You and Sunrise

In all of my life, I’ve never encountered something as peculiaramazing as flying in a jet airplane miles above the ground. Every flight feels like time is standing still; it’s surreal and I almost never know what to do with myself, other than sitting and staring out the window of the aircraft or watching ice crystallize in between the panes of glass in the ovular windows. It seems that no matter how much busyness there is on the ground, the sky is a sanctuary – a place only for stillness, and for the peace of star cities and cloud seas.

But even with all of that to distract me, I can’t say I was completely relaxed on today’s particular flight.

The trip was only about three hours, and the ride was smooth – fairly average as far as flights go, I’d say (but my knowledge would only be based upon the few flights I’ve been on since becoming a part of Sigur Rós). The people beside me were friendly, there was a comforting and maybe sort of silly fact about the Icelandic language printed on the back of the seat in front of me, boarding the plane and getting off of it was about as un-stressful as it can ever be… So nothing about the flight itself made me the least bit nervous (other than the landing, of course, but that’s hardly worth mentioning).

No, my mind was on other things – on the tons of questions plaguing my mind. Would Anja be nice? Would she like me? Would Kristján introduce me to any of his friends? Would they like me? How long would I last before I managed to do something wrong? What if I couldn’t figure out what to say and came off as unfriendly? Would Anja understand and like me anyway, or would she write me off as the unfeeling part of Kristján’s family? Would Kristján shrug it off or would he begin to wish he had never agreed to have me? But even before that, would he be happy to see me, or was he dreading having to spend Christmas and New Years with me? Did he even really want me to come in the first place?

Anja met me just past where security was set up. She was holding up a little sign with ‘Lára S’ written across it in black, and just before walking to meet her, I seriously contemplated turning back and taking the next flight home. She definitely wasn’t bad looking, and didn’t look especially unfriendly either; I was simply hit with such a wave of nervousness that my stomach felt like it had dropped between my knees.

She had greeted me with a warm, contagious smile and in Icelandic – something I hadn’t expected, but maybe should have. Kristján met her in Reykjavík, after all. So of course, I felt more reassured than I should have and gave her a hug and kiss on the cheek – an action quite common among relatives in Iceland. Apparently it isn’t so common in Germany, because she looked quite thoroughly shocked. She took it in stride, though, and tried to make light conversation in Icelandic as she guided me in the direction of the baggage claim.

The drive to their house took about fifteen or twenty minutes, and it was taken up with casual small talk in English. After a little while in the airport, I could tell Anja was running out of things she knew how to say in Icelandic, and I was running out of simple answers as well, so we simply made the switch to English. It was probably for the best – the choice was between English and German, and my German is terrible. Anja’s English, as I quickly found out, is fantastic – better than mine even, but I suppose that isn’t saying too much.

Anyway, I told her a bit about our family back home, and then asked about her life here with Kristján. She answered, telling me things were good and fine, and then went on to say how they were thankful for Kristján’s job, as it’s apparently hard for foreigners to get jobs, especially in the more creative lines of work. I mean, of course, they were thankful for Anja’s job as well! It was just that it’s a more secure situation, what with Anja’s father being the owner of the company. Still, though, as one of the head ‘quants,’ she did have to be very careful not to mess up. She punctuated that thought with a light laugh, and I laughed along with her, not quite understanding what we were talking about. She had then asked about whether or not I had a job before the musical opportunity came along and I told her no, not really – that I had just managed to get a small job from my school in Höfn doing community service and working at cleaning up the town. It hadn’t been much, but it paid for little things. Cell phone service, petrol, a bit of alcohol now and then once I was old enough. She had laughed, told me she understood. She hadn’t had a formal job through secondary school either, and that this job was actually her first. I smiled and told her she was fortunate, and she just smiled a weird sort of smile, agreed, and was then more or less silent for the remainder of the short ride to her and Kristján’s home.

Now I sit here in the guest room of the little, but warm and cozy flat. The room, like the flat, is rather small. The only furniture in it is a bed, a dresser, and a little writing desk in front of its only window. Both the desk and the dresser are painted a clean, creamy white and the bed’s metal frame is a contrast in its darkness. The walls are a soft, sunny yellow, and there’s a rag rug beside the bed so chilly feet don’t meet the chillier dark wood floor on cold winter mornings. It’s a homey touch that I can appreciate, along with the soft yellow and pink blanket over the bed and the simple vase of darkly colored twigs on the little desk. All of it is obviously Anja’s doing – Kristján is a fantastic artist, but I know for a fact that he doesn’t know a single thing about interior decorating.

