If you’ve ever lived in a college town, the drinking norms and social practices of going out in Reykjavik will seem familiar. For one, all of your action will take place within an eight-block bubble in the 101 area of downtown, though downtown is a loaded word to use in what is, essentially, a village pretending to be a city.
Your crowd will be equal parts dressed to the nines or rocking the uniform lopapeysa wool sweater and, after a few days, you’ll begin to see the same faces crop up everywhere. You’ll see the same guy at a café that you saw at the supermarket that you saw at a bar and all of the sudden, by sheer observation, you know he’s a vegan, speaks German, and is writing a book. Everyone here is writing a book.