It Was Not My Birthday–Reykjavik’s Small Lie

It all started because of a tiny white lie, but by the time we tried to catch it by its tail, it was too late. It was Saturday night in Reykjavik, Iceland, and the Spring crowd was itching for a party.

“Let’s go for it,” I murmured to Paul while keeping an eye on the growing crowd in the bar of the Apotek Hotel in downtown Reykjavik. I fluffed the large, colorful pillows behind my back on the bench seat as we surveyed the tight of group of people waiting for dinner reservations or drinks in the bar.   

“It’s 8,900 kroner,” Paul replied sipping his martini. “Do you think we need a $75 dollar dessert?” He pointed to the cost of the humdinger in the menu and tapped his finger on the price.

“It comes with fireworks,” I said lifting my chin to the ginger-haired waiter. “How often do you get fireworks?” I asked and placed our order.

The Apotek hotel is located in the center of the city. Large windows face out onto Althingisagardurinn Street, where restaurants, a church, and the original parliament building, Althingi, straddle the city park. The hotel was originally known as the “Reykjavík Apothecary” or Reykjavíkur Apótek. It was designed and built in 1917 and renovated in 2014. Think of it as an iconic building as well as a hotel. It is an architectural gem in the city as well as party central.

“You know it’s her birthday,” Paul commented as the waiter placed my rosy, pink gin drink on the table in front of us.

“Really?” the waiter’s face brightened. ‘I’ll tell the wait staff.” He turned away.

“Wait,” I called. “Will you take our picture when it comes?” He nodded and hurried out of the room.

That is how the innocent lie was spun.

Slam!

The front door opened and shut in the ferocious Icelandic wind. A large, blonde man with Nordic-blooming red cheeks wearing electric blue, spandex jogging pants sauntered to the corner of the room where an aging, but carefully put together, woman was cocooned in the far window of pillows and fluffy, wool blankets. He held out his arms and roared hello. The woman jumped up and wrapped her tiny legs around his torso.

“My goodness,” I whispered to Paul and sipped my pink concoction.

“Shhh,” Paul said staring at his phone. He was working on a deal back at home, and as long as I didn’t wrap my legs around his waist and make a scene, he was content.

Slam!

A large family squeezed past the door and into the vestibule. The mother had that look of exhaustion I remembered from 25 years ago. She was literally on her lips, or her last leg, or just one moment short of hysteria. Her husband looked around for the restroom and ditched her with two children under the age of six and her elderly in-laws standing next to the largest window facing the park. The kids immediately climbed up onto the bench and began blowing wet bubbles on the glass. The mother sank onto the jewel-tone hassock and peeled the jackets off the kids.

“She needs a drink,” I observed and tipped my head in her general direction.

“Sshh,” Paul said under his breath. “You have no idea how your voice can carry in a small room like this.”

Slam!

We all looked towards the door as a young, twenty-something woman with impossibly long legs with equally impossibly long blond hair burst into the bar. She sashayed into the noisy, bright room wearing patent leather black boots that stretched above her knees. Up top, a short rabbit fur jacket grazed the top of her bare tummy. Paul lowered his phone to peek at her.

“Better not. Remember, it’s my birthday,” I said slightly louder than necessary as the woman took off her coat and shook out her platinum tresses.

“Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday to you,” three waiters bearing a large copper platter of desserts rounded the corner and placed the enormous tray in front of me. A fireworks cone in the middle of the ice cream and cake hit its stride and began spurting fire in earnest. Dried ice snuggled around the dishes began to smoke and waft towards us grower thicker and thicker.

People began clapping and whistling and Mr. Spandex stood up and motioned the bar to join him in singing happy birthday.

“Sing, Paul.” I said under my breath. “The birthday girl can’t sing to herself.”

Paul looked at me and warbled weakly as the ginger-haired waiter took my camera and clicked a few pictures.

“Thank you,” I said smiling at him as I dug into a pink, rosebud piece of cake.

“This was more than I expected,” Paul said rotating the tray to him. I placed one finger on it and stopped it in its tracks.

“If you touch the rosebud cake, I’ll make a scene.” I let the platter swirl towards Paul and licked my spoon.

“Happy birthday, dear girl, you don’t look a day over fifty,” the large Nordic man and his girlfriend patted my shoulder with enormous hands. “Goodbye,” they called.

Thank you, my fifty-eight years love you odd people. I thought.

I looked down and a sticky child with defeated brown pig tails stared up at me.

“Here,” I said sighing and held out two macaroons. “One for your brother too.” She scampered back to her mother and buried her face in her mother’s shirt. When she sat up a chocolate smear was emblazoned across her mother’s chest.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” I said to Paul. “Touch the rosebud cake and you will regret it.” He nodded and dug into a caramel-looking flan.

When I emerged from the toilet, there she was—tall boots, short jacket, fake hair.

“Oh hello,” she said smiling, “Happy birthday!” She had a pile of bobby pins scattered next to the sink. One by one she pinned them up into some secret location in her hair. “How old are you?”

I thought for a minute. All this subterfuge was getting tiring. “As old as your mother, dear.”

“I don’t think so,” she said with the bobby pins clenched in her teeth. “My mum’s not forty yet.”

“So,” I said slowly as I did the math, “You are saying I am like your grandmother’s age.”

“About sixty?” she smiled dazzlingly.

“Not quite but yes.”

“Yep, that’s how old my mum’s mum is.”

I thought of all the comebacks I could possibly summon in that moment.  My mind went blank. This girl’s life was a blank slate. She had no idea how many dumb men she would date much less might marry. She had no idea that menopause would make her waist into a tree trunk. Someday she too would pee when she laughed and fart when she snorted. I knew in that moment that I needed to hug that mother in the bar and bless that woman who loved the man in spandex.

“Have a great life,” I said over my shoulder.

Slam! The Icelandic wind wound its way through the Apotek hotel and restaurant and closed the door firmly on my exit.