After we arrived at the house, Anja had showed me to my room and informed me that she’d make dinner and that Kristján would be home in about a half an hour. I had offered to help her in the kitchen, of course, even though I’m more of a hindrance there than anything else, but she had waved me off, telling me I was tired and that I should rest or unpack. I figured she was either being polite, or was tired of trying to find things to talk about. I’m betting on the latter.

I don’t blame her, though. A person can simply not want to deal with another person without disliking that person, right? I suppose so; it would be rather hard to speak with her since we’ve basically covered many of the common small talk subjects already. I just hope that’s all this is – after all, it’s better than her sending me to the guest room because she doesn’t like me. I sigh, tell myself I’m overthinking everything again.

After awhile, there’s a light knock at the door to the room and I say an English “come in,” quickly glancing around to make sure I haven’t messed anything up that I shouldn’t have.

The door opens to reveal my brother, and a little smile is instantly on my face when I see him. He looks almost exactly like he did the last time I saw him – he’s still the spitting image of our father. “Hey, Lára.”

I’m almost not sure what to do as I study the look on his face. There’s happiness, sure, but that is almost eclipsed by a caution that is evident on his features.

“I’ve missed you,” I say simply, in our first language, and he looks away from me momentarily, instead gazing at the fringe of the rag rug.

“I’ve missed…” he starts and then trails off, a certain pain in his eyes that I recognize from before. It soon fades, however, into something harder, something that causes an abrupt switch of languages. “This isn’t Iceland, Lára. Please speak German here, alright?”

I can’t help the bit of shock I know shows on my face. I struggle a bit, unprepared for the change to German. “I… I’m sorry. I’m better with English than German…” There’s something like a glare starting on his face at these words, so I quickly add to the thought. “But I will try.”

“Good. It is appreciated.” He pauses here, looking almost disarmed, and seeming not to know what else to say. “Dinner will be ready in about fifteen minutes.”

And with that, he gives one last nod and leaves the room, shutting the door behind him. For a moment, I just sit there on the bed, shell-shocked, and not quite sure of what just took place. The bubbling of Anja’s laughter caries through the walls after a little while, and I briefly wonder how so few words could make me feel so empty before I lie back on the soft mattress. I have to confess; I didn’t think I’d cry quite so early in my stay here.



“So how is that… um… band thing of yours?” Kristján asks me between a spoonful of soup.

I’m silent for a moment as I ponder how to say what I want to in German. “It’s… amazing, really. Playing music for people live is…” I raise my hands to gesture, but can’t think of anything to explain how I feel, so my hands just end up over my heart. “Electric?”

My brother’s blue eyes are trained on me for a moment longer before he nods and speaks again. “So you like it well and everything? I imagine traveling so much is stressful.”

I pause again before answering, this time pondering his question rather than my answer, and Anja gives me a kind smile from across the dinner table.

“That part is difficult. It’s sad to be away from home so much… Every city is different. It’s like…culture shock?” I say the last words in Icelandic, directed to Kristján as a question and he supplies me with the correct German phrase for what I want.

“It’s culture shock and stress, and sometimes you must be alone and do things you are used to so you can…” I trail off, making a sort of sweeping motion with my hands, hoping I can successfully convey ‘peace’ to them.

Anja nods. “It would have to be hard to find some stability on the road like that. Especially for you, since you haven’t known the people you’re with for too long. This was your first tour with them, right?”

“Yes,” I answer her question. “But I have known them for… I met them since nine months already!” I say, surprised. “I’ve only lived with Jónsi five months though.”

“Whoa, wait, so you’re living with him?” Kristján asks, his spoon halfway to his mouth.

“Yes, in Reykjavík. He… he chooses men, though, so there is not more than friendship with us,” I answer, struggling a little as I try to explain properly.

“Oh! Oh, alright,” he says, and then is silent once again, his face unreadable.

“But, uhm… I met Jónsi in a bar in Krissi’s and… and my hometown. We just talked for a long time and played music, then gave one another telephone numbers, and he called me a couple of days later to see if I wanted to come and play with the others at Reykjavík.

“Jónsi sort of… fought to get me into the position of bassist, and then after the others finally agreed, I planned to travel there after school would be over in May. We practiced for me to learn songs through until November when we started the first tour.

“It went very well, so that is good. We now have a holiday break until the start of February.” I finish and then stop speaking to concentrate on my soup for a bit.

