Author: Kim Nelson

Iceland Diaries: Arrival in Reykjavík

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It’s impossible to visit Iceland and not fall in love with it. Kurt and I, along with 6 of our good friends, just came back from an 8-day trip on the northern Atlantic island nation, and I can’t stop thinking about it. With a few more friends planning upcoming trips and asking for advice, I figured I’d write up my travel diaries so I can keep my notes in one easy-to-access place.

Friday, Feb. 10/Saturday, Feb. 11

Our flight left O’Hare on Friday night at 6:30 p.m., and landed in Reykjavík the next morning at 6:35 p.m. We also learned shortly before our departure that the night of Feb. 10 would also see a full moon, lunar eclipse, and a comet passing close to Earth. Given these unusual circumstances lining up together, I joked that we’d have Outlander-esque conditions lined up to accidentally travel through time and arrival in feudal Iceland, to which my friend replied “Geothermal Tub Time Machine?”

We tried to get some decent sleep on the plane, and landed in Rekjavík without incident or unexpected time travel. First things first, we followed the advice of our Airbnb host and stocked up on beer, wine, and booze at the airport Duty Free. We had been warned that alcohol in Reykjavík is extremely expensive, and we could get it for nearly half the price at the airport, which is something even the locals do.  Afterwards, we took a Flybus (roughly $20 in USD per person, a pretty good deal) for the 50-minute drive from the airport to the Reykjavík bus terminal. Our Airbnb wasn’t ready until 2 p.m., so we stowed our luggage in the large lockers at the bus terminal, which were roomy enough to fit 2 fully packed bags, or house a down-on-his-luck muppet.*

Reykjavík

Reykjavík

We walked into town, and kicked off our trip by taking the elevator to the top of the bell tower of Hallgrimskirkja, a cathedral. It offered one of the best views of all of Reykjavik and was a nice way to start our day. Afterwards, we got coffee and a traditional breakfast across the street at Cafe Loki. I picked a sampler plate and gave the fish paste on toast and sheep’s head jelly a whirl (mostly because I wasn’t entirely sure what I ordered). I’m a pretty adventurous eater and finished most of my plate.

img_0159After walking around a bit and checking out some shops, we picked our bags up from the bus terminal and checked into our Airbnb. Our house was conveniently located just a few blocks from all of the bars and restaurants on Laufásvegur. Even with 7 people, the house was roomy and comfortable. A few people napped while the rest of us sampled our Icelandic beers in the kitchen. We weren’t that into the Viking Light, so we’d have to give Viking Hev** a shot later.

Once everyone woke up, showered, and assembled themselves, we had our first group dinner at Vegemót Bistro Bar. Just as we’d been warned, it’s pretty impossible to get a meal in Rekjavík for less than $25-30, even a burger and fries. Beers are an additional $12-14. The flash sales on IcelandAir may convince you that Iceland will be an affordable vacation spot, but once you land, it’s an entirely different story. At least dinner was good. We followed up with drinks at Ölstofan, which reminded me of the Ukrainian Village bar scene circa 2002. Memories get murkier after we moved on to Bar Ananas, a tiki bar where Icelandic rappers happened to be performing. Outgoing Americans that we are, we chatted with a few locals including one performer who I decided to call “Icelandic Justin Timberlake” for the rest of the night (it was the hair). After many rounds of Einstok, we staggered back to the Airbnb to catch up on an overdue full night of sleep.

*Who doesn’t love a Great Muppet Caper reference?

**similar to Bud Hev

Hello 2017

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Oh 2016, you started with taking David Bowie and ended with us all feeling second-hand embarrassment for Mariah Carey. You ran our emotions through a meat grinder (I started reading The Princess Diarist by Carrie Fisher today and couldn’t get through the first 2 pages without tearing up). You gave us a sentient Cheeto who live-tweets every one of his temper tantrums and made him our President-elect. Looking ahead to this fresh new year, I may be crazy but I’m hopeful. Maybe it’s because 2017 still has that new car smell, or maybe it’s because I love making New Year resolutions as an opportunity to set goals that I’m excited about. I was successful in all of my 2016 resolutions except for one (to start a Twitter parody account, but that was a silly one anyways and I became too busy handling social media for Drinkers with Writing Problems). I also managed to hit a big goal that I hadn’t spelled out for myself, which was to pay off my credit card debt by the end of the year.

