Crunch Time Wanderlust (with camera)

On Sunday I went out to the saga museum, because apparently people like wax figures. And I didn't go to any of the museums when I was in D.C., and have regretted it every since. But then on Thursday most of MIS went out to Njála country, to the place where Njál burned and to Gunnar´s farm, and the hill where Skarp-Hedin slide down when he was ambushed, hacking down his enemies around him. Little can be said that wouldn't take more time that I have to offer, since there are three papers due-one in a week, and the other two within the first week of December. Which will be followed by two very very far from easy tests. So I will let the pictures speak for themselves, as well as they can.

(Edit): It might further be noted that this week I both managed to get a 7.5 on my runology presentation, for failure to dig deeply enough into the scholarship to fulfill the assignment guidelines or prove to Orri that I had done the research, and the Vagantes conference received a record number of submissions and both Bahb and I were turned down, despite Paul reminding us that it should be an easy conference to get into (thanks, as always, Paul). So it is thoroughly a week of failure. Here's hoping the next few weeks meet with better fortune, or at least better work on my part.

First, the saga-museum:

 Sunrise

 Paul is a creepy wax monk

 Survival based on dried fish. I feel like this says something

important about Icelandic women.

 Nope, this is what says something about Icelandic

woman. Scaring off the Scrælings

 Getting under the cloak to decide whether the country

will be Christian or not. And also to compose Völuspá.

A Nordal told me so. It must be true.

 The Völva herself. With her glare and her catskin gloves.

 Snorri pondering over the composition of something 

important. This figure breathed. It´s chest moved. Seriously

scary shit. I want to gut the man who thought that would be

a good idea.

 Death is scarier, sometimes, when it´s fake.

 But cats, the dirty voyeurs, are always scary.

 The chronology progress, until the climax of all

societies: burnin´ witches.

 Thought this guy was real until right before we left. Again,

I hate the people who designed this exhibition.

 Because Icelanders don´t believe in supervising

children.

And now, somewhat more interesting, I hope, Njála country:

 Greenhouses. For some reason I really like this one.

 The clouds are very heavy around here.

´. . .more. . .weight!´

 An initial failure at the 102 (Kilo?) stone.

 But try. . .

 And try. . .

 Again!

 Muhahahaha!

 I am a destroyer of worlds! I am a beautiful animal!

 I am Giles fucking Corey!

 . . .did you get the shot? I´m a little tired now.

 Somewhat more dignified than the rest of

us posers.

 New to the photos: Elias, our resident Galician poet.

Most everyone made it. Except the two gigantic

pussies I live with.

Seriously, Victoria RAN up that shit. James and Paul,

I am disappointed in you.

Moses on the mount.

It´s the sort of spot,

that one must be showy.