“That’s interesting… you say Jónsi fought for your position? How do you mean?” Anja asks, pushing a strand of dark, straight hair behind her ear.

I first think about her question, then wonder about the wording of my answer. “Jónsi says… It was not too hard to get Orri and Georg to agree, but... Kjartan was…” I have to pause again and wrack my brain for the right words. “You know, his reason. I’m a girl and very much younger than the others… I don’t have yet any…”

There’s a small moment of silence before my brother speaks for me. “Skills? Experience?”

“Experience, yes,” I say, nodding and then taking another spoonful of soup.

“I see. So he’s worried about… about you slowing things down?”

“Worried about me making the music bad, yes,” I chuckle, appreciative of Anja’s attempt at making things sound a little better than they are. “He is the most hard on me. The others party and… stand around, but if I order a drink in a bar, he is all over it. ‘Don’t drink too much! Don’t go… go sleep with anyone!’ So… he is always worried that I will go off and be sick for playing or not wake up in time for the show.”

Anja chuckles at this and Kristján gives a hint of a smile, maybe amused by my wild spoon gestures.

“Do you make a habit of all that lately?” Kristján asks, a little sparkle in his eye and I try not to ponder whether or not it’s a joke. I just skip straight to laughter.

“No, no. A drink sometimes if I feel cold, but I don’t sleep with boys I don’t know,” I tell him.

“Of course,” he says, and there’s no sarcasm to be found in the words.



Anja and Kristján’s flat is located in the westernmost tip of Eilbek in northern Hamburg; according to Kristján, the cozy little bar the guys and I visited on tour is in (technically on, as Kristján tells me) Uhlenhorst just a few blocks down the road. All I have to do is walk up Lerchenfeld past where it turns into Winterhuder Weg, then turn onto Kanalstraße and walk until I get there. It’s not a long walk, I’ll be fine – at least that’s what Kristján said.

Honestly, I’m not feeling very fine. It’s pretty cold outside, and this has turned into a rather long walk. Somewhere between the busy intersection I had to cross and the turn onto the last leg of my journey a dull ache began in the joint of my bad hip. By the time I finally step over the threshold of Café Trotzdem, the dull ache has turned into a throbbing one, and I’m anxious to sit down.

The little bar is exactly how I remember it – just as homey and eclectic as it was almost three weeks ago. I linger just inside the door for a moment despite my hip, taking in the space. It’s a little busier tonight than it was last time I was here; there’s a buzz of people talking accompanied by the occasional burst of laughter or clink of dishes together. The place reminds me a little of Víkin, I think as my eyes land on the Christmas lights draped over the cabinets behind the bar – it’s got that same warm atmosphere even if it’s not quite as warm temperature-wise.

I breathe a sigh of relief as I slide onto one of the barstools – slowly, carefully. Then I let my eyes fall closed for a moment, willing myself to warm up.

When I open my eyes again a couple of minutes later, there is a man behind the counter (he wasn’t there before) polishing a glass and looking at me. He’s the same man that was tending the bar last time I was here – I remember him because his graying moustache reminded me of Sigrún’s father, although this man is a bit slimmer. Either way, he’s got a fatherly-but-not manner about him that is more relaxing than anything.

“Oh, hello. I wasn’t sure if I should disturb you,” he tells me in German and I manage a smile. “What would you like, Miss?”

“Uhm… I guess you… wouldn’t have Icelandic things here?” I stumble over my response and sigh – I wonder if I’ll ever get the hang of this language.

Thankfully, seeing how I’m not the best at German, the man makes the switch to English. “Icelandic? No, I’m afraid not… what would you want?”

“Ah... Brennivín? I grew up on the stuff,” I say and then look down at my fingernails on the counter, laughing a little; my family never really gave it up when the rest of Iceland started to favor beer over the liquor.

“I’ve heard of it! It’s supposed to be some pretty interesting stuff. Potato and… what, caraway?”

I ponder the English word ‘caraway’ in my head, then nod. “Something like that. Spicy stuff. Really… stings.”

The man laughs, and the smile with his moustache looks so happy that I end up smiling and laughing too. I suddenly have to wonder why bars are always so much more comfortable than homes.

“Well, you know, I might have something here that you’d like,” he says, turning from me and bending to open a small freezer that is situated under the counter across from me. I watch curiously as he pulls out a clear bottle filled three quarters of the way with golden liquid and decorated with a black graphic of a fish and some fancy looking writing. “This stuff is spicy as well – made with caraway like Brennivín, but also has other spices in there. Give it a try?”

