Reykjavik: A Place I Didn’t Know I Loved Part Two

This is the follow-up and final part of my blogpost reflecting upon my recent and very first trip to Iceland. For the previous post, please click: here. As mentioned previously, this was a last-minute trip to a place that I had been planning to visit pretty much all my life and that I ended up loving and appreciating more than I thought I would.

Now I missed some important events due to poor planning, or rather, there had been certain restraints and limitations on my planning window. For instance, I had a podcast before my trip, and my son had a Red-Carpet film premiere after it. That meant that we would miss the solar eclipse (at that moment, we were on the plane) and the annual Culture Night (that was on the day of my son’s event at the Cinematheque). The latter would have to wait for another time (perhaps with a significant other?) while the former seemed more like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity although I did enter a hilarious Icelandair contest to win a trip to the next one!

The Golden Circle and Lava Tunnel Combo Tour

Just in case the Icelandic border agent is reading this, although I mentioned that I would visit the Blue Lagoon, in reality, I did not go there. It was not a conscious lie because the intention was indeed there, but then, various things made me change my mind. We went to its “discount” cousin, the geothermal pool at Nautholsvik, and it was rather chilly that day, so I refused to enter the water, but my brave son did so.

Then, there was naturally the issue of the cost and whether I would enjoy it that much because for me the beach or a spa is best enjoyed with a book in your hand and potentially a beer in the other. Also, if the Blue Lagoon was as blue (my favorite color) and as romantic as I imagined it, I would like to visit it with my forever love and would like it to be both our first times, a kind of equalizing force of wonder for each one of us.

Yet the Golden Circle was something I had firmly circled in my agenda. Why not throw in a lava tunnel for good measure? I bought both online and the first time, it did not go through as I had to confirm and verify the payment with my bank but the second time it worked all right. Now, usually you would expect a confirmation email, right? They also had my cell phone number, so I expected something like “thank you for your payment” or “see you in three days.” Was that too much to ask especially in the age of AI? Apparently, it was in Iceland, as I received nothing whatsoever and the silence was deafening and worrisome.

So naturally, I started panicking. The link to the tour had come from a brochure off a QR code. Now as a rule and for apparent safety, I do not use my phone for any payments, but I did not have a choice here. The company was a place that actually existed and I knew this for a fact because it was the same one I had bought the airport bus tickets from.

And yet, the voice of doubt was whispering in my ear. A Google search made matters worse as someone claimed that this was a scam. I tried to log into the website, and they wanted me to put in my confirmation number I had received in the email. Yeah, what email? There was none in the junk mail and I checked it at least twice.

In such moments, I reach out for tech help and fortunately, my tech guy was there with me. First, he complained about Apple but somehow, through history, he managed to locate the previous page I had made the transaction on and that site did come with confirmation of the trip. Now I could breathe a sigh of relief and look forward to the tour.

The tour started with the lava tunnel and that was quite interesting in and by itself. It was about an hour away from the bus terminal and our driver dropped us off in the middle of nowhere telling us that he would do to the Mega Zipline, but he should be back in time to pick us up by 11. We had to catch our next tour bus at 12:30 to do the Golden Circle so we would have ample time, I thought.

Before entering the lava tunnel or tube as it is alternatively called, our tour guide provided us with helmets equipped with lights and we all felt like miners. Unlike the other guide, ours made sure the helmet was fastened securely and that the lights were on. Then, he told us that we would only go through the first third of the tunnel and that there was not much of a climb throughout. That was music to my ears.

Entering the tunnel was quite impressive. The guide shared with us that there was no echo in the tunnel due to holes that would absorb the sound and this was the reason why we would not encounter any bats; they needed echo location to get around. Another interesting tidbit was the Hawaiian name for hot lava, which was Ah-Ah. And this was because when you walked on it, you would scream in pain and utter those exact words.

As we reached the endpoint of the tour and were about to return, one of the tourists asked how safe the tunnel was. Our guide paused for a bit and with a smirk said: “Are you sure you want me to answer your question here and now? Would it perhaps not be a better idea to talk about this after we return?”

But it was too late. The cat was out of the bag, and we were all curious to know more. He told us that nothing was absolutely safe (true that), but that it was relatively safe. The tunnel was regularly inspected by geologists who gave a thumbs up but as almost every region on this island, safety could not be guaranteed. I imagined how lava could burst out and spill over like a pressure cooker as if it was the unbridled power of the unconscious, in this case even collective unconscious, which could on one hand destroy whole villages, while on the other hand shape wonderful and visit-worthy geographical shapes like the tunnel we were walking inside of.

Now after making us feel slightly queasy after his speech, he added, “Do you guys want to see what absolute darkness looks like?” and like a bunch of elementary schools on a field trip, barring and swiping away any uncomfortable thoughts of doom and disasters of merely moments ago, we all responded in the affirmative. He found the light switch and then left us all in the dark. We are talking pitch dark where you cannot see the hands before your eyes and no one dared to talk with only sporadic non-echoing sighs and whispers of awe all around us.

This was not my first experience of pitch blackness but certainly the first time standing up. Previously, I was floating in a sensory deprivation tank but this time around it was even stranger not to see anything or anyone around. I was thinking that although I could not see my son, I knew he was there, not unlike Peter Falk in my favorite movie of all time Wings of Desire, where he states to an angel (a colleague of sorts), “I can’t see you, but I know you’re there.”

After a good minute of voluntarily imposed darkness, the artificial light inside the tunnel returned and we made our way back. There would have been more to explore but this was the end of the road for us and this tour. The rest was not as secure and convenient since it did not have ramps and stairs and was meant for adventure seekers with sturdier shoes. Mine were certainly not up to par. My son was already heading in that direction of the unknown joining some of the other non-touring adventurers and I had to call him back to safety.

There was a certain amount of excitement to see natural sun light streaming through the opening of the entrance of the tunnel. It was the inverse, relief to see light at the beginning of the tunnel and that officially ended our lava tunnel tour. We were just waiting for the zip lining bus driver to return so that we could take the bus back to the terminal. There was ample time left at the time, and I was already envisioning the delicious pizza slices of our first day in Reykjavik and was excited to indulge in them for a second time. We had lunch waiting for us before we were to embark upon the second even larger tour.

But the bus would not come. We were all waiting, confused. At some point, I wondered if he had left with some of the people leaving the rest of us behind. Then I saw other fellow travelers and realized that we were, for better or worse, all in this together. I was worried about the connecting bus and noticing it was getting way too close for comfort. Scrap the pizza, lunch would have to consist of pepperoni sticks on the fly.

There was a sense of excitement and relief when we saw the bus suddenly appear in this vast and empty landscape. We were saved! All of us knew that a cab back would have cost us a fortune even if it were split four ways! My concern was to arrive there in time for the second tour. The bus driver announced to all of us partaking in the Golden Circle that we need not worry. He would tell them to wait for us. I smiled.

