a hobo stayed here, last winter

I don't know much about Iceland. My last name isn't Sigurdsson, and the only historic Viking I've ever cared much for, if at all, was Randy Moss. But this weekend, for lack of both a) better alternative and b) very much gas money, a few of us headed to Gimli to take in the Icelandic festival - Islendingadagurinn.

Really, that’s what it's called. Try saying that with an Invisalign.

A closer drive than most weekend getaways, Gimli is actually a very decent beach town when everyone isn't seven-"beer"-deep and wearing plastic, horned helmets. Every year, the township of Gimli throws a soirée-of-sorts at the local rec centre, and reels in a swarm of fine, young individuals. Yes, there was a plethora of pooka shells, flip flops, and Kokanee on tap, but there were also a handful of wonderful people with whom I'm always game to dance.

'When in Rome', they say, so with styrofoam coolers packed too tight with cheap beer, little makeup, and high hopes, we amused ourselves with the rest of the fair skinned, blonde headed masses.

Later, Cliff had some of us back to his perfectly retro (yet sadly underused) beach abode to pass-out. Hospitable to most, with the exclusion of few. No foxes allowed. Quite snug amid wood-paneled walls, we slept soundly until sunrise, then beached, brunched and left back home for the city.