Broken Notes on Iceland
02/08/2024
We fly our red-eye over the ocean and land at Keflavik International Airport. Stacks of snow, frigid wind. It’s 4 AM. We find a coffee dispenser in the airport. Use coffee machine to dispense Swiss mocha. The coffee is for departures only. Curse. Find another coffee machine. Stand in line early for the car rental and still end up five people behind. After debate, buy the wind insurance for fifteen extra dollars a day - regret my decision. Immediately let the regret pass. It is ten degrees outside and the wind is in a frenzy blowing snow across our pink faces. The car is frozen and I scrape it off before beginning to drive. The speed limit signs are in kilometers. We see a hellish red mass spreading across the land out our right window - it’s an active volcano. Police cars and ambulances speed by, red and blue light streaking across the black morning - we pass the road they are congregating on. At this time, the news outlets are not even covering the story yet. All I can find is an old article about how the volcano, after not having erupted for many years, has now erupted twice in the last two months. Find it unsettling how nobody seems to care, speeding by or conducting business as usual. The angry smoke of underground gods fills the air.
Live through sleep having gotten none on the plane. Immediately start our explorations. Park at Pinguillar National Park and watch Kyra finally drift away into sleep. Move on through the Golden Circle. Visit the great Giyser. It is not so great. Yellowstone was more impressive. Ol’ Faithful remains faithful. I slip on ice and fall against a car. Gulfoss (underwhelming). Drive the rest of the circle but don’t stop again. The land is empty and flat. Volcanic black rock peaks. The soft rising sun anoints the peaks pink. Arrive in Reykjavik. The streets are small and there is snow lining the roads. We stop for groceries in a snowed in, small parking lot and feign confidence as we convert prices and settle upon our best options. Imports. The meat looks foul. We buy bread, cheese, smashed burgers, mayo, butter, pasta, onions. Our apartment is on 29 Oldugata street. It is a loft on the third floor with a triangle roof and a bathroom in a separate room outside our front door. The bathtub is antique with gargoyle feet. A detachable shower head resting above the bathtub faucet. We lay in the tub and use this to wash ourselves. In the main room: impeccable lighting from antique lamps and the skylights, a pink flamingo, hanging hammock of fruit, a painted woman’s abstract face, potted plants everywhere, bookcart, map of Iceland, smooth white paneled wood flooring, white walls, Icelandic rock music on the radio, pastel colors through the window, the ocean softened by all the white snow, the ash from the volcano in the distance, birds over the crystal sea, a comfortable white couch. We fall into a deep and satisfying sleep on the couch while watching Donald Glover’s Mr. and Mrs. Smith.
02/09/2024
Walk five minutes downtown to Babalu Cafe. Sit down in a sea of eclectic items: snoopy, graffiti, finger puppets (pictured on the homepage). Drink from a wide coffee cup - leaf in milk. Walk through the town and marvel at the colorful homes. The angle of the streets. The street names I can’t pronounce. At Massin: the best filet of cod I have ever tasted served in a stainless steel pan with apple, potato, all swimming in sauce. The waitress kindly shares free bread with us at the end of our meal to soak up the sauce. We die and live infinitely in this moment. Wash it away with a gin and tonic. Walk to the Lebowski bar. Order the signature White Russian. Sky High is playing from a projector. The lighting is dim. A waitress at the end of her shift pulls Franz Kafka’s The Metamorphosis from her fish net bag and reads at the bar while she drinks. John Goodman has even signed a picture here. Continue to walk the streets. Clean. European. Cobblestone. Chic people walk past dressed in heavy coats and hats and wool gloves. Walk to church Hallgrimskirkja. It is like a concrete missile. A fifty ton bronze Leifir Eirikkson statue stands in front of the church. The other way around - the church was erected to supplement the statue. It was a gift from the United states to celebrate one-thousand years of Icelandic parliament. Walk inside the church. The most sinister organ I have ever seen covers one wall, they are in the process of reconstruction, and making it bigger. Walk Skólavörðustígur, also known as the iconic Rainbow Street. Kyra demands a picture. Buy two bottles of wine. It’s getting dark when we arrive at the loft. Walk up through three doors. Lock three doors. Make grilled cheese with caramelized onions. Lie on the couch again. Get drunk in our underwear. I have nightmares of faceless, naked people surrounding me. Icelandic tradition I suppose.
02/10/2024
Drive three hours to Vik. Walk the black sand beach. Barraged of the fiercest winds I have ever known. Squinting provides no relief and we stay on the beach briefly, almost losing the entrance. The Vikings of old were nuts. Guano. Drive up the hill to a church with the red roof. Race against time, the coming storm nipping at our heels and stirring the dormant snow on the highway sides. Make it to Kirkjufell after four hours. We are in time for the sunset. The sun falls over the Norwegian sea beginning to cast everything in that rose-colored hue. The sea sparkles. We walk down to the waterfall, which is frozen, the water pouring down from behind a sheet of ice. Pay for gas at the only station on the island, it seems. Arrive back in Reykjavik at last after another waterfall less impressive than the first. Walk downtown to Dillon Whiskey Bar. Carded at the door and I wait too long for two whiskey drinks which are average, although I am a savant when it comes to making an old fashioned - really quite simple. A British man flirts with the bartender while I wait. His accent irritates me. Sit down at our small table and watch a blind-drunk buffoon wobble in his chair while holding a pint. Watch his friend slap him out of it. Leave too late, sprint further downtown until we arrive at Ban Thai restaurant. Indulge in another tastebud meal of spicy curry. Hurry out at closing time. The back of house staff is hard at work cleaning the kitchen. Woks being scrubbed. Dirty white aprons. Pristine chef hats slouching a little on their heads. A language I dont understand. A dream. Morning - our waitress - ushering us out into life. We are the last two to leave.
02/11/2024
Our last day. Rise early and drive to the Blue Lagoon but the road is closed due to volcanic overflow. Disappointment. Re-route to the oldest lighthouse on the island of Iceland - Reykjanesviti. We stay briefly, broken by the wind once again, then drive to the airport. We watch Red Dawn on the flight back and summon our forgotten patriotism. Patrick Swayze. Charlie Sheen. And Iceland.
