I moved to Iceland in May 2001. I was 23, and by this time, a product of working-class Irish Catholicism and Lower East Side punk rock hijinx both, I had already about a solid decade of alcohol abuse under my belt. In Iceland, I found the same attitude towards booze I had been raised with: drink hard, apologise, repeat. I found a culture similar to the one I left behind, I found a whole nation of drinking buddies.
This website uses cookies so that we can provide you with the best user experience possible. Cookie information is stored in your browser and performs functions such as recognising you when you return to our website and helping our team to understand which sections of the website you find most interesting and useful.