An hour later, with five minutes left, he turned the corner to reach the terminal. And suddenly, he said, “Those continuing with the Golden Circle tour, please hurry now to reach the bus before it takes off. It’s the only tour bus on your right.” So much for letting them know and them waiting for us! There were about five buses on our right, most of them were shuttles to the airport, but we ended up getting on our Golden Circle bus on time.

The tour guide we had was very interesting and quite knowledgeable and shared so much with us that the rather long bus ride was pleasant enough. Unlike the other bus where we were not allowed to eat and we had to wear seat belts (“it’s the law here in Iceland!” the zip line bus driver had told us), we were free to eat while enjoying the scenery unfolding in front of our eyes.

First off, our guide told us that it used to be called the Golden Triangle because there were three points of visit, a trifecta. The name “Golden” came from one of the waterfalls Goldenfloss and it was the first stop of the tour. Yet for some reason, anglophone tourists had not been comfortable with triangles. Might be that it brought up painful memories of geometry class or that the most known triangle, the Bermuda one was not a place anyone would like to visit, or maybe even due to aesthetic grounds as it had a more complete and wholesome quality to it, the circle was adopted and remained for all the years to come.

The waterfall did not disappoint. When we stopped, I was wondering where the waterfall was as it was not immediately visible in a showy grand way. We had to walk a bit until it magically and majestically appeared before our eyes. It was absolutely amazing and breathtaking. Another force of nature but this time, it was not fire but water.

The second stop was a geyser, and the guide said that this was one of the cases like Hoover or Kleenex where the brand name stuck and became to designate the thing itself. Geysir was actually the name of a town that had geysers, but it was not the only place as there were other geysers all around, even as far away as Bolivia; yet the name stuck for a reason. He also let us know that it was not a good idea to get too close to them as their temperature could reach up to a whopping 250 degrees Celsius.

Around the geyser that erupted every dozen minutes or so, there were quite a few people in wait, their phones drawn and their fingers on the trigger to capture the moment it occurred. I was certainly one of them. We were fishing for geysers, and it was actually surprisingly quiet all round as everyone was anticipating the big moment and no one had an idea when it would arise. The geyser was cordoned off so there was no real risk to any of the attendants, but I was too far away to get any spray on me. It was impressive to the see the geyser burst forth all of a sudden and then turn into hot steam almost as quickly.

The third and final stop was the tectonic ridge that represented the separating point between two continental rifts: Europe meeting North America. As it was a common tourist thing to do - and to later brag about - I also could not resist the pull to have one foot in Europe with the other situated in North America. It was amazing how volcanic activity alongside constantly moving plates had shaped and given form to the landscape in front of us.

After this, we made our way back to Reykjavik. Our guide also shared other interesting tidbits of information on patronyms. In Iceland, you would know the name of the father of each person as it would include son or daughter of so-and-so. It sounded complicated and may be a bureaucratic nightmare, but it was not an uncommon thing.

We all know names that end in son, and it represents exactly what it means. I asked the guide why there was often an extra s, and he said it was because of the genitive denoting possession. This way of naming used to be a common practice in Ireland as well with the examples of O’ denoting the person’s name. The Scottish equivalent would be Mac.

In the late afternoon, our Golden Circle was complete, and we were back in Reykjavik at square one. There was a warm glow around us from all the natural beauty we had witnessed in the span of a day, and I was happy to try to document it with various pictures and a few short videos. And this post is yet another way of showing my respect and appreciation for such majestic landscapes.

Returning Home and Arrival in Vancouver

Our final evening was a movie night. I searched for Icelandic movies and to my surprise, Eurovision Song Contest: The Story of Fire Saga with Will Ferrell and Rachel McAdams showed up. Although we had both already seen the film on Netflix, we had not put two and two together. I had not realized that Iceland was being represented as to my then slightly more ignorant mind, all Scandinavian countries blended into one big blob.

With the pizza (we had both lamb and pepperoni but on separate pizzas), tortilla chips with guacamole (the former was good, the latter not so much) and Icelandic beer (Gull and it was surprisingly good), we looked forward to seeing Iceland and Icelandic people represented in the film while still being in Reykjavik. I almost applauded when the surtitle mentioned the capital. The film was shot in Husavik, a seaport town that gained some touristic following after the film, but sadly, it was too late and too far away for us to visit.

I found the movie did a surprisingly good job of representing Icelandic essence. Yes, elves play an important role in their mentality. I had read that most Icelanders with their wicked sense of humour and slight mischief did quite enjoy the film just as we did. Sure, it was strange to have North Americans playing Icelanders but there were some Icelanders in the film too, notably the guy who was always ecstatic and kept asking for the “Jaja Ding Dong” song to be played. It was a good and appropriate way to wrap up our stay, and we knew that the next day we would have to get up before dawn to make our way to the bus terminal.

It was very quiet and peaceful at around 5 am as we made our way through the city for one last time. There were no tourists in sight, but it was a whole different story at the bus terminal where a lot of them were also on their way to the airport. It turned out that the 5:30 bus was more popular than I had imagined and that we were not the only people on that trip as I had falsely imagined.

Evidently, tourists were an important lifeline for the economy in Iceland, and everything was not only prepared for them but also geared towards them. From the various souvenir shops to almost everything costing money, there was little respite for the city to catch a breath and truly be itself, at least in the summer time. There were some Icelanders, but we ended up running into more Germans and Italians. I was wondering what the place felt like outside of the tourist season.

At the airport, the security line was long, and I was glad that we had a good three hours before our flight. My son had an unopened Collab can - a popular energy drink - that he was planning to drink later on. Sadly enough, it turned out that we could not take it with us. The security personnel asked if I wanted to check it in. I said, no, but was wondering whether my son could drink it. Only if we went back, he said, and that idea did not appeal at all. So, I let the security person have the can.

But the question was, where on Earth was my son because as we passed through, I lost sight of him. It had been rather hectic trying to gather all the stuff together, my wallet, belt, iPhone, my son’s iPad and my own laptop alongside my backpack, which had been flagged for some reason but once the security lady saw me, she just said it was fine without any additional comment.

Finally, I saw my son come through and he told me that they had pulled him aside and had done a random test on him. They had used swabs on his hands and his pants.

“What for?”

My son shrugged.

“And why you? And not me?”

He shrugged again. Then, I shared with him the unfortunate news. “Your Collab did not make it!”

“Not a problem. It didn’t taste that good either.”

The whole boarding process was very different in Iceland, much less structured and way more confusing. We had to wait in line, and they did not go through the different zones as we were accustomed to, but it was first-come first-serve. Then, we had to climb up to the next level but fortunately, they had an escalator, which made it somewhat easier to transport our carry-on luggage.

Oddly enough, the flight back was longer, but it did break into two flights of equal length and I appreciated the symmetry. It was five hours to Montreal and then five back to Vancouver. We had a layover of two and a half hours in Montreal, but it went by so quickly, mainly because the customs in Montreal did eat up a sufficient amount of time.

On both flights, we were entertained by movies and shows. My son got closer to ending his Breaking Bad binge, while I watched a standup show by Remy Youssef, which I found both interesting and amusing and then watched Jafar Panahi’s It Was Just an Accident, which started off confusing but then it grew on me, and I would definitely recommend it despite the shaky start.

