Because it's controversial? No. Because there's so much data? No. Because I've been here long enough to see the patterns repeating themselves? No, it's because I've come to realise that this issue is simply intractable. Like the Arab-Israeli issue, or Northern Ireland, or so many issues, this is one that I simply have to accept will not be resolved in my lifetime.

I had a very interesting long conversation with a close expat friend Bob the other day, who has been here slightly longer than me and has an unnervingly similar back-story, involving Icelandic females, alcohol and doses of pheromones large enough to fell oxen.

Bob remarked: "I sound like a bloody stuck record when it comes to The Denmark Issue". I agreed and admitted that I'd been through the same diatribe so many times that it was even more tiresome than explaining which part of the UK I'm from and no, it was my choice to come here, and no, Icelandic isn't difficult, and no, 'home' for me does not mean somewhere in the UK.

Bob told me that the other day in his office he got so fed up with the levels of Stockholm Syndrome on display that he played the game of dropping his British diplomacy and just blurting out the most provocative statements he could (in his near-perfect Icelandic, of course) to see what sort of reaction he could elicit from the entourage of Siggis and Siggas.

"The thing is this", he started, breathing in deeply and preparing for battle. "Iceland isn't actually an independent country at all. You're a bunch of effing hypocrites".

A suited Siggi blurted out "Waddayamean?!" through his mouthful of kleinur, not-so-gently spraying a fine mist of crumbs and barely intelligible.

Bob braced himself, mentally slapped Siggi with his leather riding glove, theatrically threw the glove to the earth in front of the etiquette-challenged office worker, and said "As long as Iceland keeps teaching Danish in schools, they're not an independent nation."

Siggi grunted, swallowed so prematurely that he had to do the uncomfortable-looking straining-neck-forward manouevre, and said "Waddayamean?", no more intelligibly than last time.

"Right, last time you went overseas, where did you go?", asked Bob, bracing for the answer like a woman about to have a strip of legwax removed.

"Copenhagen, why?", replied Siggi, indignantly.

"...and when you were there, which language did you speak with the locals?", asked Bob.

"Eerrrrr... English, why?" replied Siggi.

Bob turned to the next colleague in the slowly-growing circle of participants. "You?"

"English", replied the next victim, wincing.

Bob pointed his way through the group: "English", "English", "English", "Danish..."

"Ha!" said Siggi.

"...but they just reply in English". Siggi let out a barely audible squeak.

"Right," said Bob. "Why on earth do they teach Danish in schools?"

"It's a Nordic language" replied Siggi, displaying uncharacteristic perception, "it helps us talk to all the other Nordic countries."

"So, you speak Swedish then?" Bob asked, optimistically.

"Er, no..."

"Norwegian?"

Siggi coughed violently and sprayed a small cloud of coffee.

"Faroese?" Shaking head.

Bob eased forward for the well-rehearsed next steps in this anti-parochial pas-de-deux: "Now tell me, all these languages, they come from.....?"

"Ahem, German?" offered a helpful voice from a sideline.

"...and of all the Nordic languages, the one which has the greatest distance from written to spoken forms is..."

"Pfff! Bloody Danish!" chuckled a believer from somewhere nearby.

"So why on earth teach Danish in Iceland? It's about as much use as an ashtray on a motorbike!" asked Bob.

An uncomfortable silence descended on the group.

A few feet shuffled uneasily.

Someone coughed nervously and said meekly: "Aaah, because they're our, ah, cousins?"

"Gaaah!" Screamed Bob, at a pitch high enough that nearby dogs winced. At that point he realised he was both on to a loser and late for his meeting and made his excuses and left.

Bob explained to me that in the longer versions of this conversations he asks Icelanders to list the nationalities that most frequently visit Iceland. High on the list are Americans, Brits, Germans, Chinese and Japanese. That gives us then, in our arsenal of required languages: English, German, Japanese (or get by on English), and Chinese (or get by on English). Combine that with the fact that the international language of business is English, and the argument for Danish becomes somewhat less compelling.

...or does it?

