People get lost up here in Vallaheiði all the time; the street marquees still say the old names from when this was a military base, but the residents know the streets by different names (the new names that will, one day, get marked). And the building numbers and apartment numbers are also in a strange order, following some military logic that escapes most of us. So, occasionally Icelanders knock on my door, like this evening, and when I answer, they say an individual´s name, nothing else. From this I infer that I am naturally supposed to know the names of all my neighbors, and which apartment they are in. Unfortunately, I grew up in Southern California, where one rarely knows the names of even immediate neighbors, let alone whole blocks full. I have no idea how one acquires this sort of information, even though people I have never spoken to seem to know I´m the American at the end.