As we arrived in Vancouver, I had two sets of feelings. On one hand, I was of course happy to be back home. I felt that life over there was not sustainable and I also missed home and its many comforts. And at the same time, I could have easily stayed longer in Reykjavik, a city that I fell in love with. Unlike Paris, it was not at first sight, but it kept growing on me as it worked its subtle and unique charm on me.

Like Paris, I found it a very idyllic and romantic place filled with life and culture. There was both an oddness and a certain unpredictability, which I also appreciated. I could imagine myself going back for another visit, maybe in a year or so but I also wished to make the trip with a special someone experiencing Iceland with her by my side. I could see us strolling around Tjörnin lake, visit the Golden Circle together, and that time around, add the Blue Lagoon to our list of places to visit.

Reykjavik: A Place I Didn’t Know I Loved Part One

Summer was coming to an end, and as usual, there was a sense of last-minute panic, especially when it came to traveling. This worry was based on the not so incorrect assumption that starting fall, things would start getting busy both work and life-wise, so it was a final attempt to fit in a bit of fun and relaxation before the merciless routine kicked in again.

This year, since we both had passports, my son suggested to travel internationally instead of our local excursions to Whistler and Kelowna. He had his first taste of visiting London as part of a school trip, but the question for us was where to go? Places that were on my list were not ideal or it was just not the right time to visit them: Cuba was one of the places of interest; Universal Studios has been on our list for a while and would have to wait for a while longer, and so it boiled down to two potential candidates to the left and to the right of us respectively: Iceland and Japan.

The latter was a country that my son has been interested in ever since discovering anime; he had even learnt a bit of Japanese including some impressive reading skills. Iceland was my baby and has been for a long time; it was an item on my bucket list. How it got there I’m not too sure. I remember playing a board game in my youth where you could fly to Reykjavik so this desire may have perhaps unconsciously been planted and formed way back then.

So what to do when you have two conflicting choices? Ask Chat GPT of course! And it told me, taking into consideration my 17-year-old travel companion, it would recommend Japan as way more exciting for a younger mind. I think Chat GPT broke it down 70% to 30% so not a close call at all. Yet as I asked around by canvassing humans, everyone seemed to discourage traveling to Tokyo in August, including the travel agent I went to see. He added that Europe was equally a bad idea considering the heat waves and forest fires, so there was little left to work with. Plus, a Japanese friend gave a clear and unequivocal “no” to this plan.

But what about Iceland then, we asked ourselves. As the weather was mild, their summer tends to lack heat, and it was quasi and technically Europe, it became our destination of choice. I mean this is the birthplace of Bjork and Sigur Ros we are talking about, so it would be interesting to see how the landscapes may have influenced their music, which is unique and distinct from anything or anywhere else. The night before and the day of I decided to learn some basic phrases in Icelandic, just in case. It turns out that it was not necessary at all as almost everyone, except one guy (more on him later), spoke English fluently.

Security Check and Flight

No matter where I go, security checks are a source of worry and stress. This time, at least in Vancouver, there was nothing of note, except the agent telling me that my fly was open. Yeah, flying with your fly open is not something that was recommended but it was something that was easily remedied. In fact, I was grateful that this was pointed out to me sooner than later. We had a connecting flight in Calgary, and then it was straight to Keflavik, a place about an hour away from Reykjavik itself.

The arrival was not smooth. There was no gate, so we were told to descend from the plane and get on a shuttle bus. From there on, there was a lot of confusion and not enough information, but we ended up in a long line to enter the country. They did the biometric fingerprints and took our photos, and the border agent asked the reason for our trip. Tourism, I said.

“What places are you going to go to?” he wanted to know and all that came to mind was The Blue Lagoon, incidentally the one place I did not end up going to.

“How long are you staying in Iceland?” I responded, one week. Then he asked, if we had intentions of staying in Iceland. I was a bit surprised and taken aback by the question, but I said that I did not.

He then smiled and told us to pass through and enjoy our stay. Yet it took us another half an hour walking in circles, tired and jetlagged as we were while desperately trying to get outside, and for a moment I thought we had lined up again at the same spot to face another inquisitive border agent. Yet once outside, we followed the many tourists and took the bus that drove us to the Bus Terminal in Reykjavik and found our way into the downtown part.

First Impressions and Later Things of Note

We entered our first Icelandic café, a very nice and artsy place, which was right next to the National Art Gallery (but we did not know this yet), and after the initial shock of the price once converted into Canadian dollars in my head, I was thirsty and had a sip of water and almost fell off my chair! Damn, it was the best-tasting water I have ever had, topping even the Swiss by a mile in that regard! I could not wait to enter our accommodation and drink it nonstop from the faucet like a cherished and endless supply bottle of quality wine.

The people struck me as a bit reserved but friendly, and they would not give unsolicited help or advice, unless you asked for it, then they would do so freely. The city was beautiful. I loved the Tjornin lake and could not wait to take long walks there. The colorful houses were just as I had imagined or seen them depicted in pictures before the trip.

The food was also quite good, albeit incredibly expensive. It was twice, sometimes triple the prices I would see in Vancouver, but it tasted very good. On the first day, I saw this sign and knew that I would have to try Icelandic lamb burger sooner than later. This was in addition to their famed hot dog stall that you were supposed to order as “one with everything” and which included crispy onions as a delicious condiment.

The ice cream at Valdi’s was amazing. Just like the frog in boiling water, at that point, I was not too shocked to shell out a 1000 Krona, which all things considered with the new lens and framework of reality in place seemed like a good deal to me. Considering that fast-food cost almost triple that amount and that you got big portions of ice cream, it was certainly worth it. Mine was Kinder just in case you were curious to know.

The absolute necessity and lifeline for survival was the kitchen that our accommodation included. Strangely enough, there was no microwave in the unit, but the electric stovetop and basic kitchenware and cutlery made things slightly more affordable for us. Breakfasts were not on the house but rather made in the house: we ensured and were proud to confirm that we managed each day’s first meal at our new adopted abode. It was interesting because in my regular routine, I would always skip breakfast as part of my intermittent fasting regime but since I had my young travel companion with me, I had to adjust to his at least three meals per day schedule, which I did not mind in the least.

We found two supermarkets in our area. Our preferred option was Kronan, which would be the North American equivalent of Safeway. They had a good assortment of food and groceries, and I bought eggs, milk, cereal, pepperoni sticks, and burger patties to name a few items. The other store was called Bonus and that one did not look as polished and reminded me of the Canadian No Frills chain.

Their emblem was a large pink pig. I was tempted to buy their sweater as a souvenir but then I was not ready to hand over more than $50 CDN for an image of a pig, a reference that only Icelanders and people who have visited the country would get. Everyone else would be wondering why on Earth I was wearing a pig sweater as there was no other writing or information on it.

It was in that store that my son encountered the only non-English speaking individual in perhaps all of Reykjavik. We were inseparable throughout but, on that day, he ventured to the nearby store looking for some hairspray and had PIN issues with his credit card (technically it’s not his; he spends the money and I pay the bills) and he could not communicate with the clerk. It was fine in the end as he did get his hairspray and was able to pay in cash.

