Reykjavik and the Stag

I’m at Dillon’s Whiskey bar in Reykjavik. Before that — Lebowski Bar. If you hit the bars here at the right time you get the happy hour specials, usually two-fers. It’s still early, one of those long summer days in August.

I’d been here a year ago with my wife and kids. We met up in Reykjavik after I spent a year in Saudi Arabia on a job. We’d divorced since and I wanted to reclaim Reykjavik for myself. Create new memories, or at least obscure the old ones.

At Dillon’s, two-for-one whiskeys are dangerous. More so because they pour well. I finish one and order the next. There’s a guy leaning over my shoulder.

“American?” He says. “You like the NFL?”

He’s Scottish, Duncan, and we’re both big fans of the New England Patriots.

Duncan’s on his Stag weekend. Calls over his mates and makes the introductions. They’re pre-gaming. They’ll be at the Dubliner at the other end of Laugavegur in an hour and I’m invited. I’m thinking I should go back to my AirBnB to sleep off the damage, but they’re an infectious bunch, and I’m here to make memories.

We part ways and I go get some Kjötsúpa and bread, hoping the hearty lamb stew will offset the two large Macallans currently making me cross-eyed.

The sun is beginning to set when I arrive at The Dubliner. I wind my way through the throng to the bar with no Duncan in sight. I order an Úlfur IPA when I hear my name called. Duncan comes up wearing an old-timey prison uniform, black and white

Scottish prison riot at The Dubliner

stripes. I ask him what he’s drinking. More whiskey. I get him a Bushmills. He leads me out to the courtyard in the back where I find his Stag crew – every last man decked out in matching prison uniforms. A few even sporting a plastic ball ‘n chain or wrist irons.

They’re singing, dancing, playing foosball and knocking back pints and shots like condemned men. There’s at least twice as many as before at Dillons, and I feel conspicuous in my non-institutional attire. Duncan dutifully takes me around to meet those mates I hadn’t yet met, and greet those I had. Most of his chain gang are at least twenty years my junior, but it doesn’t matter. He introduces me as “an American” to each one.

“A New England Patriots fan,” he tells them, and that seems to matter.

After, I ask Duncan about his upcoming wedding. It’s in two weeks in Glagow. He met his fiancé at uni. It was love at first sight. I can’t help but think of my ex, and it stings a little.

As we chat, we are plied with more drinks. My money’s no good here. My world begins to bend and lean a bit. I make a discrete exit and find a cab. At some point later I’m being let out in an unfamiliar city street. I check Google Maps on my phone but none of it makes sense. I call another taxi.

The next morning I wake late in my AirBnB. I’m fully clothed and my mouth is dry and tastes like garbage. I have no idea how I got here. I shower, change, pack, and phone my kids back in the States.

A little while later I’m on my flight to Boston. My memories of last night a bit foggy, but are predominantly of Scottish prison riots and the National Football League.