Iceland part 3: 10/25/05

On our last full day in Iceland, I leaped out of bed with a spryness that has been missing from my step since I was a young pup.

That's right...it was pony time!

When we got to the Ishetar stables, we signed liability waivers and, after we put on our helmets, we were led out to the corral. I grabbed R's arm and whispered, "Oh my god, I'm so excited I'm about to pee!"

"Aren't you nervous?"

"A little," I admitted.

But all fear dissolved when the guide led a beautiful white pony with startling blue eyes over to me and handed me the reins.





"Ohhh, look at YOU, ponybaby," I whispered, stroking its neck. It regarded me impassively and shifted hay to the other side of its mouth like a baseball player relocating his chaw.

The tour guide helped me up on the horse, and after everyone else was situated, we took off on our horseback tour of the lava fields. To be honest, it wasn't a very pretty area, which is probably for the best since I was concentrating on not falling off my damn horse.

"Let's go a little faster," the guide said.

Noooo...

She yelled something in Icelandic, and all the horses began running. Granted, it wasn't exactly a full gallop---more like a trot---but I bit back a shriek as my fingers curled in a death grip around the reins.

Eventually, we stopped to give the horses a break, and I dismounted my steed and walked bowlegged over to my brother.

"How's it going?" I asked.

"I'm a little worried," R said, casting a nervous sideways glance at his horse. "I think mine is aggressive."

"What? Don't tell me it tried to bite you or something!"

"No, but he's moving his head a lot."

I sighed. "R, he's just curious. You and I move our heads a lot, and it doesn't mean we're aggressive."

Then I glanced down and snickered. "Your horse has a boner."

R stepped as far away as he could, and I said, "What, inferiority complex?"

When I returned to my horse, I patted its neck and it whipped its head around and ran its lips over the sleeve of my jacket, leaving a hay-scented saliva trail in its wake.

Okay, this is going to the dry cleaner as soon as I hit American soil.

Soon it was time to get moving again, and we got back on our horses and began the half-hour ride back to the stable. It was cold, and I was still a little unsteady, but it was exhilarating and I couldn't stop smiling.

But that smile was wiped right off my face when we arrived at the stable. I was dismounting my horse, and as my left foot hit the ground, I lost my balance. My right foot got caught in the stirrup, and I landed on the ground with a thud. My left hand and my ass caught the worst of it, and I lay there, enveloped in a cloud of pain and the sharp smell of horseshit.

I swear my damn pony laughed.

It could have been much, much worse, though. To wit:

• I managed to avoid falling in horseshit, which was especially fortunate as I had only brought one pair of jeans with me, and I was wearing a jacket I'd borrowed from M.
  
  
• Nobody witnessed my humiliation.
  
  
• Icelandic ponies are famous for their docility. If that horse had gotten spooked and taken off with my foot still in the stirrup while I was on the ground, they'd still be scraping bits of me off the volcanic rock and sending them back to Daddy-O in a manila envelope.
  

When I walked over to R and told him what had happened, he was horrified. "Do you think anything's broken? Do you need a doctor?"

"No, no," I said, hoping like hell it was the case. "I just need to go back to the hotel for a little bit."

Once we got back to the Loftleider, I took a couple of Tylenol, changed into my Giants shirt, and eased my aching carcass onto the bed for a nap. When I got up, I felt a little better, so R and I walked to the Kringlan mall, had lunch, and checked a guidebook for the address of the Phallological Museum.

"No way am I going in there," R said.

"But it's a penis museum! A PENIS MUSEUM. Think of the gift shop!"

We walked about three miles downtown and finally found the address.

Um...

"Why is there an optometrist here?" I asked.

R double-checked the map. "This is definitely the right address. Maybe it's upstairs or something?"

But no...when we went inside and asked, the optometrist (obviously holding back a chuckle) told us that the Phallological Museum had picked up stakes and moved about 30 miles away.

"Okay, this is so not my day," I moaned, surreptitiously (I hope) rubbing my butt as we continued down the street.

But later on, when we were walking up the hill to the Pearl, R stopped and said, "C, look! The Northern lights!"

And indeed, there was a shimmering green curtain waving across the sky. It was one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen in my life; I even forgot about my aching ass.