Júníus Meyvant is always impersonating other people, and all the people he impersonates are always yelling.
His father when he, Júníus, was learning to play the guitar:
“Could you play something else!?”
His grandfather, on the eve of his 90th birthday, when told he needed to evacuate his home because of an eruption:
“I’m not going anywhere!”
He, Júníus, when rousing his drowsy thirteen-year-old son in the morning:“Why are you still up!? You’re supposed to be in bed by now!?” (He’s got an offbeat sense of humour).
It’s like his family, and everyone he knows, come equipped with a rectally-installed midget fuse bound shortly to be engulfed by a flame – as if they were typecast Italian Americans starring in some loud New York sitcom. But Júníus’ people are not from the Big Apple. They hail from a small archipelago on the south coast of Iceland called the Westman Islands.
We got there by way of the ferry Herjólfur.