My resolutions for 2017:

  • do a sugar detox for the month of January. Diabetes runs rampant in my family and I have a weakness for pastries, chocolate, and ice cream. I’m taking a month off to break the habit and make better decisions about what I eat.
  • carve out at least 3 hours a week for writing. Don’t beat myself up when Life takes over, but don’t make easy excuses for myself either. I want to finish the first draft of the new novel I’m currently working on before next New Year’s Eve.
  • return to yoga and start a mindful meditation practice.
  • start putting more money into savings, which should be easier now that I paid off my credit cards.
  • seize opportunities at work to expand my role and branch out into new responsibilities.

It goes without saying that in 2017, I will appreciate all of the many things in my life that I’m super grateful for: my incredible family and friends, the many adventures I share with my husband and best friend, my home, my health, and every morning I get to wake up and seize another day.

 

 

New York

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The line outside the bar was one-in-one-out. My friend and I huddled in the December wind on a street in New York’s West Village, waiting for enough patrons to exit so we could be let inside. The bar was a half level below the sidewalk, and piano music and raucous singing drifted through the window near our feet. It was around 10 p.m. We had spent the day doing other vacation-y things: brunch in Brooklyn, visiting the New Museum where locals took selfies to a whole new level, cocktails in a speakeasy hidden off of a hot dog joint in St. Marks Place. Now, we were here–waiting to get into a packed-to-capacity piano bar that solely played Broadway show tunes. As the line inched forward, we made our way to the front and then inside. The small, packed bar area exploded with sound; a full capacity bar was singing at the tops of their lungs “How we gonna pay… how we gonna pay… how we gonna pay… LAST YEAR’S RENT?!”

I grew up worshipping MGM musicals with the same fervor my classmates had for hair bands; Gene Kelly was my Brett Michaels. In high school, I found my Happy Place when I was cast in my first real musical (outside of a grade school production called In Quest of Columbus where I played the railing of the Santa Maria).  While my all-girls Catholic high school in a north Chicago suburb was hardly the setting of Fame, I had at least found a place among the teenagers whose CD collections were dominated by original cast recordings. When people learned my name was Kim, they typically responded by blurting back Miss Saigon lyrics: “I have a heart like the seeeeaaa…… A million dreams are in meeeeee!”

img_9656At Marie’s Crisis Cafe, I was once again among my people. It’s hard to explain the power of music, the way it creates a sense of community and gives a venue full of people a shared–at times transcendent–experience. Hedwig sang it best: “All the misfits and the losers, well you know you’re rock and rollers, spinning to your rock and roll…” In the packed bar, regulars mixed in with tourists; a decent amount of patrons appeared to still be wearing stage makeup from earlier in the night. Most of the crowd recognized a song from the first few chords, and the energetic vocals from the pianist helped the stragglers catch up. There were enough professionals and music buffs present to break out into harmonies, fill in the backup chorus, and interject lines of dialogue. We broke out into goofy grins and joyous laughter each time we recognized a song, then dove right into belting it out along with everyone else. It was impossible to be unhappy in a place like this, where even the most jaded New Yorker wasn’t too cool to sing “Little Surrey with the Fringe on Top” in public. We tore through numbers from Chicago, Little Shop of Horrors, Mary Poppins, Hedwig & the Angry Inch, Oklahoma, Les Miserables, Showboat, and A Chorus Line while throwing back cheap domestic beers in the cramped tavern. We sang until 3 a.m., when we reluctantly called it a night and caught the subway back to our rented apartment. With the piano playing on in my head, I thought back to all those nights on the stage, with pancake makeup on my face and my feet crammed into character shoes, finding my joy through music and performing. A million dreams are in me.

 

 

Thoughts on November 10

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This is pretty much a brain dump, so bear with me.

