Before drifting off to sleep I watched a little television. I liked Icelandic TV not only for the soap operas spoken in a language I could not understand but also because I could watch the BBC uncensored. I was watching a “chat show” hosted by Graham Norton, a very engaging fellow. He was interviewing a young film director who was talking about his newborn son. His description of his wife’s labor and the birth process was accompanied by photos of himself, his wife and his brand new child. One picture stood out. It showed his son with his face mashed against his mother’s nipple. His tiny right hand was pressed against her breast, fingers curled under in a little fist. Except the middle finger which was pointing straight up. Most of you will understand the meaning of the middle finger. As the audience began to laugh in recognition the director said, “That’s my son! Only three hours old and already telling his father ‘Back off old man, this breast is mine!’” The morning came and I spent a few final hours wandering around the arts district before ducking into a bar for a sandwich and another ten dollar beer. I made it back to my hotel in time to catch the airport bus and my flight home.