The other day I was chatting to an Icelandic acquaintance of mine and he was complaining that the supplier he was using for importing protective footwear was being slow to respond to emails. "Oh, so where's the supplier?" I asked, already knowing the answer. "Denmark" came the answer, with an expression that implied I should have been able to guess that.

Denmark had a formal trade monopoly over Iceland for over two hundred years, but it still has a spiritual monopoly. Icelanders will almost always, when looking to import something, simply turn straight to Denmark, irrespective of whether the Danes are actually a good source of whatever they want. Some examples:

A large Icelandic bank hired an online banking security expert to oversee a security project. Source? Denmark.

A business conference needs a keynote speaker. Odds are the speaker will be Danish.

A dog show needed a judge for the finals. The judge? Flown in from Denmark.

The radiators in my house all have thermostats on them. Danish.

Yes, of course Iceland and Denmark have a long and noble history, but the point is that the Icelanders are blind. They think anything Danish is cool. They think the pinnacle of shopping is H&M.

They actually think it's cool to speak Danish. I read an article in Fréttablaðið just this week, talking in praise of 'schoolbook Danish' and how useful it is as a gateway language.

If only this sentiment were reciprocated by the Danes. They simply don't see it the same way. I know this because I've discussed it with Icelanders that have lived in Denmark for a long time and with Danes, and the truth is that the Danes really don't differentiate very much between Greenland and Iceland, and they treat Iceland with thinly-veiled contempt. A year or so ago, I was in a coffee shop in Reykjavík and the woman in the queue in front of me started placing her order in rapid-fire Danish. The young server, obviously Icelandic, replied in crisp English: "I'm sorry ma'am, I don't speak Danish". The Danish tourist repeated her order, in Danish, but much louder and slower. I am not making this up. There in one instant was the evidence of the Danish attitude towards Iceland.

If you want a fun diversion, go downtown in Reykjavík, and near the splendid 871+-2 exhibition you'll find the Salvation Army headquarters. On the corner of the building is painted the name of the organisation in three languages:

...and there you have it. A clear statement of the spiritual allegiance of the Icelanders:

Icelandic first, Danish second, English last.

Never has a national attitude been more succinctly presented.

Bar Etiquette and Beer Ignorance

Dramatis Personæ

SIGGI: Generic twenty-something Icelandic male. SIGGI has never lived outside Iceland.
ASSISTANT: Nondescript shop assistant. ASSISTANT has never worked in a store in a real country.
AMERICAN TOURIST: Generic American citizen, visiting Iceland.

SCENE: City-centre music store. Walls lined with CDs and DVDs

Act One:

SIGGI enters stage right.
SIGGI: "Hey you! Give me a CD!"

ASSISTANT reaches behind the counter, scans a CD, presents it to SIGGI.

ASSISTANT: "Two thousand Krónur"

SIGGI hands over his credit card, whilst looking over his shoulder at a tall blonde that has just walked in. He makes no eye contact with ASSISTANT.

SIGGI pockets the CD and walks off, wordlessly, in the rough direction of the blonde.

AMERICAN TOURIST approaches the counter.

AMERICAN TOURIST: "Hi, I'm looking for the latest B-york album, do you have it?"

Fade to grey...

Sounds strange? Of course it does. It's the sort of behaviour you wouldn't expect from anyone in a music store. Except maybe the eyeing-up-the-blonde part. You'd expect people to know what they want, at least within broad genres, people to ask for what they want, perhaps even to ask for some guidance or to draw upon the experience of the serving staff.

So why is it that this is the norm for bar life in Iceland? Why does Siggi seem to assume that all beer is equal and that he has no choice? Because, to be frank, the beer-drinking habits of the Icelanders have yet to catch up with the reality of what's on offer. People simply haven't learnt yet that they have a choice, that not all beer looks like a carbonated urine sample and tastes just as bad. They have yet to experience the joys of beer that is opaque or beer that actually has more character than elevator muzak.

So here's the answer:

- Pretend you're in a record shop when you're in a bar. Pretend you need to impress a bunch of cute blondes with your sophisticated taste and worldly experience (that means outside Kopavogur). Check what's on offer, look behind the bar, ask the bar staff: what beers do you have?