It’s been a rollercoaster of a week. On Monday evening, I went to an early voting polling place near my house on the northwest side of Chicago. After the moment I touched the screen to pick Hillary’s name, I paused and let myself savor the small but historic moment. Tears gathered in my eyes.

It would be the first of many, many times I’ve cried this week, and the only time that the tears were happy.

Yesterday, we woke up to confirmation that many peoples’ worst nightmare came true. I cried for multitudes of reasons, among them being that the horrific racism and xenophobia we’ve witnessed over the course of the campaign season had won. I cried because it was a perfect example of why so few women report their sexual assaults: they get called liars while the men who perpetrate these crimes get away with it (or get elected president). I know that people had their reasons for voting who they voted for, but I cried because they were willing to overlook the fact that minorities, immigrants, the LGBTQ community, Muslim Americans, and all other marginalized groups would suffer because of how they marked their ballot. Everything felt broken on multiple levels.

I don’t want to write any further about the election itself because it’s all been said by people much more eloquent than me. But I do want to share what I did to get through the ugliness of yesterday and how I managed to find some catharsis and even joy. I connected with my people through texts, Facebook, Twitter, and secret discussion groups where we all felt like we could be safe to share our feelings without someone chiming in to pick an ugly fight while our feelings were so raw. You can rail on the concept of social media all you want, but yesterday, it was my salvation.

And through social media, we made a plan to go out and sing karaoke together. I arrived at the bar first, and as my friends walked in, we all began to cry again, but we were able to give each other much-needed hugs. Then we all began to sing. Lyrics took on whole new meanings under the circumstance of events, and we laughed-cried, shouted the words together, and danced.

“We are strong, no one can tell us we’re wrong, searching our hearts for so long, love is a battlefield”

“Soul, I hear you calling, oh baby please give a little respect to me”

“Oh I’m just a girl, all pretty and petite, so don’t let me have any rights. Oh, I’ve had it up to here”

It was emotional and loud and cathartic and exactly what we all needed. Shit may have just gotten very, very real, but I will always be able to turn to music to help me cope. When you’re several beers into the night and running the mic on a divey karaoke place with people you love, playing air guitar and drunk-wailing “Don’t Stop Believing,” you can remember that there is joy to be found in this world.

I see others using pop culture to cope: gifs of Harry Potter’s friends raising their wands in solidarity, or the people of District 12 raising their hands saluting the Mockingjay, or photos of Mal from Firefly with the caption “May have been the losing side. Still not convinced it was the wrong one.” I see people turning to literature and poetry: “Do not go gentle into that good night.” “Don’t let the bastards grind you down.” Art is our place of solace, or our battle cry, or a voice for the voice we need when we’ve lost our own. Art is important. Even Pat Benatar.

 

Spring Green, Wisconsin

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img_9219October is my favorite month, and every year I love to revel in it as much as I can. Shockingly, we haven’t done fall camping in Wisconsin before, so we recently righted this wrong and visited the Spring Green area for a beautiful weekend outdoors with friends.


We arrived at Friday night at our favorite campground, which is nestled against the Wisconsin River. After setting up our tents, we stopped by the local bar for some Spotted Cows and burgers, then spent the rest of the night enjoying the crisp coolness and crackling campfire. The temperature hovered in the 50’s,  and a mist lingered on the surface of the water, like ghosts rising from graves.

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On Saturday, Kurt and I had booked a double-header of local, spooky exploration. First, we went on a tour of Taliesin, Frank Lloyd Wright’s home and studio in Spring Green. The home was originally completed in 1911, and was designed and built for Wright’s mistress, Mamah Borthwick. Horrifically, she was murdered in the home along with her children and several workers; the killer was a disgruntled servant who set the house on fire and attacked the victims with an axe as they tried to flee for their lives. Before booking the tour, I had no idea about the home’s tragic history. This added cast another dimension to the tour, as we imagined Wright’s grief and the weight of his loss as we walked the halls and looked out the windows that framed landscapes of the hills and valleys.