“Sure, why not?” I say, and he smiles, turning from me once again to get a shot glass from the rack of glasses beside the cabinet.

“Well you seem like a spicy girl, so no reason not to!” he says, pouring the drink, and I stumble a bit over his words in my head. He slides the glass over to me with a grin. “Tell me what you think.”

I raise the glass up to my lips and take a sip. It’s not the same as Brennivín, but the flavor is similar – it’s not quite as caustic as the Icelandic drink, but it’s just as filled with flavor. By my second sip, the drink has turned familiar, and I recognize it as another Scandinavian classic.

“Oh! Ákavíti!” I exclaim, recalling a blustery night a few winters ago that my father was drinking this and let me have a sip. “Yeah, yeah, this is nice.”

“Very good!” the bartender says, replacing the bottle and then moving to take the order of someone else. I give one last smile and thanks before breathing a sigh and settling into my seat a little, leaning against the counter.

By now I’ve warmed up a little, and as I stare into the Christmas lights across from me, I wonder about getting another glass of alcohol. On one hand I’m pretty good with drinking and I know exactly what I can and can’t do, but on the other hand, I don’t want there to be any chance that I get disoriented in an unfamiliar place on the way back home – living all my life in a place where winter can mean life or death has taught me better.

But still, I’m cold, and alcohol means warmth. I sigh, sort of irritated, and look down at my still red hands. I wonder how long it’ll be before I get uncomfortable or bored and want to go ho– go back to the flat… Hopefully, not for a long time.

It’s now my third day here in Hamburg, and really, I just want to go back home to Iceland. Maybe it’s just me, but I constantly feel like an intruder in my brother’s home. He and Anja are hardly ever there anyway what with work and things, and even when they are there, communicating is a challenge without being able to rely on the use of Icelandic or even English, as Kristján requested. It’s uncomfortable at the very least, and upsetting on occasion.

A chill rolls over me and I sigh, wishing I could just wipe my mind clean and maybe start over with this trip. Maybe I’d meticulously go over everything I did in an attempt to not screw things up like I have already, apparently, even though I don’t know how I did. A sudden sad feeling follows the chill, and for a moment, I fight tears. I quickly finish off the shot, finding maybe a little comfort in the familiar spiciness.

After a little bit, I hear the rustle of fabric as someone slides onto the barstool beside mine. A moment later, there’s a slight breeze from the movement and I smell something I almost remember from somewhere – darkly scented cologne, maybe the faint smell of cigarette smoke, and another thing I can’t put my finger on. I don’t look to see who it is though – I figure it’ll either be someone I don’t know who isn’t interested in talking to me, or someone who is interested in talking to me that I’d really rather ignore anyway. I simply keep staring up at the way the Christmas lights make glowy shapes on the wall until the nice bartender comes back over.

“What’d you think?” he asks me and I grin.

“Reminds me of home,” I tell him simply and he smiles good-naturedly.

“Well that’s the best kind of drink. Do you want pay now, or have another and do a tab?”

I ponder it for a second; conclude my inner wondering with ‘what the hell.’ “Sure, thanks. A tab and another shot.”

He nods and retrieves the bottle from the freezer, unscrewing the top as he turns back around, then speaking in German. “How about you, Tom? Something else for you?”

Upon hearing the name, I turn my head to see none other than Tom-from-last-time-I-was-here. Our eyes lock and his lips twitch upwards in a boyish sort of smile, and I have to smile back. “I’ll try whatever she’s having.”

“Suit yourself, man.”

“Thanks, Lukas.”

And as Lukas gets a glass and pours Tom a shot, my eyes stay caught on Tom’s and his on mine. He doesn’t speak until the little glass is in front of him, about one quarter of the way full of the same alcohol I’m drinking.

“What? ‘You looked lonely,’” he quotes me, mischief lacing his voice. Then he raises the glass to his lips, drinks the liquid, and promptly chokes.

“Shit, what is this?” he asks Lukas in German, and I choke on laughter.

“Too strange for you, apparently,” he says simply, his laughter only in his eyes. “It’s aquavit. Lots of spices.”

“Oh god,” Tom mutters, a ‘bad taste’ squint in place on his face, and I can’t seem to stop smiling. “My uncle likes this stuff.”

“Yep, it’ll catch you off guard,” Lukas says, chuckling a little this time. “Want something to wash it down with?”

“Coca Cola, please.”

Lukas laughs once more and then turns away to get Tom’s coke, leaving the two of us in silence. Tom looks at me, purses his lips, and then speaks.

