They talk about milestones. Those moments that change everything, the solidified and framed memories that you will carry to your grave. Moments that reshape who you are, what you believe in and what you reckon life is all about. They talk about notes that ring, reverberating echoes through the years, new ones blending in with older ones that will never die, reshaping the chord that is you.
They talk of many things, but what they really talk about is this. It has no name, only faint clichés that follows in its trail. It can't be stripped down to a single metaphor. There is simply nothing in the world that can contain it. It can only be told, and possibly understood, through stories. I hope my witness to this nameless, this most powerful of moments, will make you close your eyes and remember your own. Just like I have read others and remembered this.
***
"Lose the shoes."
It's the little differences that stick. Tiny little variations on what is common behaviour in otherwise seemingly similar cultures. Some of them you see immediately, like the southpaw traffic and almost perverted obsession with roundabouts in Britain. Or the way your lunch spins backward when you hurl it up and flush it down in Australia, although I'd have to work pretty hard to tag that phenomena to some Oz national trait. Others are more subtle, because you don't encounter them 24/7. But they are equally confusing. Like shoes in Iceland. Apparently, you don't wear the things.
Anna didn't wear the things. Not here at work, at least. And now she stood there a few steps into the hallway of the office, with a sweet smile on her cute-as-a-button face and an implying glare in her eye. She nodded to me to follow her example. And what the hell, when in Rome and all that, what could I do? I untied my shoes and kicked them off, trying to look as if I didn't care about the big gaping hole in the heel of my left sock. I hadn't exactly expected to be showing it to the world today. Little did I know that the only place where an Icelander wore shoes were in public places. Outdoors, in stores and restaurants, and so on. Anna had perfect socks. Clean, white, neat. Of course she did.
I felt like an ogre. One would think that Reykjavik would be filled with burly, unshaven Vikings and their burly, unshaven women. Instead, I turned out to be the least neat thing in the whole office of ReKe Tölva's main office. I hadn't slept for thirty-five hours, my clothes were as wrinkled as the landscape, and my three-day shave was more vegetation than the whole barren island could provide. The garbage cans beside every desk in the open office landscape were in better order.
But then again, beside Anna Sigundsdottir, anyone would look like a bum. She was, in the simplest of terms, the epitome of loveliness. A wide, pearly smile, glacier blue eyes that could only be described as cosy, and the kind of energetic sway in her walk that made every curve and lovely mound of her fit body whisper 'come here, come here' when she walked. She had hair that the wind loved to carry irresistible strands off and drape over her freckled face. She had a voice and a calling melody in her speech that made dogs and small children pop their heads up and listen, and that made me slightly giddy every time she spoke. She had a golden heart the size of the ocean and a bubbly personality that made me wonder if she wasn't channelling Shirley Temple.
She was my elven angel, an enchanting blend of raw sex and impish playfulness in the package of a fairy tale princess, a walking and breathing promise of something unforgettable.
***
The occasional curious pair of eyes peeked up from behind computer screens when I followed Anna through the office to the far end. But most people didn't pay enough attention to their pretty co-worker and her not-so-pretty guest. People were generally busy with phone calls or completely lost in the info on their screens. But mostly they just didn't care. The general mood seemed to be much more relaxed than any cubicle hell that I had the displeasure of working in back in the states.
"Hey," I said. "I just realised I've no idea what you do. I mean, you said you work with a website. But for what kind of place? What does this company do?"
Amazing, isn't it? We had more or less known each other for half a year, but the subject of our professions had never really come up. There had always been much more interesting things to talk about, I guess. She turned and gave me a quizzical look. Then she laughed and said "Computers." With the peculiar prosodies of the Icelandic tongue, the word came out as cum-pyoo-ter. It seems that despite reading and hearing lots of it, their own language makes the actual pronunciation of English very difficult to master.
"I forget that it's not obvious to you," she continued, "but it's right there in the name of the company. Tölva means computer. We sell PCs, and we're also the biggest DSL provider in the area. ReKe is short for Reykjavik and Keflavik. That's the area we deliver to. Or rather, where we originally delivered. We are nation wide these days. By far the biggest supplier in Iceland."
She sighed and rolled her eyes. "Gosh, shut up already miss Anna, you sound like a sales pitch," she said to herself.
"Oh, no, it's interesting," I lied.
"You're lying."
"Ok, I'm lying, you bore me to tears."
She stuck a pink tongue out at me and dug in her purse for a key card, which she waved in front of a panel beside an anonymous looking door. A faint click told me that it was unlocked and Anna pulled the door open. It was a much thicker and heavier one than it looked like from the outside. A foot of solid metal, it seemed. A gust of cold air and a roar of fans poured out from inside.
"It's the server room," Anna said. "I forgot some papers in here when I went to get you at the airport. Wait here, I'll be right out."
She slipped inside and the door closed with a click, completely sealing off the commotion inside. The office produced it's own cacophony of ringing phones, casual conversations and keyboards clattering. A radio churned out rock music at a low volume from one corner, and a window was open to the street in another. As a working environment, it was not exactly peace and quiet, but it still seemed to do wonders to reduce the stress level of the people who worked there. Casual comfortable and relaxed, as well as nicely proportioned, stylish and impeccably clean. Just like Anna.
I wasn't dreaming about fucking the brains out of the entire office though. So there was a difference.
"You the secret boyfriend?" a voice by my side said.
I had been drowsing off to the susurrus of the room, and a blonde spiky hairdo, a movie star face and way too many piercings were peering up at me from the Xerox on my left. The face's owner, a 20-something man with a three-day shave and hands that looked like they could crush bare rock, was busy refilling the machine's paper feeder. He gave me a grin that could either cut glass or charm you to death, before continuing his wrestling game with a stuck paper tray.
"Could you give me a hand here?" he said. "Piece of shit is stuck again. I need to pull at three places at the same time."
With the spike man's guidance I grabbed hold of the front of the tray, while he banged his fist against the back of the machine. Nothing happened, except a muttered line of profanities from him. Or at least I think he was cursing. The few words I recognised were certainly not nice ones.
"No luck?" I said.
"No, I need to get medieval on this bastard's ass. But thanks for the help. So, are you sleeping with her or not?"
This was getting weirder by the minute.
"What? Who?"