img_9212After the tour, we joined up with our friends for the next destination: the House on the Rock. The original house was built by Alex Jordan, an architect who had a tense rivalry with Frank Lloyd Wright. The Japanese-inspired design was a direct nod to Wright’s personal aesthetic. As Jordan grew older, he turned into an eccentric recluse. He had his friends who traveled the world bring back trinkets and oddities to add to his growing collections. The tour includes the original house plus the grounds that hold (among other items): a dollhouse collection, a warehouse-sized replica of a squid fighting a whale, rows of suits of armor, music machines that take up entire rooms, and the world’s largest carousel. More of a museum than a house, the attraction is dimly lit and random music played by mechanical violins and horns drifts down the halls. Some of the older machines aren’t quite in tune, making everything seem even more surreal and slightly askew.  A friend once perfectly described the house as “like being inside somebody else’s nightmare.”

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And yet, this wasn’t even the main event of our trip; that came a few hours later. We went back to the campsite to make dinner over the fire, have a few beers, and rest after spending the day on our feet. Once the sun set, a few of us who sought more thrills drove back to the House on the Rock for The Dark Side experience. In the few hours between closing the main attraction and reopening, parts of the grounds were turned into a haunted house. We started down an outdoor path lit solely by torches, turning into a human knot as we clung to each other, seeking protection. None of us had been to the Dark Side version of the house before, and we had no idea what to expect. To add to the horror, we seemed to be the onlyimg_9261people there… until a clown leapt out of the shadows and spooked the shit out of us. We dissolved into the nervous laughter that immediately follows a jump scare. The clown silently gestured us toward a path back into the house. Inside, the lights were now completely turned off, and occasional strobe lights burst through the space like lightning. We walked into the carousel room, which was (even more) eerily lit, making the wooden animals appear nightmarish and leering. For the next 40 minutes, we wound our way back past dollhouses, empty suits of armor, and through the Organ Room. Along the way, other ghouls and zombies leapt out at us from the shadows, startling us into more screams.

We drove back to camp on an unlit country road, through the darkness of the trees. A cheery campfire greeted us, and we joined our friends for beers and boxed wine under a harvest moon.

 

 

City Museum, St. Louis

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A week ago, I drove to St. Louis, MO, for the day with my sister Lauren to see a concert. We arrived early and had several hours to kill, so we took up the suggestion of one of Lauren’s friends who recommended visiting the City Museum.  We knew very little about the museum before we walked through the front doors.

img_8835The City Museum is difficult to describe; often called a playground for adults or a artsy funhouse, it is 600,000 square feet of weirdness. Upon entering, Lauren and I faced a large atrium where we were attacked by stimuli in every direction: a long slide full of shrieking children, a giant tunnel whose entrance was the mouth of a white whale, columns covered in shards of mirrors, mosaic-tiled sloping floors, a ceiling dripping with silvery feathers.

When I looked for a map, I saw a sign that stated no maps existed; the purpose of the museum was to let yourself get lost and find your own route, making discoveries along the way. Lauren and I began walking through the first floor. We heard noises above us and looked up to see people in the ceiling, crawling through wire-framed human habitrails. Ramps and stairs took us to dark corners and hidden alcoves; I wouldn’t have minded having my camping headlamp. Upon entering one of the tunnels, we saw that the way out was to climb through a hole in the floor.

img_8768“I am too hungover to go down that,” Lauren said. We backtracked and found another way through.

The City Museum reminded me of the House on the Rock in Spring Green, Wisconsin, another twisty-turny maze of curiosities, arty weirdness, and bizarro reality. As we traveled up to the City Museum’s roof, the spirit of the place began to inhabit us. I defied my fear of heights to climb into an airplane frame hovering in the sky, 10 flights above St. Louis’s sidewalks. I got down on my hands and knees to pass through a crawlspace in order to access a spherical birdcage suspended in the air. We rode a 10-story tornado slide from the roof to the caves; the slide circled a dark stairwell and as I shuttled around the dimly-lit tight curves, I could imagine myself passing into another dimension. We tried to escape the large cave, trying one tunnel after another which all seemed to lead us back to a rock formation lit by a glowing crystal. Somewhere on another floor, an organ began to play, and its haunting music drifted to where we stood lost in the dark.