“So what are you doing back here already?” he asks in English, getting straight to the point. “It’s too soon for another tour, right?”

“Right. That happens in February. Right now, I’m here visiting my brother for Christmas and New Years,” I tell him and he nods.

“That’s cool. It’s always nice to spend time with family.”

“Yeah, it seems like that,” I say, looking down into my drink.

“You aren’t having a good time?” he asks, eyebrows furrowed, then thanks Lukas as the man gives him his glass of coke.

“No. It’s… Kristján doesn’t let me speak Icelandic or English there, even when it is just us alone without Anja… Anja is his girlfriend who lives there too,” I tell him and he nods. “And she even speaks better English than I do.”

“Wow. Well usually when Bill and me go to another country, we get some comfort from speaking our first language,” he says, reaching to fish in his pocket for something. “You smoke?”

I shake my head, just watching him as he takes a cigarette from the half-full pack, extracts a lighter from his pocket, and lights the thing. He inhales smoke and pulls a nearby ashtray closer, then lets his eyes fall closed as he exhales, and the white cloud goes curling out in front of him.

He’s interesting, I think, with his weird braided hair and his weird too-big clothes. He’s sort of different, and I’ve never really known someone like him. Of course I’ve seen people with holes in their ears, and I’ve seen people who like their clothes too big. I’ve seen people with braids in their hair, and people who have pierced their lips, but never anyone like that with such a nice smile as his or such an easygoing manner – at least from what I’ve seen so far.

“I will be fine, I guess. So you’re here for family too, right?” I ask, and then take a sip of my drink. Tom watches me as I do, and as I swallow, there’s a funny look on his face. Then he crinkles his nose and cautiously brings the empty shot glass in front of him up to catch a whiff of the spicy smell.

“Uh, yeah. We don’t know anyone in LA yet, so… At least here, we’ve got Georg and Gustav – the other guys in the band. Our mom and Gordon live in Magdeburg, so… It’s a bit of a drive from here, but we’ll definitely be down there for Christmas.” He smiles a little here and the corners of his eyes crinkle just the littlest bit – he seems like he’s really looking forward to spending time with his family.

“That’s very nice,” I say, hoping my face doesn’t betray the slight jealousy I’m starting to feel. I manage a little smile, hoping it’s a decent cover-up, and then I’m silent.

Tom has time to take another drag from his cigarette and then a drink from his coke before he sighs and speaks again. “Yeah, it is… as long as certain people don’t screw it up.”

“Your family isn’t…?”

“No, we all get along just fine. Just my brother is… Lately, he’s been really...” Tom pauses, staring at the lit cigarette in his hand resting beside the ashtray. His expression is dark and his lips are pursed firmly together as he thinks; even though he hasn’t revealed much at all about his brother, I’m pretty sure I already know how he’s acting. Just difficult.

“Brother troubles – I understand these. Kristján is… I don’t know, am I reacting too much? To me it seems very harsh that he doesn’t want me to speak in Icelandic or even English – that seems like an unnecessary pain. And then, besides that, he doesn’t talk to me much at all. All of it is small talk and he doesn’t want to hear about our family back home. It’s frustrating.”

Tom’s gaze shifts to me, his expression changing to one of contemplation. “I get a small part of it, but… the rest I don’t understand. He doesn’t even allow you to speak… speak Icelandic when you are alone together?”

“No,” I answer. “I can understand it for Anja, but for just us? Is there something that I am missing?”

Tom finishes inhaling from his cigarette before answering. Then when he speaks, I’m almost too mesmerized by the white smoke puffing from his lips to listen to what he says.

“I don’t think so… if you’re missing it, I’m missing it too,” he says and stops there, tapping the cigarette against the ashtray.

“What about your brother? What is happening with him?” I ask and as soon as the words leave my mouth, his eyes snap to mine and I can see some kind of wall being raised between us. I have to wonder what has happened in the past to make him so quickly untrusting.

“Bill… he’s just… he has probably a bad day now and then,” he says and I can see him gauging my reaction for a moment before he turns to sip his coke, stare at the shining bottles of drinks on the counter across from us.

He doesn’t really want to tell me anything further – I can see it in his suddenly cautious expression. And on one hand, I want to let him be and let him stay comfortable, but on the other hand, I can see a certain sadness in his caution – one that is a result of trapping the problem inside himself for so long.

