Being a grown-up

WHEN I was younger I thought one day I would wake up and realise that I had grown up and would cease being the silly kid I was. No more fooling around, no more games, I would just be a dignified serious adult. I thought I'd reach that stage in my life at about 16.

Well, 16 came and went, so did 20 and also 25. I must have become a little more mature as the years passed, but I still feel like silly old me, like the carefree kid I was. Still fooling around and not taking life too seriously. But now I've begun to feel the weight of the adult world on my shoulders.

While being a student, I felt like I was on the borders between childhood and adulthood. I was doing grown-up things, like studying to become a journalist, living abroad, frequently travelling on my own, guiding friends and families through London and helping my grandparent with cooking and grocery shopping. But I was still a student. I hadn't settled down.

In October I started my first serious job. Becoming a web editor for icelandreview was like a dream come true; I was doing what I loved and I got paid to do it, and considerably more than in any other job I've ever had. But that meant settling down and starting a new life in Reykjavík. I love my new life, don't get me wrong, but it brought me a step closer to adulthood.

Recently my boyfriend and I decided to buy a flat. That is a really grown-up thing to do and felt a bit anxious about taking that step. We hadn't planned on investing in real estate so soon, but the rent market in Reykjavík is impossible, so we went for it.

We bought a wonderful three-bedroom flat in a nice neighbourhood in central Reykjavík with a large living room and a lovely garden. We're moving in in August and I can't wait, but at the same time I feel the responsibility that comes with the mortgage we took pushing me even further into serious adulthood.

"Three bedrooms, eh," people say when congratulating us on the new flat. "Do I hear tapping of small feet?" Please don't. Let's take this growing-up thing one step at a time. I'm not ready for changing diapers, breast feeding and being chained to a screaming infant just yet...

But, I guess, when the time comes, I can still be silly old me. Someone said "You are as old as you feel" and I think that's true. I look at my grandparents at over 80 riding sleighs and jumping out of swings and I realise that although they've taken on all the responsibilities that came with adulthood, they haven't forgotten about being kids.

I want to be that kind of a grown-up.

Visiting the elf country

I just came back from a weekend trip to Snæfellsnes peninsula, which many say is one of the most magical places in Iceland.

For those of you picturing a map of Iceland, Snæfellsnes is the hand of the island.

On the tip of the hand is a little glacier, Snæfellsjökull, which was an inspiration to Jules Verne when he wrote Journey to the Center of the Earth and is believed to be a frequent landing point for aliens.

A modern Icelandic witch, Sigríður Klingenberg, says she got her magical powers by growing up underneath that mythical glacier.

There is a luxurious hotel placed by the roots of Snæfellsjökull, called Hótel Búðir. The hotel is a beautiful old fashioned building in the middle of a lava field.

The building looks like a likely murder scene from an Agatha Christie novel and groups that visit are often invited to star in their own private murder mystery.

I stayed at the hotel with my colleagues. The publishing company I work for invited its employees and their better halves to a gala dinner at Hótel Búðir and to stay there for one night. Pretty cool.

This is actually an annual event at my company, to go somewhere fancy and celebrate. Last year the employees were invited to Copenhagen.

This weekend Snæfellsjökull could not be seen. It was raining and snowing, so the mountains and the mythical glacier were hidden behind low hanging clouds.

Last night the lunar eclipse was visible from Iceland, but because of the clouds we couldn't see anything.

But there was still a lot to see on the two and a half hour drive to Hótel Búðir from Reykjavík.

Most of the snow had receded, revealing old yellow grass, mixed up with green moss and black lava stones. The rivers we passed were frozen and ice bergs from the rivers covered the river banks.

Hótel Búðir seemed like it was in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the elf country, with plenty of hills and rocks the hidden people could have lived in.

Close to the hotel was a tiny little country church made of black painted wood with a little graveyard for the people who live in the farms in the area.

Most beaches in Iceland are black but on this part of Snæfellsnes they have a light reddish colour.

When breathing the fresh air, watching the waves, I really felt like riding a horse along the beach.

Maybe next time.

Taking a pink bath on a Sunday morning

So, it's Sunday again. Time does fly. It feels as if my working day begins on a Monday morning and ends on a Friday afternoon. The evening is the weekend and the next morning it's time for work again.

I guess time only flies when life is good and life has certainly been good to me. I really enjoy my work and I'm happy living in Reykjavík with my beloved Binni. He is happy with his job too, so really, the situation couldn't be more perfect.

Today is Woman's Day/Wife's Day in Iceland and I intend to make to most of it, beginning with a relaxing pink bath. My brother gave us so-called bath bombs for Christmas. They are huge balls of soup which you toss into the bathtub and watch them dissolve, colour the water pink or yellow and fill the bathroom with a wonderful scent. Mmmm... what a lovely way to begin a Sunday.

And now we're going out for a late lunch. We live only ten minutes away from downtown Reykjavík by foot. Laugavegur, the main shopping street, is lined with cozy little cafés, which are expensive, but serve excellent lunches. My mouth is watering already...