The museum reawakened memories of our favorite childhood fantasy movies from childhood and beyond, causing us to make references such as:

  • “I halfway expect to turn a corner and drop into a shaft where the Helping Hands from Labyrinth carry me down.”
  • Are those the oracles from Neverending Story? Do we need to pass a test to get through?
  • “This looks like the cave where Jon Snow lost his virginity.”

Our explorations ended in MonstroCity, an outdoor garden of ball pits with a snack bar. My palms and knees were dirty from crawling through tunnels, my clothes were grubby, and the muscles in my legs and arms twanged from pushing my way up cargo nets and down ladders. For a few hours on a Friday, I wasn’t a 37-year-old adult; I was a kid testing the tensile strength of something I wanted to climb. I was an explorer, willingly lost. I was someone who refused to believe that the fantasy worlds I grew up loving were anything other than real.

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So tired.

/ Kim Nelson / 2 Comments

Sunday mornings are typically my favorite time of the week–I can sleep in as late as I want (or as late as I can, since at this point in my life since I’ve grown too old to sleep very late anymore; God remember those decadent college days of being able to sleep in until the early afternoon? I can’t even imagine), then get up to enjoy a cup of coffee while reading a book and eating fresh pastries. Today, however, my Sunday morning would not be easy and peaceful. Instead, I saw the news from Orlando and the horrific mass shooting that occurred in the early hours. At the time, 20 were confirmed dead, but the body count would grow to a staggering 50 deaths. 50 souls that would never again enjoy a quiet Sunday morning. And once again, just like after Newtown, Virginia Tech, Aurora, Paris, and so very many other incidents, my heart grew weary. I’m exhausted. I can’t process yet another one of these events. I don’t understand it. I feel helpless to do anything to make things better.

I emailed my senator, congressmen, and representatives urging them to do more to end gun violence. I turned to social media to share links about donating blood and talking to those in the LGBTQ community who need all the love and support they can get today. I ‘liked’ similar posts, leaving a trail of sad face and angry face emoji like breadcrumbs across the internet. I cried. I donated money to a GoFundMe account to help the surviving families. I went to my favorite workout class and sweated, smiled, and danced it out to songs by RuPaul, Lady Gaga, Madonna, Christina Aguilera–all icons vocally supportive of equality and each person’s right to love freely, openly, and happily. When the cooldown song came on, the Carpenters’  “Sing a Song,” I felt tears prick my eyes. The words were so simple and clear; we all have voices and the ability to put good into the world. Sometime I feel like mine gets lost, drowned out by all of the noise and arguments and rants. Every day I go on social media and feel my blood boil, especially during this heated election season, when all of these issues are so complicated and layered and people insist on oversimplifying into meme-on-meme warfare. I just can’t anymore. I’m so tired. I know most feel like me. And yet we keep circling the drain, doing nothing to make anything better. Oftentimes, I shut down to avoid more arguing. But maybe I am part of the problem. Maybe we all need to talk more, but I think what’s been missing the whole time is the other, crucial half: listening to each other, face to face.

Camp Colorado

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I’ve been pretty sporadic about blogging on this page, but it’s funny looking back to see that that the times I jumpstart activity again are right around the changing of the seasons. Nature has always been one of my biggest inspirations, along with pop culture, which makes it a little tricky to figure out my ‘brand’ for this blog. Do I write about hiking or TV, my favorite campsite or my opinions on Kanye? Obviously, it doesn’t matter. This blog is really just a place where I post rambling stories, observations, and lists in order to keep myself writing regularly. Come for the pretty pictures of mountains, stay for the geekery.

IMG_7861On to my most recent camping experience! Over Memorial Day weekend, Kurt and I went on our first outdoor adventure of 2016. It was a destination trip to Boulder, Colorado, where we visited some good friends who moved out west. We arrived minutes before a hailstorm, which pounded onto the tented roof of the Denver International Airport like experimental noise rock. Dodging pebble-sized ice balls, we hopped into the shuttle to the care rental place which gave us a Nissan Altima instead of the Kia Rio we booked online, so sadly, we did not get to drive into Boulder like cool hamsters.