To be honest, I am a bit sad to see that cash is becoming obsolete all-around; there are even places that do not accept it in the first place. And with high denomination of bills and even higher costs, it felt like paper money had lost its value. All payments were contactless and I noticed that using my phone eliminated the need for adding my PIN, which I was not 100 percent sure of. Something that I was told before heading to Iceland and that Icelanders kept me reminding me of was the practice of paying in their local currency as opposed to in mine as you would be saving a bit of money in that transaction.

Final note and piece of advice on buying food: double-check the labels! Pretty much everyone does speak English, but the labels tend to be in Icelandic. Well, you can’t have it all now, can you? Although there were some similarities between English and German and I could make out some meanings, some of the other words looked and were indeed completely foreign to me. Do not buy items based on what they look or appear like! Right before consuming the patties, I was wondering if it was indeed beef and not fermented shark meat or ground bull testicles, so I did a Google translate and was relieved that it was indeed beef!

Less luck with what I assumed to be potato salad. It turned out to be coleslaw but with an Icelandic twist: it contained pineapple for some odd reason. I could not adjust to that and was not able to eat it. My son did not even attempt as I had already lost him at coleslaw. The second item was yoghurt. Now the milk, eggs, and ice-cream had been a great success, so I had even greater expectations for Icelandic yoghurt. And it tasted pretty good at first until the after taste kicked in. I thought maybe it was an anomaly and had another spoon, but the same thing happened.

I checked the translation and it turned out to be both sugar-free and lactose-free, and this is why I highly encourage to translate labels for your own safety and sanity. Except for sausages. Those were always and everywhere delicious and rumour has it there is lamb in it, but I do not wish to know the ingredients or the process of making sausages. I have been traumatized by a Simpson episode once, and since then, I do accept and eat hot dogs without any need for additional information or details.

 

Sightseeing, Galleries and the One and Only Museum

We had the chance to see pretty much all of Reykjavik, at least the downtown part. It was not very big to begin with, and you could easily and conveniently get around on foot; they had two wonderful pedestrian zones, one of them the rainbow walk, which lead to their famous church, the Hallgrimskirkja that you can climb to the top.

Well, not sure you can climb it, but we took the elevator. The view of the city was quite impressive, and all this time, I was wondering about the architectural style and inspiration of the church. This was because I had recently partaken in a series of talks and debates on the link between philosophy and architecture in my beloved monthly Philosophers' Café and thanks to host Laurent Fadanni was now slightly more aware of choices and differences in architectural designs.

Speaking of architecture, their convention centre Harpa was an amazing modern glass structure that was impressive to look at from both inside and outside as well as day and night. They had a Volcano Express activity that was a distant cousin to FlyOver, the flight simulation, except in this ride (if you can call it that) you get “dangerously close” to lava. You even feel the heat on your face and the seat goes up and down in often unexpected ways that made this 4D event quite memorable.

The Volcano Express was short – and yes, expensive – but I appreciated the videos and installations around it as they were not only educational vis-à-vis Iceland and their fascinating and often troubled history with volcanos but also showed us the sense of awe that Icelanders have regarding the power of nature. In a way, it feels like they are living on top or under a ticking time bomb and they are not necessarily afraid but accept and take it with a stoic Viking spirit (but this may also explain their particular interest, fascination, and belief in elves!).

It so happened that Bjork had an exhibition called “Echolalia” in her hometown at the National Art Gallery. Or in fact, she had three separate exhibits. One of them was the amazing nine-part acapella piece entitled “Sorrowful Soil” that she composed right after her mother’s death and that she sang alongside a choir with 30 individual speakers emanating each single vocal track; they were all spread out in the gallery room as fluctuating walls of sound. All the while, a video of Bjork was playing on the screen. It was certainly the most impressive installation there.

There was an impressive video of ancestress as well as another video made with the help of AI, something that my son disappointedly pointed out to me, and I was worried he would lose the respect he had been building up for this Icelandic iconoclast. AI or not, it was still quite good and unique, and she’s still keeping it real, at least musically and lyrically.

The third exhibit was just videos of her in a live concert given in Reykjavik interspersed with strange sounds and odd dance moves; some of them were very impressive. Yet the most memorable thing of them all was a sign that encouraged photography! I had never seen or experienced such a thing in an art gallery before. In Vancouver, we have stuck personnel that does not let you breathe close to the paintings and artwork, let alone dare to snap a shot.

Their other gallery, The House of Collections, was also quite fun and entertaining. I know galleries are not really supposed to be that, but Icelanders not only appreciate their art, but they try their best to make it interactive. We went to this gallery because access was included in the ticket I got, plus, anyone under 17 could enter for free, and that was music to my ears proving to me that we had planned this trip just at the right time.

The paintings and art exhibits were quite good and the floors were separated by themes of land and water, and the latter one had a rowing boat that you were again encouraged to use; it made splashing sounds and with the visual effects of waves projected on the walls around you, you really did feel at sea but without becoming seasick. And apart from daily walking, that was the only other exercise I did that whole week.

The third museum was not included on the ticket, and we were hesitant to go there at first, and no, it was not just about the exorbitant ticket price but more due to its subject matter. In fact, I was adamant at not going there at first but reconsidered on the next day. I just did a thought experiment of going home and not having been to “the only penis museum in the world” and imagined how I would regret it on my deathbed saying with clenched teeth and a broken voice, if only I had been to the Icelandic phallocentric museum when I had the chance and opportunity in Reykjavik! Now I shall never know what it looks and feels like.

Well, I do now, and it was still shocking despite the mental preparation for it. It was also silly and surprisingly educational. Something like this could only occur in Iceland and although we were both traumatized, we do consider it worth a visit. One of the claims of fame was an authenticated cast of Jimi Hendrix’s member and I got to see it with my own eyes and cannot unsee it anymore.

And then, there’s Elmo – no, definitely not the one that you are thinking of! - and best for you to check out the bizarre but outstanding documentary entitled The Final Member. Watch it before you enter the museum and you will have an even greater appreciation of animal and human male anatomy.

The final comment I would like to make here is about the fashion and lifestyle in Reykjavik. The fashion was rather colorful and taken from the 60s or perhaps even more the 70s, especially when it came to the women. It did not look bad or anything, but it felt slightly odd and out of place for our era.

The second thing was the shocking popularity of e-scooters. Now they are popular around the world, I’m sure, but over there, people would dress up while being on it; a business suit or a fancy dress was not out of place for them and it was often accompanied by - no, not a helmet - but a drink of sorts be it a bottle of beer or a glass of wine, champagne, or a mimosa. The other thing was how easily they would discard the scooter whenever they were done with it, and it would be left behind often in the middle of the sidewalk or at other more improbable spots like this one encountered before dawn in front of their trademark church.