Lots of love to all of you, I promise I will blog more frequently in the future.

With pink greetings from Reykjavík, Eygló.

Walking for the homeless

THE STREETS of London are bustling, lined with shops and restaurants, some sling past historic monuments, others lead to futuresque buildings. The streets are full of all sorts of people, tourists with cameras, business men, young parents, punks, posh couples, cross-dressers and grandmothers.

And the streets are home to homeless people. You see them everywhere in London. Some are young, others are old. They are dirty and skinny and their clothes are rags. Some have missing teeth. They might be accompanied by a dog looking every bit as sad and desperate as its owner. They might beg for your money.

Do you give them a penny? Should you lend them a helping hand? Do you suspect they spend your money on booze, fags or drugs? Do you believe they brought this on themselves? Might they even deserve living on the streets?

“There are many reasons for people being out there. The public’s perception of homeless people is wrong,” says Barry Etheridge, founder of the Street People’s Action & Awareness Group (SPAAG). “There are intelligent people out there, they can be desperate too. These people are not a waste of space and it’s wrong to think they brought this on themselves.”

Etheridge was homeless for three years before he managed to turn his life around. Now he wants to use his experience to create a supportive network for homeless people, to fight the causes of homelessness and eventually, end homelessness altogether. Etheridge decided to walk from Inverness, Scotland, to Bournemouth to raise awareness of the causes he is fighting for and investigate the state of homelessness in Britain.

“I decided to do the One Big Walk because it is a beautiful way to see the country, but also big enough to make people take notice,” Etheridge explains. “It is about impact. There is so much going on in the world today and in our country so it is hard to get attention. The walk has been successful so far, if nothing else in keeping homelessness on the agenda.”

“Emotionally, it has been quite tough,” Etheridge says.” I’ve heard a lot of sad stories, they take a toll on you. They bring back bad memories from my years on the street.” He adds: “But it is only seven weeks, and if I can’t give seven weeks of my life I’m not much of a leader. It has been a struggle, but I’d do it again tomorrow if I thought it would make an impact.”

Etheridge is bitter towards the government. “In June 2005 the government said there were 459 people homeless in Britain, but I have seen more than that. They are telling lies,” he states. Etheridge is going to write a report on homelessness in Britain based on his findings and present it to the government in December 2006. “The system has to change,” Etheridge says. “Too much emphasis is put in the wrong direction.”

He continues: “The media have been positive and supportive throughout the walk. The coverage is important, but the reaction of the government to the report is more important. Publicity can help and hopefully change the perception of homelessness in the public’s mind. But I would give all that up if the report is successful.”

Etheridge explains: “There is more to homelessness than not having a home. You don’t stop homelessness by putting a roof over the people’s head. These people have been let down many times in the past. People have to listen to and understand both sides of the story. Hopefully, ultimately there will be no more homeless people.”

Growing old

MY HEART skips a beat as no one answers the door.

I am standing in front of the house that I have visited hundreds of times since my childhood. I know it so well, the white wood panels and the red window frames, the stone porch and the flower beds, full of colourful, beautiful flowers.

It is the beginning of September yet the sun burns like in the middle of the summer. I am overdressed and I wish that I had packed summer clothing and taken my sunglasses with me.

I cast a glance over the 'paradise garden' as I used to call it, the apple tree in which I used to climb as a child. The garden was once full of fruits, vegetables and berries, but now only the flowers remain and, of course, the apple tree.

I try the door bell again. No answer. What has happened? Why is the house deserted? The worst case scenario plays through my head.

I came here to be with my grandparents, to help them out during these difficult times. My grandfather, soon turning 87, had an operation and has suffered from all sorts of complications and has been in and out of the hospital for some time.

My grandmother could not handle it by herself anymore. No one else could come. Everyone else is busy with work or school, but I had finished uni and I have not found a job yet. For me the timing was convenient.

Maybe the door is unlocked? It creaks open and I shout 'hello'. To my relief I hear 'hello' coming back from the bedroom. And there they are, my beloved grandparents, looking ancient and exhausted.

"We haven't slept," my grandmother explains. "We had to go to the hospital again last night." She has a guilty expression on her face. She is the perfect housewife, normally she would have cleaned the house and baked a cake. She would not be in bed when a guest arrives.

But she is visibly relieved at my arrival. My grandmother has always been so energized, I have never seen her like this before. I feel tears forming in my eyes. But I choke them back, smile and tell them not to worry and go back to sleep, I will make myself at home.

I guess I am fortunate to still have my grandparents around. They have always been so fit, taking care of that garden and the big house by themselves, taking walks in the evenings and enjoying life.

My grandfather, a war hero, is obsessed with World War II. He digs out information, writes articles, keeps in touch with other veterans and helps people clarify what happened to their loved ones back then.
During the war he was based in Scotland and took part in several life-threatening missions for the aid of occupied Norway. Now, he seems the mere shadow of his former self.

Slowly but surely my grandfather is recovering and my grandmother can relax. I help them with shopping, cooking and cleaning and keep them company. They enjoy the sunshine in their garden and take short walks in the evenings. Their sense of humour is returning too.

