By Raffi Khatchadourian

The house on Grettisgata Street, in Reykjavik, is a century old, small and white, situated just a few streets from the North Atlantic. The shifting northerly winds can suddenly bring ice and snow to the
city, even in springtime, and when they do a certain kind of silence
sets in. This was the case on the morning of March 30th, when a tall
Australian man named Julian Paul Assange, with gray eyes and a mop of
silver-white hair, arrived to rent the place. Assange was dressed in a
gray full-body snowsuit, and he had with him a small entourage. “We are
journalists,” he told the owner of the house. Eyjafjallajökull had
recently begun erupting, and he said, “We’re here to write about the
volcano.

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http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2010/06/07/100607fa_fact_khatcha...