“It’s good to have someone to… to say these things to. I feel better now that I told you some,” I say after I’ve turned my eyes to the very nearly empty shot glass in front of me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him look at me for a bit, then he too is looking at the empty shot glass in front of him.

Then we’re both just silent, and I can practically hear him considering his options in his mind. When he leans forward to take another drink of coke, I speak once again.

“Relax, Tom. I’m not one of the… of the interviewer people. Those types make me nervous too.”

When he looks up at me once again, I give him a smile, and he somewhat awkwardly manages a smile back. Then he takes yet another sip of his drink and then brings a hand up to knead at his neck. I wonder if he’s getting a headache.

When he speaks, his tone is softer, almost tired sounding. “Bill is just... very off lately. He is not ever happy, or… I feel like he is pushing me away. We are always very close, but not recently, and it makes me worry,” he says, then taps ashes from his cigarette into the ashtray and reaches over to fiddle with the straw in his coke.

I nod. “I guess you don’t know what was the cause…?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t think I did anything wrong. If I did, he would really let me know.

“He’s never been like this. Of course, he had times of…times of stress, or times when he was sad, but never so… bitter.”

And then, I can only watch as he’s sucked into a memory of some sort; I just watch as he releases the straw and lets his hand drop to the bar counter, and muscles in his face draw tight, creating a look of worry and hurt that makes my heart sort of sink for him.

“I’m the older of the two of us. Only by ten minutes, but still. I should protect him from everything, but… I just can’t protect him from himself,” he says, and the words have a sort of resignation in them. I simply hum an agreement and watch as he brings his hand up to inhale more smoke. His eyes fall closed in relief as he does, and I try to decide whether or not I think it’s attractive.

We’re silent for another few seconds before something dawns on me. “Oh, so you’re… um… twins?”

His face brightens considerably as soon as I say the word, and I need no further confirmation, even though he’s prepared to give me an answer.

“Yes we are, and we’re best friends too. We do mostly everything together, except lately,” his smile carries through the statement, even through the last part, although it dims slightly. Then, he chuckles a little to himself and sucks in some more smoke before he puts the cigarette out in the ashtray.

He takes another long drink of his coke before turning to me and speaking once again. “Are you close to your brother? Or… were you ever?”

I sigh. “Not… not really. I mean, we got along really well, but… we weren’t the best friends or anything. Kristján is like… six years older than me, so... We didn’t tend to have the same friends, except Bjarki, who is older, but lived with my grandfather because his mother is… is passed away, and his father is a fisherman, and is gone a lot. But… Krissi and I… sometimes we’d be close and we’d talk a lot, but usually, he had his things and I had mine.”

“Ah, I understand. And now?”

“Now, it’s an occasional… ‘What is so-and-so’s address?’ on Facebook.”

His next question is so straightforward that my eyes snap to his from where they’ve been focused on the counter in front of us.

“So why are you here?”

His expression tells me he’s honestly trying to understand, and I look back down to the counter, wondering about an answer I don’t really know.

“I’m sorry, maybe that was too…” he starts, but seems unable to find the right word to complete his sentence.

“No, it was… It’s fine. I guess I just don’t know, you know? It’s… I guess I want to make things better. I want us to be a family again.”

“I understand that,” he says simply and then is gaze returns to the drink in front of him.

“Are you guys all good?” asks the bartender, Lukas, and Tom nods and thanks him.

“Could I get a coke too?” I ask and he smiles.

“Sure thing.”

“So how’s your band?” I ask, turning the conversation to a safer territory.

Tom smiles a boyish smile. “It’s good. Really, really good. We’re headed to Japan in January for the first time to do some promotion and a couple shows.”

“Very cool! I see you’re excited?” I say, then thank Lukas when he sets a glass of soda in front of me.

Tom nods. “Oh yes. It’s always been a dream of ours to play in Japan. Tokyo specifically, because… you know. Tokio Hotel.”

Now it’s my turn to nod. “That’s right, that’s the band name! Well that’s really cool!”

“It’s amazing,” he agrees. “So how about with your band?”

“Things are good, I think. The little tour went well and stuff… Sold out most of the shows... I didn’t mess up nearly as much as I thought I would,” I say, and Tom laughs. “Really, though, it’s difficult. Like… this song, I play bass, but in the middle of this other song, I need to switch to glockenspiel, and then maybe sing a part in another song. One song, I even have to play bass, then drums, then toy piano. There are a lot of different instruments going on.”

“See, I don’t get it. You say your music is really rock and roll, but I don’t hear of a lot of rock bands that use so many instruments… Is it like... Dave Matthews? What is the style?”