Jung’s Different Stages of Life Plus Midlife Crisis as a Wake-up Call

So I recently stumbled (and that occurred via various detours, signposts, and coincidences) upon Jung’s essay on the different phases of life. Let me state though that neither Jung nor myself actually believe in coincidences, so this essay found its way to me at the right moment or rather at the right stage of my life.

More on this later but suffice to say that the essay is a more condensed and somewhat rudimentary version of psychodynamic development as it is lacking the fullness and detail of Erik Erikson’s explicit stages. Nonetheless, Jung’s approach has its own rather interesting flair with the focus being more on main themes of life as opposed to outlining specific conflicts and struggles within certain life periods.

From the get-go, Jung states his views on the differences, distinctions, and dynamic interplay between instinct and consciousness. Instinct is how we respond to events and our surroundings and it is set by nature. Yet it is consciousness that represents a different and perhaps more unique and individualized way of doing things. Jung contrasts consciousness from instinct and nature and equates it with culture, which represents moving away from both instinct and nature.

In that sense, culture as a form of growing consciousness is something that has refined itself over the many centuries and may even challenge natural processes or ways of doing things as it continues to evolve. Culture is richer and more sophisticated in thought, reflection, and action whereas nature is more passive, counts on reflexes, prefers routines and rituals and tends to be less progressive in outlook and philosophy.

None of this should be confused with society, which may confuse itself and others throughout the process. Society may aid but often tends to block and hinder consciousness. For instance, society prizes achievement as opposed to personality. Achievements tend to be things you do but does not really take into account who you are.

The latter occurs posthumously where personality would be acknowledged and recognized since achievements have now run their course. Such and such was a kind and wonderful person is heard more on funerals than in real-life situations. Hence, we can see that money, status, social standing and even family are not elements of culture but rather of instinct. They are driving us toward survival but less so towards growth and thriving.

Interestingly, Jung is not particularly interested in the first phase, namely that of childhood; no wonder because it is such a vital complex stage upon which there is already tons of excellent psychanalytic literature in existence. He also adds old age as a coda that he barely fleshes out except to say that it functions in the same vein as childhood. Both stages make us dependent upon others; in the case of children for bare survival and that can also be reflected in older age especially if there are deteriorating health conditions involved. Those phases tend to be more instinctual in outlook and lifestyle and more often than not mandated by necessity or biological parameters and determinants.

Hence, Jung’s principal focus is on the adjacent stages of young adulthood as well as midlife. This is mainly because of the previously mentioned distinguishing characteristics between instinct and consciousness. As instinct is our natural operating process, we do not need reflection or evaluation but act like reflexes according to our physical and mental needs.

We sleep when we are tired and eat when we are hungry. Generally speaking, this automatic status does not involve much thought or struggle; the child depends upon others to feed them and is dimly aware of any potential dangers and difficulties and does not have to make specific choices. In fact, they may not be aware of any other choices or alternatives.

In contrast, the youth becomes more aware of their surroundings and must begin to not only make decisions but also distinguish themselves from other beings; hence, the seed of individuation is planted within the individual’s psyche. It is this consciousness, which leads that person to reach their zenith; young adulthood may propel us on making it in the world, i.e. attaining success and social standing and of potentially taking care of a family.

As we can see the focus is on the outer world and material aspects are brought into the foreground. Money not personality is the factor that is highly correlated with success and distinguishes one person in society from another. This is part of the drive of the instinct and survival, which includes everything from money to social standing and even starting a family.

To reiterate, instinct is linked to nature, while consciousness is the stepping away from both instinct and nature and is more closely tied to culture. It becomes interesting that social values are often aligned with instinct and nature and not so much with consciousness at least not in their individual form and format.

Sadly, as Jung notes in his essay, personality is not encouraged nor celebrated enough during a lifetime; in fact, it is often underlined posthumously when people claim how such and such person was very good, responsible, or caring. During their lifetimes, we are a work of progress, and our personality plays second fiddle, and especially in our current climate a simple faux pas or a few misspoken words may quickly unravel a whole of life of dedication and moral fortitude like a house of cards.

With this in mind, we can now enter the meats and bones of Jung’s argument. Barring the first and the fourth and final phase, where we tend to be more limited and restrained in capacity and capability, young and middle adulthood are the most fruitful and productive stages of our lives.

In the former, we are making a name for ourselves, but we are also prioritizing certain aspects over others. The values of success gain dominance over those of personality. Certain wishes and desires are driven into the unconscious. For instance, childhood dreams may be ignored, and more importance is given to more practical solutions and outcomes. Becoming an artist, writer or filmmaker does not cut it and instead we look for more stable professions that guarantee a certain amount of income.

At the same time, we may make romantic choices more upon feasibility and suitability and less on love and passion. Any time we make a decision, it comes at the expense of something else, so it involves a certain kind of compromise or rupture, whether this is done consciously or unconsciously is up for debate. Incidentally, with decisions, we engage in a type of cision as we cut away all the surrounding potentials and end up with a certain piece that is concrete and rather limited in its form and scope.

Yet all the decisions we do not make, all the dreams we do not pursue continue to be lodged in our unconscious. This may be when we have everything we wished for, a family, a house, a car, a job with a stable income but something is definitely missing. And yet, we cannot put a finger upon our malaise except that something is off.

Most of the things we were striving for do not cut it for us. We still see value in them and appreciate them, but we also realize that it came at a cost. There are two options from here on. Middle age can be the time where we continue to ignore those nagging desires and continue and march on. This can then carry over into old age that is filled with regrets, resentment and a feeling or sense of missed opportunities.

Unfortunately, at that point, it may be too late to do anything. Jung even provides a French quote here: “Si jeunesse savait, si vieillesse pouvait” to demonstrate the dilemma, if youth only knew and had the answers of our mature state and if only old age had the power and prowess to make it happen. And at that point, especially if you do not believe in an afterlife, you may come to believe that your life had little to no meaning and did not serve a purpose, and you might get the impression that your life has been wasted.

The other choice is to take action. In that case, what is known and referred as “midlife crisis” can propel us to initiate and even create some kind of transformation. It could be minor or major in its scope and outlook. This is when people drastically change their status quo for something entirely different and something that resonates more with their heart’s desire. It can be actively crossing off our bucket list or a reset to our lives, a new beginning, a new start and lease on life.

At that point, we may also care less about what others think, what society thinks of us or how a life should be lived, a time where we reject to a certain extent the plausible and real for a world that is filled with magic and dreams. Please note that this last part is more about me than Jung, but it is what his essay provokes and ignites in me.

Midlife crisis does not have to be a crisis but rather a message to our psyche that life is too precious to undergo and limit oneself to compromises and sacrifices. It is most important to ground and find oneself not by looking for outward recognition but by looking within and then to live not by the dictates of others, be it parents, loved ones, friends, society or even one’s community but living and thriving according to who you truly are, your very own core sense of being.

Remembrance of Joyful Times Past: The St. John’s College Experience

Last weekend, I had the pleasure of attending the SJC Alumni Celebration Weekend at my previous UBC residence. The place is St. John’s College and although it was wonderful to get to see and reminisce with fellow residents some of whom I had not seen in over two decades, there was a somber underlining to it all: We were about to say goodbye to this landmark building, and we had this three-day event to cherish and celebrate our experiences and to bid adieu to the place that houses many unforgettable memories for each of us.