After hanging out in Boulder for a night, we drove to Golden Gate Canyon State Park for a few days of camping. In typical high-altitude Colorado fashion, the weather alternated between 70 degrees in the sun to 55 and raining when the clouds rolled in, then back again in minutes. We learned upon arrival that the state park does not allow anything to be attached to trees (#hammockfail) and we did not bring a free-standing canopy, so the guys erected a makeshift shelter using fallen branches, rope, and water jugs as anchors, after an amusing tarp-measuring contest. The next few days were heaven: cool mornings with delicious coffee from our friends’ café in Boulder, days spent climbing rocks and hanging out near lakes, afternoons and evenings relaxing around the campfire, cooking cans of chili, playing card games, drinking local craft beers, and watching the stars come out.

On Sunday, Kurt and I packed up our tents, said goodbye to our friends who were camping another night, and drove into Golden to shower because we had tickets to see My Morning Jacket at Red Rocks. I’ve been dying to see a show there, and it lived up to my expectations (though I’m glad I received the pro-tip beforehand to pee right when you enter because climbing the stairs over and over is brutal). The view of the stage is breathtaking (literally, I was dying after all of those stairs), with a backdrop of Denver’s lights in the distance.

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Stop! Pano time

MMJ put on a memorable show, playing for three hours and covering Prince, Creedence, and the Commodores’ Easy Like Sunday Morning, my weekend coffee-and-donuts anthem. The one misstep for the entire trip was the fact that we booked our return flight home at 6 a.m. Monday morning, which meant that after getting back to the hotel from Red Rocks around half past midnight, I had to set our alarm clock to go off in two hours. Oh well, I’ll sleep when I’m dead, right Bon Jovi?

It was a fantastic little trip, and it was great spending time with our friends who had pulled up city stakes and moved west. May all our future hangs have equally pretty backdrops.

Another Year

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I turn 37 today. Here’s some things I did in my 36th year:

  • went from being a non-coffee drinker to a coffee addict #blackasmidnightonamoonlessnight
  • saw Britney Spears perform (again!) the same weekend as Mariah Carey in a 36-hour Las Vegas diva-thon
  • got my tenth tattoo
  • saw a Star Wars movie in the theater that I actually enjoyed and cried when I saw the female lead take the light saber
  • had my first 2 pieces of short fiction published
  • was a cheerleader at a roller derby bout (it’s never too late to make your eighth grade dreams come true!)
  • saw Yosemite Valley for the first time
  • got my motorcycle permit
  • ran into a black bear while camping in the backcountry
  • rode a mechanical bull and a mechanical rooster in the same night
  • got addicted to Neko Atsume: Kitty Collector on my iPhone
  • shot at tin cans with a pellet gun at my sister’s wedding

I started this morning at 5:30 a.m. by working out to the fierceness that is Beyonce’s new album Lemonade. Hopefully this will set the trend for my 37th year to be pretty badass.

Things I did this weekend

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  • performed a karaoke rendition of “Eternal Flame” in front of a church that was literally on fire
  • sang a karaoke rendition of “Cool Rider” from Grease 2 on an actual motorcycle
  • karaoked a rendition of “Wrecking Ball” while swinging from a ladder
  • duetted on “A Whole New World” but accidentally kept switching between the Aladdin/Jasmine version and Peabo Bryson/Regina Belle’s riffs and stylings
  • danced with pom poms to *NSync’s “Bye Bye Bye”
  • shook my pom poms to the Spice Girls’ “Spice Up Your Life”
  • ponied and pranced with poms to Katy Perry’s “California Gurls”
  • felt grateful that I am friends with people who are more than happy to join me in singing and dancing, to the extent that we:
    • created a Karaoke Club that, one year after its inception, is going stronger than ever
    • throw karaoke parties in garages
    • spend Sunday mornings dancing and sweating to the music of esteemed artists including Katy Perry, Spice Girls, Ariana Grande, and *NSync

Singing and dancing truly make my happy. It’s my free therapy. Now, time for me to sign off and feed my fake iPhone cats. #blessed