- Develop your taste. Now I'm afraid there's only one way to do this. Go to all the decent bars in downtown RVK and try at least one small glass of all their beers. Get a taste for dark versus light, sweet versus bitter, wheaty beers and even beers aimed at women's palates. Life's a bitch when you need to have a pub crawl in the name of cultural education.

- Engage the bar staff in eye contact. Ask to try some of the beers, if the music isn't so loud that you're in post-midnight sign language mode. Most decent pubs in the UK will happily offer a wee taste of their beers if you ask. Imagine the novelty of drinking a beer of which you like the taste, rather than gambling on whether you'll be able to stomach enough glasses of tepid chlamydia-test sample to be drunk enough to make a credible pass on the blonde you just eyed.

Whether or not we like it as expats, and whether or not the Icelanders care to admit it, the influence of the Danish is massive here. It pervades everything, from the language we use, to the pylsu we eat, to the thermostats on our domestic radiators. So why not take it one step further? The Danes may well come from a two-dimensional country reeking of pig fat and speak like they are about to vomit, but they certainly respect their beers. They know a good brew and they're not afraid to ask for it, so Icelanders: copy your Danish cousins (yet) again and learn their beer habits.

I could go on for eloquent persuasive paragraph after paragraph, gently extolling the virtues of taste, discernment and high culture, but let's face it, there's one compelling reason to know your beers: it might just get you laid. For two reasons: firstly, being seen to be a step above the rock apes that drink simply to get pissed enough to make passes is great news, and secondly, knowing that there are beers that appeal to women may well just give you the competitive edge that you need to avoid the interminable wait 'til quarter-to-three.

Try Corona, or Freyja. They're great.

Cheers!

Symptoms of Icelandic Sociopathy: #21 of many.

Today I was out shopping, in a store with pretty conventional supermarket-style checkouts.

This of course meant that the normal challenge of shopping with a trolley needed to be managed. Most people seem to do ok, simply pulling the trolley behind them as they unload, then once fully emptied, moving it to the output end of the checkout. They then wheel it out to their vehicle (word carefully chosen so as to not alienate the 4x4 drivers) and leave the trolley either at some jaunty position in the parking lot, or if they display levels of social awareness that bely either the fact that they are foreign or that they have lived for a while in a more populated place, they wheel it to one of the collection points.

The shopper in front of me in the queue -let's call her Sigga- had no such ideas. She dragged the trolley behind her, but her purchases easily fitted into one bag, so she didn't need to wheel the trolley onwards: she just lifted the bag and started to stroll off. And left the trolley directly in my way. See picture.

So what this meant is that if I had done nothing other than walked straight ahead, I would have walked straight into her discarded trolley.

What shocked me most about this is the total disregard for other people. Once again, my fellow skerry-dwellers are showing a sociopathic level of igorance of those around them. It clearly never even occurred to her that the trolley was in my way. What did she think was going to happen to it? Would it suddenly dematerialise the moment she took her hand off it? Clearly not, since she gave it no thought at all.

This leaves me wondering what would have been a good way to react. In hindsight, it would have been fun to just walk ahead and bump the trolley into her back, forcing a reaction. Though arguably a more grown-up approach would have been to just say "Excuse me, are you planning on leaving that there? It's right in my way!"

What should I have done?

The Icelandic Burqa

Take a look next time you're in the company of more than three Icelandic women and you'll notice that the dominant colour is black. Even in summer.

The 'high-street' fashion landscape here is sometimes so homogenous that women dress virtually indentically.

I've been witness to conversations where groups of women talk about Islamic countries, remark at how oppressive the burqa is, saying how they lucky they are to have been born here, whilst all wearing mainly black.

The irony of this is not lost on me.

Tip of the Day: Creating The Right Impression

If you're Icelandic and you want to create a good impression with English-speaking foreigners, having a ringtone that sings "...'cos I'm a muthafuckin' P.I.M.P." does not make you look professional, or even cool.