I have spent two and a half years (I prolonged and extended my degree to as long as I could) and they were some of the happiest times of my life. Why, you may ask and the answer could fill up volumes of novelistic writing; in fact, it could even make for a miniseries, sitcom, soap opera, or telenovela (love, romance, marriage, heartbreak, infidelity, deception, all of which were not unheard of at the times) but my own simple answer is two-fold: first off, I loved studying and was studying what I loved (French literature) and then we had an amazing, buzzing, bubbling, and vibrant community.

There was no time for boredom. The community was fostered organically, that is we were forced to sit together and eat, that included breakfast in the mornings and dinners in the evenings. Breakfasts were a rather subdued undertaking. Not everyone would show up for different reasons; some would trickle in at different hours and when they did, they would not be necessarily in the mood for chatting or they would be hung over or half asleep. I myself would need at least a couple cups of coffee to barely function at that ungodly hour.

The dinners, however, were a whole different story. Everyone showed up at pretty much the same time hungry for food and for social interaction. We were excited to have finished the day of studying, reading, writing, or what-have-you and were there to chew the fat with our meals or share and listen to the latest gossip and anything else under the sun.

Most tables had various often recognizable voices reverberating through the community dining hall. It was always a joy to see and talk to familiar faces, but when that was not the case because you or your friends were late and the tables had already been taken, you did have the opportunity to meet and to talk to new people. Nothing unites people more than breaking bread together and sometimes, we also bonded over bad food. Certain items on the menu - something we were privy to at the beginning of each week - were not exactly among our favorites but that was fine and made us appreciate the good and tasty food items even more. 

For instance, on paella days – that distinct smell still haunts me to this day - I would suddenly turn vegetarian. It succeeded for a while but soon enough, the kitchen assistants grew suspicious, checked their lists, put two and two together and realized that this was not necessarily true. I was outed as an imposter: a non-vegetarian posing as one. You could of course miss the dinner and ask for vouchers but then again, you would not see your friends on that given evening. And that was not an option for me.

What I loved at the time was the list of contact information we were provided with on day one. It included all the names with their room numbers and phone numbers. At the time, we did not have cellphones (I’m carbon dating myself now) but it was wonderful to be able to call up anyone one wanted to see, or you had taken an interest in. No more awkward asking for phone numbers; we were supplied with them already.

In fact, there were visitors coming in and out at pretty much any time of the day. We had a revolving door policy. It was especially interesting to see and notice who walked out of whose room during night hours. I remember some of us getting caught in flagrante a few times crossing the courtyard at night where smokers would nod and acknowledge us with a grin and then share the intel with everyone at the next dinner event. Yet at least whatever happened at St. John’s did stay there. Not that it had anywhere else to go for that matter.

Yet I remember vividly the various events that enriched the whole experience. It was often ideas proposed by residents, but the office also had several interesting initiatives of their own. This ranged from regular speaker series where we had a chance to share our interests, research or otherwise and then there were informal language courses offered by residents for residents. As if that was not enough, we also had movie nights, hiking and sports events, choir, Improv, theater, coffee houses, and many more. There were some others after my stay and sadly I cannot comment upon them.

I very much enjoyed my Improv experience, and it was something that helped me with my teaching. It was instructive to be on your feet, be alert and respond quickly. Comedy is all about timing and through this experience, teaching was not just sharing knowledge and information but responding to different situations and questions more spontaneously and without overthinking. It is a theory I tried to develop as “framed spontaneity.”

And yes, it also made the class much more fun and me funnier in the class. And our Improv group performed a few times in front our own community, but we also did a show to welcome undergrads, and we each got a T-shirt for it as a token of appreciation. This was to date my only official payment for doing Improv and I hope that we did not scare off the new students at the event.

At SJC, I did delve into sports too but with varying success. We had a field hockey team that ended up being the worst in the league – this is not hyperbole, but we were literally dead last just like the Vancouver Canucks this year. I remember at one point asking the ref for the score and it took him half a minute to count all the goals we had accumulated against us. I immediately regretted wanted to know. We also brought in a contraband goalie, my brother, to help our chances and it ended up destroying his confidence for good. He never was a goalie after this, and I take full responsibility for this outcome.

Yet, we also had two volleyball teams: there were the Eagles and the Eaglets. One of them was in it for competition, the other one was in it to have fun. I was in the fun category of course. Losing did not faze us, and we shrugged it off skillfully (some might say masterfully), but we did have one memorable showdown against our own competitive team. And that night, against all odds and perhaps because it came upon the heels of a gala dinner night where wine made me less scared of the volleyball, we won against our fellow Johanneans.

Some of the players in the competitive team were upset and did not talk to me for a whole week but that remained such an unforgettable event for us. I remember celebrating with R. (more on her later) that same night. Moral lesson: Never lose hope because one day, you will beat those who are better than you.

Apart from scheduled and impromptu events – quite a memorable one would be the infamous room crawl, but memories are hazy on that account yet I remember it was a blast and we may or may not have ended up dancing and potentially stripping on the pool table and there may or may not be a photo of this somewhere - there was also the monthly gala dinner where we all dressed up semi-formally and formally ate delicious food with a copious amount of wine.

Many pictures were taken at those events. Again, we are talking about an era before cellphones and digital cameras so there was effort involved in getting the film developed etc. and they were snapshots of precious moments. As I was reviewing them, there were some names that have been forgotten but it was wonderful to have a chance to check with residents at the SJC celebration event and most of those names have been fortunately recovered.

There are some faces I will never forget. Apart from dear friends, there are also my more than half a dozen crushes (you probably know who you are). There were a few I had the fortune to date very briefly but most of them remained out of reach due to my shyness at the time. Some of them could have turned into something more lasting but in one case, let’s call her R., I was not at my best. From the get-go it was casual and was not meant to be serious; that said, I appreciated her very much, but I don’t think I showed it enough. As she said to me once, SJC was my world and I was so enmeshed in it that I could not perceive any other place outside of it.

I might have denied it at the moment, but she was absolutely right and hit the nail on the head. SJC was my go-to fairy tale place that blurred the lines with reality. To get me out of my cocoon, R. devised a wonderful adventure. I was supposed to leave the premises and all I needed to take with me was a toothbrush. I was given a note with clear instructions (again no cellphones), and I had to follow them to the letter. I did so and for a moment the world outside of my residence came into focus. But the moment we returned to SJC; I fell into my trance and slumber. I was both hopeful and terrified to see R. at this final reunion, but she did not make it.

It is still hard to imagine that the building will no longer stand. When I moved in, it was still new; now there were some natural misgivings. Aging may be good for wine and even certain people but as a rule, this does not apply to building structures. I was told nay warned that my hallway had a peculiar and strange smell around it and our current tour avoided it like the pest. But I could not resist and had to see it or rather smell it for myself. And yes, there was something funky that had not been there in the past.

