05/31/2025 - Ísafjörður, Iceland

I couldn’t say no. Who could? You’re invited to go drinking with a bunch of crusty Icelanders and you’re going to say no? Of course not. The sacred oath of any traveler: when invited to a party with locals, you say yes.

I had just finished working my shift at Tjöruhúsið, doing my best to dole out fish and beer inside the small barn in Ísafjörður. I was spent, physically and emotionally. I’m always surprised how much these projects take out of me - shadowing Haukur around for a day, taking notes, photos, listening, observing, pulling at threads to see what stories unravel. Add in getting to work a shift at the restaurant and by the end of the day I had nothing left.

But it was a big night. After the plates were cleared, tables wiped, and patrons gone, the staff - all six or so of us - hung around after hours. A motley crew of local kids from the Ísafjörður area, probably the handful that could reliably show up to work each day.

It was Arnar’s birthday. He was a good kid, early twenties, born and raised in Ísafjörður, and looked exactly like you’d expect - tall, slender, light blond hair, blue eyes. He’d worked at Tjöruhúsið for a few years and was one of the longest-tenured members of the brigade. In my days hanging around the restaurant, he’d helped show me the ropes and cover my ass when I was looking like a fool. He was also eager to talk, clearly intrigued by my presence up in the Westfjords. Not that I could give him any good answers, but I think meeting an American who also liked to talk was a refreshing curiosity.

Chatter rang through the rafters and the old wooden floors creaked as people scurried about, pouring beer and prepping for birthday festivities. Haukur ambled over to the record player and inspected his collection. During his twenties he’d lived in Ísafjörður working as a journalist and playing in a rock band on the side. The music was in good hands.

So the vinyl spun, the music played, and the Icelanders bantered - slipping between Icelandic and English - while I quietly sipped my Viking lager.

“Do you want to come?” Arnar eventually asked. I’d been drifting in and out of attention and looked at him quizzically.