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eclipse2061

Photo: Anyone got 49,000+ spare beds for the next eclipse?

By Mark Sabbatini on March 30, 2015
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The sun sets over what might be Longyearbyen in the year 2061 (since climate change might result in temperatures closer to Spain’s than the North Pole’s), when an estimated 50,000 people are already pledging to visit to see Svalbard’s next total solar eclipse. The masses made their commitments within a few days of the debut of a “Solar Eclipse 2061” Facebook page set up by Adrian Paixao Nilsen of Lillestrøm. “It all started as an internal joke amongst me and my classmates,” he told NRK. “I had no idea that there was so much interest in this.” But he noted “my buddies and I are actually planning to have a reunion then and if others will be with us we will be ready with open arms.”

About Post Author

Mark Sabbatini

I'm a professional transient living on a tiny Norwegian island next door to the North Pole, where once a week (or thereabouts) I pollute our extreme and pristine environment with paper fishwrappers decorated with seemingly random letters that would cause a thousand monkeys with a thousand typewriters to die of humiliation. Such is the wisdom one acquires after more than 25 years in the world's second-least-respected occupation, much of it roaming the seven continents in search of jazz, unrecognizable street food and escorts I f****d with by insisting they give me the platonic tours of their cities promised in their ads. But it turns out this tiny group of islands known as Svalbard is my True Love and, generous contributions from you willing, I'll keep littering until they dig my body out when my climate-change-deformed apartment collapses or they exile my penniless ass because I'm not even worthy of washing your dirty dishes.
marksabbatini@yahoo.com
http://icepeople.net
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Published in Svalbard and Random weirdness

Mark Sabbatini
Mark Sabbatini

I'm a professional transient living on a tiny Norwegian island next door to the North Pole, where once a week (or thereabouts) I pollute our extreme and pristine environment with paper fishwrappers decorated with seemingly random letters that would cause a thousand monkeys with a thousand typewriters to die of humiliation. Such is the wisdom one acquires after more than 25 years in the world's second-least-respected occupation, much of it roaming the seven continents in search of jazz, unrecognizable street food and escorts I f****d with by insisting they give me the platonic tours of their cities promised in their ads. But it turns out this tiny group of islands known as Svalbard is my True Love and, generous contributions from you willing, I'll keep littering until they dig my body out when my climate-change-deformed apartment collapses or they exile my penniless ass because I'm not even worthy of washing your dirty dishes.

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