“I don’t know Dave Matthews,” I tell him.

“Well… like… jamming with a bunch of people and a bunch of instruments all at once.”

“I think I… guess I know what you mean. It might be like what you say… there is never a lot of rehearsing that goes on before the shows, and sometimes Jónsi will throw in another singing part that none of us have heard of, but… I guess?” And then I laugh, because I don’t really know what he’s talking about, honestly.

“I guess I’ll just need to see for myself sometime,” he says then, smiling at me, and I nod and smile back.

Then, we’re just comfortably silent for a little while, gazing together at the drinks lined up on the shelves across from us.

“So what is that one guy’s deal?” he says after awhile, and I turn to him – again, no idea what he’s talking about.

“What? Who?”

“The skinny, dark-haired one. From your band? I don’t remember his name,” Tom says, and I realize who he’s talking about.

“Oh, Kjartan? What about him?” I ask, still not sure what he’s getting at.

“Well he was just really… he seemed…” Then he makes some sort of hand motion, and I smile at the way he almost looks like he’s trying to physically pull the English word out of thin air.

“Sort of… gruff?” I ask and he thinks on it for a moment before nodding. “I don’t know. Kjartan is just… He was the one that didn’t want me to be in the band. You see, I’m not as… as skilled as the other members. I don’t have as much experience. Kjartan thought – still thinks, maybe – that I’m not a good choice for being in a band that has been playing together for… twelve or thirteen years. And beside that, the members have been playing sorts of music for all of their lives. Jónsi and Orri have been playing in bands even since before Sigur Rós, and Kjartan has some sort of degree in music, so he knows all of the little technical things. And then here I am, just following along and learning songs I didn’t write, and… not knowing what I’m doing basically.

“So Kjartan is always just… watching over my shoulder, as they say. He doesn’t… trust me yet,” I finish, and then take a deep breath afterward. Talking about him sort of makes me nervous for some reason.

“He sounds like a jerk,” Tom says simply and when I look up at him, I can see that his eyebrows are knitting together in a look of… disapproval, maybe.

“I don’t think he is… he’s really very nice to other people. He is outgoing and friendly, mostly everyone likes him, he’s engaged to a sweet girl… No, I don’t think he’s a jerk at all. He just is… I don’t know. I don’t think he is doing it to be mean though,” I say, maybe for Tom, but maybe for myself – I can’t really tell.

“If you say so,” Tom says simply and I just nod, confirming once more – still unsure. Then we’re silent again.

“So. Do you come here often?” Tom asks me after a little while of just nothing, breaking the almost awkward silence that’s fallen over us.

I can’t help but laugh – he knows the answer to that question well enough. “No!”

And then all track of time is simply lost – lost in talking to Tom. The rest of our conversation is lighthearted. There’s no more about Kjartan (save for maybe a story about something funny he did on an airplane once), and there’s no more about Tom’s brother, Bill (except for some of their antics on tour). There isn’t any more about my brother either (with no exceptions), but we talk a little about my grandfather’s horse farm, and we talk about Tom’s step-father’s band and how silly they are when they get together. We talk some about weather in Iceland versus weather here versus weather in Los Angeles this time of year, and we both decide we’d probably like to spend the winter where it’s warmer. That runs into a conversation about the outrageous look on Jónsi’s face when he stepped into the Los Angeles heat for the first time this year a couple of weeks ago. Then we get to talking about the funny looks on people’s faces when they sleep, and funny looks on people’s faces when they play their instruments (specifically Tom’s face when he plays the guitar, even though I haven’t seen it), and how Sigur Rós as a whole is just absolutely not photogenic.

Before we know it, several hours have passed, and both he and I are starting to yawn between our words.

“Wow, shit,” Tom says as he checks his phone. “It’s already almost 23 o’clock.”

“We’ve been talking for three and a half hours?” I ask, shocked, and Tom nods.

He soon realizes something, though, and his face falls. “Shit, I should get home for Bill.”

“Yeah, I should go as well. Anja and Kristján might wonder where I am,” I say, my face falling as well. Half because they might actually not be wondering where I am, and half because this is the first real fun I’ve had since arriving in Germany. I honestly don’t think I’m ready for it to end.

Nevertheless, I still have Lukas tell me how much of a bill I’ve rung up tonight. And even though I’m a bit surprised about how inexpensive the drinks seem compared to in Iceland, I still protest when Tom slides a credit card across the counter, telling Lukas “I’ve got both of us.”