As mentioned earlier, the event was a three-day affair that included a pizza reception on Friday evening, a gala dinner on Saturday and a brunch on Sunday. I signed up for all three but was considering skipping the brunch. When I arrived at SJC, I noticed my name tag was missing. I assured them and I assure you now that I did register and pay and felt a bit sad that they had not included my name there. However, as I looked through the tags, there were certain names that I recognized and was looking forward to talk to those fellow alumni soon. I got to use a makeshift one for oneself.

As I sat there, more and more familiar faces trickled in. Most of them looked very similar to how I remembered them, one of them, don’t ask me how, looked even younger than I remembered him – yes, I’m looking at you Kent! – and it was interesting to hear that among those that had kids, they tended to be of the same age as my son. This created an interesting common bonding experience, a sort of biological rhythm with people I had not talked to in two decades. It was also great to see what they were up to and to update them on my own exploits and adventures.

This was quite the event after all and I even met someone amazing who moved in after me but like me had gotten a good portion of her studies and readings done at Wreck Beach! Although she went to see the beach again, I'm still slated to do so sometime soon. 

I did not skip the brunch after all. Unlike the breakfasts, this one was well attended. We were encouraged to do graffiti on the building and off the record were told that we could scrape off our room number sign. Although there were still a few people residing at SJC, they might be confused but would not have issues finding their room without the attached number. Or so we were told. Well, I sure hope so because I could not resist to take this lasting souvenir with me as a physical reminder of a very precious time in my life.

The old building will be gone, and the clocktower will be no more, which served as a quintessential meeting place – “meet me at the clocktower” was a common and easily understood phrase that facilitated our meetings and get-togethers. And I want to thank everyone directly and indirectly associated with St. John’s College: Chef Clarence for feeding and taking care of us all over all those years (he is happily retired now), my fellow Johanneans from the past, the current ones and those yet to come, and each and everyone for making this vibrant community last and prosper since time immemorial and for a long time to come. 

Novel Experiences and Their Effects on Memory: Reflections on Dr. Lila Davachi’s Quinn Memorial Lecture 2026

It is that time of the year again for me: To attend the annual lecture of the Quinn Memorial, which has become a dear tradition to me. I started going to these fascinating and memorable lectures more than a dozen years ago and it is something I look forward to every year. The only times I have missed the Quinn Memorial were due to the pandemic where it was canceled or due to other commitments, for instance, work or appointments that I could not escape from.

Let it also be stated that part of my own personal tradition includes the complimentary and much appreciated glass of wine (I usually opt for red) as well as a brief chat and a few questions for the renowned speaker, all reasons why an online option is not feasible and only half the experience.

This time around I did something I had not done previously: I invited a handful of people to come along with me. Doing new things or doing things differently with its effects on memory will be discussed further below but the main reason I had not done this before was that as a generally reserved and private person, I like to go there alone. That way I could pay close attention and take notes during the talk. Also, I felt that I could freely mingle afterwards and talk to other guests and meet a variety of people. As a final point, it was also because I did not feel that many people in my social circle would be genuinely interested in these types of talks and lectures.

As the subject coincided with an upcoming book club discussion of Andy Clark’s The Experience Machine (more on this later as well), I figured that there might be some interest and perhaps overlap with group members, but alas, yet again, I ended up going solo. It was a shame because it was another wonderful talk that I would have loved to share with likeminded friends, but I get it, people are busy; they have busy lives and priorities, or they may simply not be as interested in these events as myself.

But enough preamble and let’s dive in! The talk was entitled “The wisdom of the unconscious mind: offline reactivation consolidates, integrates, and updates knowledge” by Dr. Lila Davachi from Columbia University. The title may not be on par with the talk itself; first off, I must admit that the title on its own does not necessarily sound sexy or exciting and may be a bit too technical particularly with the added subtitle. At the same time, the lack of capitals takes away from the transformative features that were included in the lecture itself, and finally, although it deals with the unconscious, it is a bit of a misnomer because the talk was more about brain processes than the mind per se.

Sadly, not much psychoanalysis to speak of and on the topic of dreams, Dr. Davachi simply stated that neither she nor anybody else she is familiar with has any clue or idea why we dream and what its purpose may be. I differ on this matter, but she has a valid point in terms of memory retrieval and consolidation of course and that was the main focus of her talk.

There were interesting insights alongside a new understanding of how memories are formed, how they are strengthened and/or weakened and, as a language instructor,  I appreciated that she provided some useful tips and vital points on how to be able to consolidate them further so our memories and knowledge do not end up decomposing in the waste bin of our mind.

But what are the different processes that occur in the brain to ensure that we have memories in the first place? I remember from psych undergrad classes that memory was closely tied and connected with the hippocampus. And although that still holds true, the real story is much more complex and more intricate than that.

First off, there are two parts to memories, the encoding and then later its retrieval. The encoding is basically the input, which is then converted into a memory. This often occurs offline, that is the hippocampus replaying the information after the event. Yet the brain is not passive in any of this; it actively selects what to consolidate and what not. In other words, what is deemed relevant is offloaded and distributed to other cortical parts of the brain, and what is not is left behind and may be forgotten completely.

As a result, the memory becomes consolidated not just by replaying it but rather by having it play like an orchestra. If the memory itself is strong, that is salient, vivid and involves an emotional reaction, it becomes more resilient and has a much stronger survival rate. In fact, connectivity is crucial here and can protect against forgetting.

The retrieval itself can come from cues, with some of them being partial. This may be something we see or something someone says that then triggers a memory; we may actively look for specific information or try to recall an event in the past. This is also not only related to the context and the circumstances of the memory event, but it also depends on what happens afterwards, whether it is repeated consciously or subconsciously or not. Sometimes associations and associated occurrences can aid the memory to remain strong even in the face of time.

This can occur in different ways. One of them is reward. If we are expecting a certain reward, we may work harder to ensure that we can later recall the given information. Put differently, it is motivation that can ensure both short and long-term retrieval. This is even more prevalent when we have motivation to remember. Hence reward and repeated encodings improve memory retrieval. This is also true with any information that we prioritize, something that we cherish and value for whatever reason.

It is noteworthy that cortical networks are more stable than just the hippocampus. In this cortical dialogue and interaction, weak memories need to be replayed more than strong memories to ensure that they can be recalled at a later time. There is also a significant difference between recalling simple standalone episodic events versus the gist of the situations and with it some overlapping details. When memories are clustered together, they tend to be more resistant to the erosion of time.

Interestingly, the same can be applied to routine memories if they are combined with novel and interesting or intriguing information. For instance, social and special novelty helps both mood and memory. Going out of your way to take on different activities or to take a different route will not only help you better recall the new information, but it will also make you feel better, excited and aroused. At the same time, all this will color your regular routine actions and make them stand out more than previously or otherwise.

Let’s face it, if you are living on autopilot, your routine actions become a muddled and indiscriminate mess of sorts, and you would either confuse them or forget them altogether. But the moment you encounter something or someone new on your regular path, you remember everything much more vividly and in greater detail while also feeling good about the whole experience.