The UK For Newbies

The most effective way to insult anyone from the UK or Ireland is to accuse them of being from the wrong country. Here's a simple map to help:

Great Britain is the bit on the right: that's England, Scotland and Wales put together.

U.K. is actually an abbreviation of The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. So that's Great Britain plus Northern Ireland.

Ireland is a completely seperate sovereign country. They have their own parliament and nothing to do with the British Monarchy. They have the Euro, whilst Great Britain has the Pound Sterling.

Northern Ireland is the top-right corner of the island of Ireland that comes under the remit of the UK. I'm not going to go into the history of this.

The Scottish people are rightly proud to be not English and get understandably very upset when people ignorantly refer to them as being English.

The Welsh people are rightly proud to be not English and get understandably very upset when people ignorantly refer to them as being English.

The English people get a bit upset when people ignorantly refer to them as being Scottish or Welsh.

So:

Scottish people, Welsh people, English people and Northern Irelanders are all from the UK.

England is not the UK.
The UK is not England.

All four places speak English, but the accents vary a lot by region. They can be very hard for visitors to understand. A friend of mine who grew up in southern England moved to Scotland and it took him two months to fully understand the local accent. Search for any interview with Sir Alex Ferguson on YouTube if you want an example.

In some parts of Wales, Welsh is the first language. In some parts of Scotland, Gælic is still used.

Icelanders: if you want to understand the effect of getting this wrong, try to imagine how you would feel if someone said "Ah yes, Iceland. That's part of Norway, right?"

Overseas Travel

Overheard recently:

Icelander #1: I've not seen you for a while, where have you been?
Icelander #2: I was abroad for a few days.
Icelander #1: Ah, of course. Is Tivoli open this time of year?

Icelanders Are Sociopathic

I was picking up a friend from Keflavík airport recently and had a classic demonstration of Icelandic behaviour.

The arrivals space in the lovely 'Kef' is now fairly typical of the genre, if somewhat smaller: there's a large sliding door where the arriving passengers emerge, a ribbon-barriered broad walkway down which they walk while they squint and scan the crowd for their loved ones, and an open space in front of that where said loved ones wait. This open space would probably hold around five hundred people rock-concert style, or comfortably around fifty Japanese or English people if their personal space rules were to be not infringed.

I got there very early and stood somewhere just forward of off-centre in the open space. There were five or ten other people there: most of them lingering towards the front, a few at the front corners and the remainder randomly scattered.

Here's a crappy picture that neatly illustrates the point:

So there I stood, patiently waiting and doing what any good nerd does these days: checking my Twitter feeds and reading The Grauniad on my smartphone. All in the world was good. My plan to get there early and chill out was working just fine.

People started to fill the space, until most of the space was taken up and there were obvious walkways in between the human obstructions. Here's a picture no less crappy than the previous one that shows this:

The inevitable then happened: people starting using the walkway directly in front of me and I was being treated as the human equivalent of a wall: something to graze or bump off. I was standing as you'd expect someone to stand using a smartphone: holding the phone around sternum level with one hand, whilst gently caressing it -er, sorry: scrolling- with the other hand. This meant that the phone was sticking out maybe ten centimetres from my body.

This was clearly too much for Siggi and his pals to handle. As they were walking past me, my finely-tuned proximity alarms were going off like mad and warning me of impending collisions, of people walking straight at me and that if I didn't get out of the way a collision would happen. A couple of years' living in London taught me the gentle give-and-take dance that the people in cities in real countries develop, that Brownian motion of being in close proximity whilst not invading other people's space. The people coming past me were walking straight through the space occupied by my phone. They were clipping it with their arms and nearly knocking it out of my hand. I found I had to hold tightly on to it for fear that I would actually lose grip.

I decided to carry out a small experiment and see what would happen if I fought the Brownian motion instinct and just stood my ground. The bumping got worse.

Then, a glorious thing happened. The actions of one man demonstrated so clearly the collective instinct of the Icelanders when it comes to thoughtfulness, consideration for other people and social awareness.

A man wearing worn-out sports clothing, scruffy black sneakers, a cheap gold necklace and unwashed hair stood directly in front of me, with his woman at his side. See picture.

