Sleeping-in seems to be a theme of this trip for me. I didn't manage to leave my hostel before the afternoon had begun, perhaps because of the uninviting sound of the wind whistling through the corridors and the sight of white-capped wavelets rushing in from the sea. Perhaps because I'm lazy. Despite the bracing breezes the sky was cloudless and gloriously sunny, and the locals were out en masse for the start of Reykjavik's Pride Weekend. Everyone and their mother had dressed in rainbows in this most LGBT-friendly of countires; an eight-year-old in a rainbow bow-tie scurried past me on a scooter, drag queens in platforms and wigs tottered down the middle of all the central roads closed to cars today, and two girls dressed as nuns rocked rainbow leis and knee-high socks. Or perhaps they were real nuns - in this city where all businesses from banks to book shops fly pride flags in their storefronts there may well be no limit to tolerance.
I had some time to spare before an agreed meeting point in front of "that scary grey building by the hill" (the city theatre), so ducked into the charmingly-named Cafe Bort for its comparatively cheap coffee and cake deal. It was deliciously sunny under the skylights, and I finished my book over a blueberry muffin soundtracked by a band warming up out back on one of the many temporary stages littering the city today. An absurdly attractive gay couple and their absurdly well-behaved small child slurped soup at the table next to me, and a constant stream of invariably cool and multi-coloured revellers flowed on through. This city has a habit of making one feel very unattractive and very under-dressed.