“Tom, it’s alright, you don’t have to,” I say, trying to dig some Euros out of my coat pocket.

“I want to! It’s alright, Lára,” he tells me, and I crack up at how strangely he says the ‘r.’

“Miss, I wouldn’t expect any less of this one,” Lukas says, his eyes sparkling and his smile still so contagious.

So I just smile back and nod. “Thank you very much, Tom.”

“It’s not any problem,” he answers, standing and then walking over to a coat hanger by the door that I didn’t see before. I just take my coat up off of my lap and shrug into it as he does the same with his coat across the room.

“Here’s your card, Tom, thanks for stopping by,” Lukas says, setting the card back on the counter. Then he turns to me. “And you, what is your name?”

“Lára,” I say, a shy sort of smile finding its way to my lips.

“Well Lára, will we be seeing more of you here at Trotzdem?”

“Perhaps,” I say, still smiling and Lukas laughs.

“Careful, Tom; she’s a tease.”

“Oh, but I am one too, so that’s alright,” he says, winking, and I grin as I carefully slide from the barstool and head toward the door where he is.

“Thank you, Lukas!” I call, in German for good measure, and he gives a farewell before heading over to serve a man who’s just sat down several seats down from where Tom and I were.

“How did you come here?” Tom asks, holding the door for me as we step outside.

“Walked,” I say simply, and he frowns.

“Well could I drive you home?” he asks, and I nod.

“If it’s not too much trouble. I sort of… didn’t guess the distance right of coming here. It got sort of cold.”

“Well I’m just a little bit up the street here,” he says, gesturing in the direction we’re walking and I nod.

“Okay, thanks.”

We walk in silence for a minute or so before Tom gestures to one of the cars and says “here’s me.” And then I look up and immediately stop in my tracks, staring at the vehicle he’s just pointed to.

I’ve never seen anything like it in real life – maybe just pictures Heiðar was drooling over at some point, but certainly never right in front of me, a car I’d actually be riding in. But it’s a powerful-looking sports car, and Tom is now standing on the driver’s side of the car, looking like he’s going to laugh at the expression on my face.

“It won’t bite you,” he calls, opening the door of the car and gesturing for me to do the same.

So I bite my lip and step closer to the car, hesitating just for a second or two before opening the door and easing myself into the sleek vehicle. “This car is crazy.”

Tom laughs. “Just wait.”

The car starts with something between a purr and a growl, and I can’t help it when I draw in a breath, sort of awed.

“Okay, where am I going?” Tom asks after chuckling a little, shifting into gear and pulling out of the parking spot.

“Um.. back to Winterhuder Weg, then go right. After we cross the canal, go left on Eilenau,” I tell him, and he nods, turning the car around toward the correct road.

“So how long are you here?” he asks.

“Until the 8th,” I answer, and he nods. “You?”

“The 5th. Then it’s Japan!” he says, grinning, and I have to smile too.

The car accelerates as we make a turn, and I feel myself press back against the seat slightly. The engine is sort of loud too, and I don’t think I could ever get used to this car.

We’re silent for the short duration of the drive to Kristján and Anja’s flat, but it’s far from awkward. It’s so comfortable, and before I can stop myself, I think to myself that I’d sort of rather stay with him than go back.

“Before you go,” he says as the car glides to a stop in front of the building I point out. “Um… could I have your number? Or a number to reach you by?”

“Yeah! Um… yeah, sure! If I can remember everything you have to put into the phone,” I say, and laugh a little. “I guess after the double zero here, you dial 354 for Iceland, and then my number is 869 – 9346.”

“Wait…” he says, digging for his phone in his pocket and I do. Then I repeat the numbers for him when he asks again.

“Thanks again for the ride,” I tell him and he grins.

“It’s no problem. Thanks for hanging out,” he says and I nod.

“I guess I’ll see you around, Tom,” I say, opening the car’s door.

“I’ll be in touch, Lára,” he answers, still not saying the ‘r’ well.

When I reach the door of the building, I turn to wave at Tom – at least that’s my intention until I see the headlights of his car. But when I see the curve of little light bulbs in the sockets, I can’t keep my mouth from falling open. The lights resemble the Christmas lights that decorate a few of the houses on Eilenau, and I can’t say I’ve ever seen anything like it on a car – I instantly love it.

I hurry to snap myself out of my little trance, however, and wave at Tom. It might be a bit dark to tell, but I can just swear I see him give a feeble wave as he once again laughs at my expression and then drives away.