Soon, they will be able to take care of themselves again. But winter is approaching and it might be harsh. It will be difficult to leave them alone, but they insist on staying in that house for as long as they can manage.

My grandparents live for each other. After almost 60 years of marriage they are still clearly in love, holding hands and talking of memories of times past, of the day they firs met, of their wedding day and of the day their twin daughters were born. I hope I will grow old like my grandparents.

Next year it will be their diamond anniversary. They have started planning a big party. I just hope they can enjoy life for more years to come and that I can enjoy having them around.

The Great People of China

IMAGINE being a tourist, travelling to explore foreign countries. But in a surreal exchange of roles, you experience yourself as an item on exhibition, of as much interest to the country’s inhabitants as they are to you.

With my tall and strongly-built figure, blond hair and blue eyes, my looks appeared exotic to the people of China. When walking down a crowded street in Bejing, the passers-by stared in amazement while their jaws dropped to the ground, and I could almost feel them thinking: “what on Earth is that?” The bravest spectators of this ‘freak-show’ asked if they could take my picture, preferably with a friend or family member posing beside me. I allowed it, as I was rather amused and flattered by this odd spectacle.

But the Chinese looked exotic to me too. This was my first visit to an Asian community and its people impressed me with their slim, elegant looks, their shy but friendly smiles, their openness and politeness. Everything seemed different from Western communities; the people, the buildings, the food, the clothes. The whole atmosphere was of another world. Sadly, China finds itself in a rapid process of modernisation, which is in fact nothing else than Westernisation. In Beijing, more and more American fast-food restaurants are opening up; KFC, McDonalds and Pizza Hut will soon be on every street corner. Chinese women exchange elegant traditional clothing for jeans and T-shirts and colour their beautiful black hair orange or yellow.

When travelling through China and observing all the major tourist attractions, its people’s mentality became quite clear to me. The Chinese created many of the world’s greatest and most popular inventions like paper, silk and tea. They built the most amazing constructions, which everyone has heard of, like the Terracotta Army and the Great Wall. Imagine the persistence and creativity involved in making fabric out of cocoons more than 5000 years ago, or the ambition to construct an over 6000 km long wall on the borders of China, which took a number of centuries to finish. These qualities remain in today’s Chinese people; they are artistic, determined and hard-working. Now, as China has opened up to the outside world, they humbly introduce foreigners to their unique culture.

Of course there are always those who seek to take advantage of naïve tourists. Wherever I went, salesmen ran after me, trying to sell ‘real’ Rolexes for outrageous prices. The watches got cheaper with every step I took, as the salesmen realised that I was not easily fooled. When I actually decided to buy something, I felt as if I were taking part in a play while bargaining the price down to less than half of what first suggested. After a while the salesman usually said: “You disgrace me”, which was my signal for walking away. Then he ran after me, reluctantly agreeing to my offer. Finally we closed the deal, both of us secretly happy about it.

The high point of my adventurous journey was standing on top of the Great Wall of China, stroking the stone with my fingers, admiring the spectacular landscape. The impact of history sent shivers down my spine, I felt as if I were surrounded by the ghosts of all the workers, who dedicated their lives to building this wall. The thought of the length of the wall exceeding the length of my whole country by far, made me feel humble towards the great people of China. While consumed by my thoughts, feeling the gentle breeze in my hair and the sunlight warming my skin, I heard a voice reaching through to me as if I were waking from a dream. “Can I please take your picture with my class,” asked a teacher on a trip with her pupils. With a faint smile on my lips I posed with the impressed Chinese school children, hoping they would rather pick their own ancestors as role models than a vain Western tourist.

Eager to be exploited

LAUNCHING a career is no stroll in the park, especially not in a world as competitive as the media.

Therefore, journalism students are eager to get unpaid work placements. They either make coffee and run errands or they have to work really hard without much credit. Often, students in for work experience are used as cheap labour.

Newspapers do not have much money; worldwide the daily sector is in decline. So they decide to exploit students. Some publications rely on work placements so much, that they have three students working for free every week.

Despite exploitation, work experience looks good on the CV. There is no way around it if one wants to get a decent job after graduation. But the media is so competitive that it is hard even to get an unpaid work placement.

Applying for work is time consuming and expensive and it is an ungrateful process too. Not all publications send replies, and if they do, most are rejections. So I decided to send applications almost every newspaper and magazine in London.

Only the interesting publications of course, but I still ended up with 72 applications. It took me three whole days to write, print and sign the applications, staple them together, put them into envelopes and lick the stamps.

When I finally dumped the letters into the mailbox I felt really pleased with myself. I felt sure that I would at least receive a few answers. Surprisingly, the first replies came by email already the next day.

As it turns out, most publications are fully booked for work experience until January next year. I guess I should have started sooner. I got a lot of rejections, but a few maybes too. Some of them are bound to turn into a yes before the summer is over.

Then I will be exploited like the others, but hopefully I get to learn something useful too and increase my chances when I start applying for real jobs.