This is your cue to get out and do something differently. When you do this, you will feel more alive and remember it much better. Carpe diem may not just be about going out there and taking risks but also trying out something new and different. Sure it can involve minimal or moderate amounts of risk but more importantly, just stepping out of your comfort zone or regular routine can indeed aid your overall memory in this case.

Now to return to my book club reading of Andy Clark’s book. His theory is that the brain is not just a passive recipient of sensory information but that it plays an active role in the process. It is not just encoding and processing the information that crosses its path but it constantly tries to predict what will happen.

When the prediction is correct, we can save time and energy and focus on things of greater importance to us. This is not unlike our experience of driving. When we start off, we need to pay close attention to everything around us and try our best to move this metal box in a safe and sound manner. But after time, it becomes more innate and automatic and our brain takes over the driving until or unless something surprising and unexpected occurs needing our attention.

So, during the reception I had the opportunity to ask Dr. Davachi about the brain predicting events and whether salient information would help us remember them better. She said that most likely we would. I then asked her whether the new incoming information would override the previous predictive pattern or maybe have us forget it altogether and replace it with something new.

She said that it depended on how strong the pattern was encoded, whether it was part of a weak or a strong memory. If we took that path more than a dozen times, we may just carry on with as it may be resistant to a single episodic memory or minimal incongruent information. Hence, in the case that the pattern has been more entrenched, it would not be so easily abandoned and replaced.

All this has also some relevance with trauma and traumatic events. They can lead to rumination, which can occur both online and offline. Yet at the same time, they may also become stronger because the brain would read certain cues in that particular light and frame of mind. Hence, for a war survivor, any loud noise can be seen as a potential threat where fireworks or car exhaust backfires may feel threatening.

Yet, on the flip side, good experiences will fill us with positive feelings, and we would look forward to other or similar events. In my case, this was yet another outstanding and memorable event that makes me look forward to the next one, regardless of whether I shall be accompanied or not.

Rock on, Disco Sucks! The Explosive Music Culture War

When disco became mainstream, it was already much more than merely music. Disco was a colorful umbrella that hosted and included a lifestyle, a sense of fashion, a sub-culture, and a mentality, whereas for certain parts of the population, it also represented a viable threat to their own understanding and perception of music and of the world.

This is why disco caused a strong backlash from people who with their heart and soul embraced rock’n’roll; they suddenly felt that they were being pushed in the background and eroded by a music genre that they despised. It all culminated in an explosive encounter and a riot at a Disco Demolition night on a baseball field essentially burying this genre once and for all. The backlash against the Beatles for John Lennon’s infamous Jesus comments pales in comparison to this.

To understand why there was such hatred against disco, we must look at its origin. This type of music started off underground, and it was played at gay nightclubs to great acclaim. A certain distinct and often over-the-top fashion sense went hand in hand with the genre. Yet because it was catchy and there were beats to groove to, disco spread like wildfire. More and more women took part in these parties, and they brought their own lavish styles with them, which could not help but raise the curiosity of heterosexual men as well.

After a while, it came as no surprise that colored women singers would not only embrace this music but add their own touch and flourishes to the genre. In a sense, this added to the budding sense of feminism, and it is perhaps nowhere as clear and distinct as in Gloria Gaynor’s hit “I will survive.” Not only was she telling off her ex, but she did so in a groovy style.  As we can note, race, feminism, and political aspirations were embodied with disco from its outset. Basically, disco took the demonstrations for equal rights of homosexuals and women away from the streets and onto the dance floor.

The turning point was of course the quintessential classic Saturday Night Fever which popularized both the music and the dance moves and made it accessible to everyone regardless of gender or race. Disco became universal and by extension even more egalitarian and moved from the underground to the foreground and into everyone’s living room. Soon enough, radios switched to disco whether it be The Bee Gees or various other bands and musicians of the times, and yes, that includes The Village People. This was a decisive shift from more rock-oriented riffs to groovy beats on the radio waves.

Enter rock’n’roll enthusiast Steve Dahl who literally suffered the consequences. In fact, he is considered one of the first shock jocks who was, like Howard Stern, not afraid to speak his mind on the radio and who would share inappropriate and controversial comments with, for, and for the sake of his audience. Yet overnight - and it happened to be Christmas Eve and right after he and his wife had opted to buy a house - Steve lost his job because of disco. This did not sit well, and he vowed to fight back.

The term that become popular at the time was Disco sucks and rock aficionado Steve Dahl took a jab whenever he could. This ubiquitous slogan then appeared on signs, banners, and T-shirts throughout the country but it all culminated in an event that Steve Dahl helped organize: The disco demolition night where people were encouraged to bring their disco records; these would then be carried to the baseball field only to have them exploded with good old-fashioned dynamite. This event that occurred on July 12, 1979, at Comiskey Park in Chicago was intended as a Major League Baseball promotion but ended up in a full-out riot with significant damages and destruction to property, equipment, and the field itself.

The crowd was predominantly young white males most of whom were not baseball fans and were half or fully drunk right before and when the "disco explosions" occurred. Although Steve himself strongly denies it and says it was all about the music, there are elements of race and ethnicity, and sexual orientation at play that cannot be overlooked or ignored in this case.

Yet these gender and racial differences tend to be also embodied in the respective genres themselves. Rock’n’roll has a masculine attitude attached and embodied within it. A stereotypical rock star would be someone who drinks a lot, does drugs, also a lot, behaves irresponsibly on stage, off stage and in hotel rooms and then caps his day by having a lot of sex with many different female fans and groupies. Rock stars are expected to act in that way and hence are given carte blanche to this excessive and aggressive lifestyle. After all, their own self-professed slogan is sex, drugs, and rock’n’roll and they believed they had to live up to it.

Disco, on the other hand, is a whole different beast. It is about dancing, peace, sweat, sensuality, and love, as well as lovemaking. It is basically better-looking and better-dressed hippies moving their hips and their whole body to specific beats.

That said, the disco lifestyle, however, was not immune to drug use either, with cocaine being the yuppie choice. All this was encouraged with the opening of Studio 54, a very poplar discotheque that was all about style, even more so than the music. So much so that the owner would personally select and decide who looked good and fashionable enough to be allowed entry to the premises. The rest would have to go home, lick their wounds and wounded pride for the night, only to hope for a better fate or prepare a more outrageous costume next time around.  

All this ended overnight right after the riot at Disco Demolition. This was a major fiasco, and nobody wanted to have any of it. Radios stopped playing disco music on their waves and rock made it back on, at least temporarily. This meant that certain social progress was suddenly cut short and undermined while many black female singers lost their jobs and income overnight. Interestingly, this was somewhat similar to Steve’s fate although he ended up doing fine in the end.

Yet do not fret and do not cry for the lost and forlorn heydays of disco. Disco may have stopped but it did not die. In fact, it transformed and was reborn in what is known as house music, and it really brought DJs to the forefront. The groovy beats continued still albeit in a different form and with much less resistance the second time around. And rock’n’roll may have become a relic of the past but it still rocks.