The distance from the front edge of my phone to the centre of his back was round ten centimetres. Unlike many of my anecdotes, this is absolutely true.

So not only was Captain Cretin completely blocking my view, he was also seriously invading my personal space. He'd obviously planted himself there because he wanted a clear view of the arriving travellers and it didn't even occur to him to that he might have been blocking someone's view.

The proximity alarms in my head were now screaming: 'Ah-ROO-GAA!... Ah-ROOOOO-GAA!!!'.

But, no. I stubbornly stayed where I was and made the sacrifice of my comfort for the sake of social science. I decided it would be interesting to see what Captain Cretin would do next.

He surpassed himself. He was so keen to get a good look at the arriving people that he was bobbing and weaving a lot to get a better view. A quick glance confirmed why he needed to do this: yet another peasant farmer had planted himself right in front and blocked his view.

In the course of his bobbing he actually backed into me. Several times.

In a country where social history is measured in units larger than nanoseconds this would have been the offense that prompted gushing apologies and made him realise that he was standing way too close to me. But, no. Our superhero did nothing whatsoever. It clearly didn't even register with him and that's the interesting point: he saw nothing wrong whatsoever with what he was doing. To him it was perfectly normal behaviour. He wasn't trying to to be rude, boorish or ignorant; he was just standing waiting for someone. If he'd wanted to be rude, he would have done something rude by his standards, like the fart-cup-sniff-assess trick, or spitting on the floor. Or far, far worse: pulled out a handkerchief, loudly blown his nose, examined the product and put the handkerchief back in his pocket.

A quick skim of the interwebs turned up this interesting information about sociopathy. It tells us that what used to be called Sociopathy is defined as:

 "...a pervasive pattern of disregard for, and violation of, the rights of others that begins in childhood or early adolescence and continues into adulthood."

...which means that according to this definition, Icelanders are Sociopathic.

Footnote:

How can I be so generalised? Well, I've lived here long enough to know that this is typical behaviour, not just for white trash and didn't-learn-it-in-school seventy year old taxi drivers, but typical behaviour even for apparently civilised people in business suits.

This may actually be a more accurate definition, giving us the following:

"Anti-social behaviour is behaviour that lacks consideration for others and that may cause damage to society, whether intentionally or through negligence, as opposed to pro-social behaviour, behaviour that helps or benefits society."

...but the effect is the same, methinks.

There Are No Trains In Iceland

There are no trains in Iceland. This is not because the population and the economy are too small to justify it. It's because the whole idea of punctuality doesn't exist in Iceland.

Icelanders are at least seventeen minutes late to everything. I've been here eight years and the only thing I've ever seen them arrive punctually to is funerals. No: hang on, the last one I went to saw some stragglers drift in a few minutes late. No, I think I can safely say that Icelanders are late for everything.

A train system where passengers expect to be able to lean out of the window and call to the driver: "Hey, hang on a minute, Siggi will be here in five minutes, he just SMSd me!" just wouldn't work.

Dating Icelandic Women

Many's a true word spoken in jest:

Christmas Brew, or 'Jólabjór'

This year I feel like I've been hearing more than the usual clamour about the Tuborg Christmas Brew.

It seems that my fellow rock-dwellers are in love with this Danish beer, and I find it regrettable. Why are they so enamoured by a mediocre beer from Denmark, when their own Christmas brews are so very, very good?

Could it be that it's one time of the year when any discernable difference can be noticed from the bland, urine-coloured concoction that is usually on offer? Is it yet more evidence of the special relationship?

Here's some interesting data, from this page.

What it shows is that Tuborg sold nearly twice as much as the best-selling local brew. Let's try to turn that around a bit, shall we? I've been celebrating the rise of the Icelandic beers, so here are some ideas:

Named after one of the 'Yule-Lads', this one's very appealing.

I visited the friendly chaps at Bruggsmiðjan recently and their Jólakaldi is great.

Egils Jólagull is a great-tasting brew, albeit from a big producer.

Egils Malt Jólabjór is a nice, chewy brew from the same people.

Einstök Doppel Bock Jólabjór looks like a bundle of laughs...

