Uploaded a few more photos, was going to do it yesterday but couldn't find a computer with a CD drive.
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For a few days I've just wanted to sit down with my friends Ben and Jerry and sulk, but I can't do that; I don't do icecream and I try not to sulk. I've now perked up and am willing to share my swinging moods with you. I admitted what's bothering me to a friend and acknowledging the problem is good start. I'm Ásta and I'm... most certainly not an alchoholic. A neurotic cynic with tendencies towards codependency maybe, but that's not a problem, those are characteristics.

Anyways... to lighten my spirit I went to a movie on Monday and I saw Bridget Jones 2. That was... how can I put it nicely... absolute crap. OK, nothing else could be expected, it's just cashing in on accounts of the first one, which wasn't great either. A tad closer to the actual story though. 'Cause I love the books, have read them in Icelandic, English and Norwegian and they get better everytime. The music was made up of horribly clichéd you-go-girl old hits and I could have written a better script. At least it featured Mark Darcy. I know, his real name is Colin Firth, but he'll always be Mark Darcy to me. Admittedly a strange suit-clad mixture of the real Mr. Darcy and Bridget's Darcy. But mmm...
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This old hag got treated to a haircut today, you might know that such beautification is not only done in an aesthetic purpose but also has an undermestimated therapeutic value. And now yours truly has an...interesting...distinctive hairstyle. In an attacked-by-mad-hair-devouring-goats kinda way. My hairdresser at home would have a fit if she saw me now. But I like it, it's at least most certainly not boring, the way my hair sticks out it the opposite of dull. And I made the day for the hairdresser when I gave him free rein with the scissors. He praised my fabulous country Irlanda (which is not really where I come from, but close enough) and the fantastic singer Vyol. Who? Ah yes, Vyol. We actually call her Björk.

For those who don't speak Spanish B and V are pronounced very similarly, and are referred to as B larga and V corta to distinguish them. And of course the Ö is not pronounced as in Icelandic and he skipped the K, very soft on the R, so voilá: Vyol. And the awards go to... Ásta the psychic, for understanding her hairdresser.

In Argentina S is very often not pronounced, I still haven't gotten used to it. My name thus is sometimes pronounced Ata, no diacritical mark on the first letter and no S. And if the S is pronounced I get a quizzical look, a raised eyebrow; ¿Asta... hasta cuándo? I will never make fun of foreigners' names again.
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The hottest place in South America is, I think, my room. Not hot as in sought-after, considered-cool, but as in hot as hell. And it's not that hot in Buenos Aires, ranges from 33-38ºC but it's very humid, up to 80-90%. Sometimes I wonder if I'll stop sensing what's me and what's the air around me. Nothing seems dry, my towel hardly dries between showers and my hair is, or was before lots of centimeters were chopped off, wavy and feels damp all the time. But hey, everything's better than eternal darkness, slush, or even worse; being stuck in some far flung place because of a blizzard.
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I've been cutting down on the contents of my backpack. After this I'm only going to places where the temperature is as high as here or higher, so a lot of clothes were given to charity today. Won't be needing socks, longsleeved shirts (exept one, for mosquito infested places), a jacket... the most useful item is a cotton sarong which serves as a towel/scarf/skirt/blanket/pillow/washcloth/beachtowel, whatever needed, so that stays. If I keep on like this I'll end up like an Indian Sadhu, who's only worldly possession is a string around the waist and... yeah, that's it.
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I won't be going to Paraguay as planned. I went to the embassy today to apply for a visa, but after a while, lots of shuffling of papers, pointing at maps and comfused looks I got "sorry, señorita, Paraguay doesn't have any diplomatic relations to your country, so it will take 10-14 days to get the visa". I was planning to come back from Paraguay in 10-14 days time, so I'll just skip it and spend more time in Argentina and Uruguay. I did get to go through a very familiar conversation though:

Embassy personnel: And that’s your last name; Þorsteinsdóttir?
Ásta: Yes, it is.
Embassy personnel: Is that a P(points to the Þ)? Or a D?
Ásta: No, you see, it’s an Icelandic character, it’s like Th is English. See here, that’s like, the international version of the name (points to bottom of page, where the name is written without Icelandic characters).
Embassy personnel: I see... so your name is written in two different ways in your passport?
Ásta: Eh... yes?

I can't blame him. Who trust a scruffy girl with words like “Borgarfjarðarhreppur” and “Ríkislögreglustjórinn” in her passport who claimes to be from Iceland. Next to Neverland, Farawayistan and Shangri-la-di-da.

I've had conversations like this before. When I was picking up my passport in the Ugandan embassy in Nairobi and had been granted a visa, the lovely, helpful lady at the desk looked a bit perplexed and asked me if Iceland was a part the Commonwealth. “Eh no”, I replied and probably looked a bit worried, I don't trust anyone who holds my passport, without it things could get seriously wrong. “A part of the European Union?” “Nope”. “Can you, eeeh, tell me where Iceland is? I just don't know how to charge you for the visa”. “Oh, just like I'm Danish or Norwegian I guess” I blubbered, thankful for getting my passport back.

I had a similar experience in the Rwandan embassy in Kigali, when the staff member looked at me scornfully and said “...Iceland? Iceland would be... where?” Maybe she just sounded arrogant, maybe it comes with the French accent, but I was not amused.

And frankly I was not at ease when stopped at a roadblock in Rwanda, everyone was ushered out of the minibus and had to show their identity cards to a fully-weaponed guard. 10 Rwandans – and me.

If I ever have children I'm gonna make sure their names don't contain any special Icelandic letters. Or their father's name either. Preferably they should be able to travel on double passports. Too bad I'm a sucker for those old, long, magnifiscent Icelandic names. And Icelandic men, in all their glory (add sarcastic tone at will).