I've not sampled Gæðingur Jólabjór yet, so the brewers are more than welcome to send me a couple of bottles to review. I promise to be honest.

Please go out and try them, of only for the sake of the age-old wisdom that the best beer is the one that's travelled least.

I really do hope that the Icelandic beers gain a bigger foothold and that people see how amazing they are.

Manners Maketh The Man

...or not, as the case may be.

This is a meme that's been churning over in my mind for at least eight years now and it's been growing as more and more evidence gets piled on. It's actually one of the reasons I created this blog, to get this garbage off my chest and to stop wasting spare mental CPU cycles on it.

I had sort of decided to take a responsible aproach to this, to do some fairly thorough research and make sure I have a balanced view of the issue, to make sure that when I spout fairly strong opinions I'm able to back them up and to defend myself. But then I though "Ah, bollocks. Just do it." Let someone correct me if I'm wrong (http://xkcd.com/386).

The thing is this. Icelanders like to think they're all sophisticated and worldly-wise and up with the Jónssons, and able to proudly rub shoulders with their Nordic and even Scandinavian counterparts, and have even had some fairly respectable HDI ratings (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hdi) to back it up recently.

But it's all bollocks! They're behaving like a bunch of social savages. The most generous I can be would be to describe them as a group of teenagers left home alone for a weekend. If countries were to be judged by their standards of etiquette and manners -and let's face it, they do sometimes get judged simply that way; isn't it called diplomacy?- Iceland would fail miserably.

I now I'm making some bold statements and quite frankly I find it rather difficult to give a toss who I upset: the truth needs to out. The people of this little skerry which I hold so dear are woefully behind in terms of social evolution and are making bloody fools of themselves because of it. I've been here long enough to work out what's going on and to see what most people are like, and here I present a brief list of common problems. Most of them stem from differences between social norms in Iceland and the way in which I was raised -a fairly middle-of-the-road Anglo-Saxon way- and of course we can debate at length the extent to which these conventions apply or not in Iceland.

In fact I'll go so far as to warn you, Icelanders: in this case you can't escape the truth or you social responsibility by crowing out the tired old mantra of "oh, but it's different here! We do things differently here because we're all so special and live in a special place and we're not like anyone else!". Bollocks. Utter horse manure. When it comes to how you interact with each other in your tiny little farm in the Westfjords you can do what you want, but in the modern paradigm Iceland is no longer so isolated that you can pretend that you have no contact with the outside world. You travel. People visit here, a lot, and pay damn good money for which they expect a certain internationally accepted standard of etiquette and manners. So invoking the "we're special because we sing like whales, eat stinky food and believe in elves" cry again is not going to cut it here.

There many aspects of the Icelanders' behaviour that merit comment, but for now I'm going to focus on matters of manners and etiquette; other quirks are big enough to merit their own blogs, not least becase a few of them tie neatly together into explanations of aspects of the national conscience.

What I present here is a straightforward guide for Icelanders to finally be as as cultured as they like to pretend they are whilst having a meal.

Mark my words carefully here: I write "having a meal" because to use the word "dining" would not be accurate. My fellow skerry-dwellers eat far too fast. A typical rythmn goes: cut, stab with fork, deliver to mouth, then whilst chewing, start cutting the next morsel. Not only is this downright rude, it's also antisocial and unhealthy. Where's the conversation? Where's the efficiant mastication? Isn't it the case that over half of the process of digestion should take place in the mouth?

I've been trying to get to the bottom of this and I've found out two or three reasons why people eat like hungry dogs here: i) They actively get taught to do so in infant and primary school. They get taught not to 'hang over' their food, and to hurry outside to play, ii) In a society in which everyone's a farmer (which Iceland was, just a few generations ago) and the growing season is very short, followed by fierce winters, there is no space for relaxed social dining during which the issues of the moment are ruminated as well as the food, and iii) whereas real countries like France or Germany or the UK or the USA have had anything from a few hundred to a few thousand years to develop social norms and etiquette, Iceland has had the social equivalent of about ten minutes. Social evolution here has simply been way too pragmatic to allow for such luxuries as civilised dining to develop.

The message in this case is very simple: cut your bite, put it in your mouth, then put your cutlery down. Chew slowly and carefully before swallowing, then when and only when your mouth is empty, may you speak.

Which takes us neatly on to the next faux pas that I see every day here. Literally every day. For some reason my beloved countrymen haven't learned that it's rude to talk with your mouth full of food. Eating lunch in the kitchen in my small company is a daily horror not only because of the turgidly boring food choice on offer, but mainly because of the animalistic display of behaviour. One particular employee, a middle-aged kerling with a face so sour that she looks like she is smelling someone else's fart, is a chief offender. Her normal talking voice is a high-piched Gatling variant of Icelandic but she continues with a mouth full of food and the effect is dreadful: she looks downright ignorant. I shudder to think how fellow diners at, for example, even a mid-range restaurant in Lyon, Geneva or Tokyo would react. What makes it worse is that she is far from the only offender; half the employees and even the CEO behave exactly the same way.

For heaven's sake, people, don't talk with your mouth full of food. It's disgusting and you look like white trash.

Fairly soon after I moved here I was 'dining' with family. As I raised my forkful of food to my mouth, the diner to my immediate right reached forward and left, leaning her body heavily against mine, and stretched across my personal space to where the water jug stood in the centre of the table. The food fell off my fork. I remember being shocked by this and wondering what sort of person this was, then as the weeks and years rolled by I saw that this was common behaviour here.

There really is no conception of personal space during dining, and hence no respect for it. The way in which I was raised -which I by no means hold up as a global standard, just normal- taught me that people do not touch each other during dinner. Everyone has their own personal space, elbows do not touch, knees do not touch under the table and one never, ever reaches across another person at the table: one asks to be passed whatever is needed.

The absence of this meme is again fairly obvious when one looks back into Icelandic history. Visit the wonderful Skogar Folk Museum and take a walk around their old buildings, go inside the beautifully built longhouse in þjórsádalur and you'll quickly understand that there simply was no space in these dwellings, so it's no surprise that the idea never sprung up.

But come on, people. You don't live in turf houses any more. You live in generic, generously-proportioned, Ikea-furnished, geothermally-heated houses and apartments now and the architects always plan nicely for a real dining table with place for everyone. I know; I've seen the plans. Learn the simple rules and stop behaving like apes while you eat.
There are quite a few more of these finer points of dining, but they seem so trivial, perhaps they really are just vestigial graces inherited from some Victorian or renaissance times, that trying to correct them seems folly.

I'll instead simply list them and their corrected versions:

When you've finished eating, the only time your cutlery should show on the clockface of your plate is six o' clock. Knife and fork together, straight up and down the middle of the plate. Leaving them at some jaunty twenty-past eight nonsense just exposes your sloth and lack of social graces.

Wiping your mouth on anything other than your napkin or serviette is horrible. Using a napkin ain't rocket science: when you sit down, unfold it into your lap. Use it, replace it in your lap. When you're finished, fold it neatly, preferrably with the now-stained section inside, and leav it next to your plate.

By all means gulp your drink; try to get as much into your body as you can between bites... ...if you want to look like an alcoholic, or someone who derives their pleasure mainly from visceral, central-nervous sources like feeling your stomach stretching. Sip.

If you want something to be passed to you, ask for it by name. There is -as far as I'm aware- no shortage of air or words in The Land, so you're free to be as verbose as you want when asking for something. Don't just point and grunt; you look stupid when you do that.

The absence of the custom of waiting for one's fellow diners to be served before starting owes as much to the almost complete lacky of social empathy here as it does to anything else. Suffice it to say that it's extremely rare to see people acknowledge this custom and most people don't even seem to notice how fragmented it makes the whole dining  experience.

Icelanders, I have noticed in the last n years, have almost no sense of how their actions affect those around them They have an almost sociopathic disregard for other people, and this failure to wait for other diners is a classic example. This delightfully chewy and richly flavoured topic may or may not be the subject of a future blog.

Enough for now; my Rant Mode alarm is sounding and I really must save some content for future blogs.