City of Subtleties

We had to move to a new guesthouse for our next few nights in Reykjavik. We were lucky to find accommodations, albeit it was a bit on the outskirts and we needed a bus to get to the central area--which would have been fine sans the freezing rain and an hourly bus schedule. Nonetheless, Duma guesthouse would suit our needs, even those gravest of needs; walking out the front door one morning, I wondered why not one, but two hearses were parked in the lot. I then noticed that the odd stretch of building attached to the left of the guesthouse (the precariously dark annex, sporting a sign with blue crucifixes) was in fact a funeral parlor. (Lonely Planet failed to mention this in their blurb.) Luckily the establishment remained closed during our stay, although I did, out of sick curiosity, peek in the windows a number of times. Nothing uncanny.

View over Tjornin lake at about 10 in the evening.
After our first bus-ride into central city we walked up the street from the Hlemmur stop on Laugevegur, which is one of the main shopping stretches in central Reykjavik, stopping in Hljomalind kaffihaus, whose bright yellow exterior and large glass windows showcased a cozily eclectic interior. It looked like a fine place to warm ourselves with coffee and chocolate, and contemplate plans for dinner. For the umteenth time that day we reviewed the street maps of Reykjavik; barring my less than desirable sense of direction, with names such as Klapparstigar and Skolavordustigur, navigation gets a bit taxing.

We settled down into coffee, thoughts and writing in our organic, free-trade find. The subtle change brought about by travel had started to seep in as I submitted myself to the mellowness, the ambient music with a soft drum beat, the happy but low buzz of conversation--Colin said that he could have stayed all day. I concurred. Reykjavik seemed like a true"cafe" culture. Not a Starbucks culture, but a slower un-rushed, unchained cafe culture.

Perhaps I am being biased and swept away with grass-is-always-greener syndrome. I admit that, and after spending a greater amount of time anywhere you learn both the ups and downs. I don't understand the language in Iceland, so I imagine that everyone is conversing art and philosophy, and subjects are imbedded with meaning and profound connection. The downfall of my own culture is that I can in fact understand and overhear inane cell phone conversations. But, I am entitled to bask in my delusion while on vacation.

Basking away, with coffee and "Magic Yellow" soup.

A view from the inside, out.

I can't help but feel I am not too far off though. I eavesdropped on two people speaking English at the table next to me; they were having a nonchalant conversation about writing and Joyce. But yes, that's nothing too unusual, especially coming from culture pot NYC and being exposed to NYU grad students. So, it's not exactly the focus on art, but its moreso the treatment and attainability of it; its subtle necessity in the culture. This is not NYC, nowhere close in size and diversity, blatant passion and choatic energy, and yet there is still a great appreciation for artists. At this cafe in particular, there is an open space in the basement that is available to anyone. There are posters advertising "Put Your Ideas Into Action."

Throughout the city, galleries are stuck between merchant storefonts, their doors wide open with a non-exclusive air. One such gallery was an installment of what I would describe as an "urban" garden scene. We were actually able to sign our names on a wall in the garden to contribute to the city "graffitti." During one of our two stays in Reykjavik, we also visited a Living Art space which is half display area, half storage and classroom/workshop.

Looking like a tourist in the urban garden.


An effort to eternlaize our existence in Reykjavik.

Display at the Living Art museum.

Of course there are plenty of formal musems and a National Gallery, but there is also plenty of public art without effort, art without the bells and whistles, pardon the cliche. (Actually, I have come to realize that this is an entire culture without the bells and whistles, minus of course, the tolling bell of the church.) There are odd sculptures in random spots both in the city center and on the side of highways. Art is just kind of, embedded--in the landscape and in the functioning city. I was reminded of the waterfall display in NYC, and its gentle melding with the cityscape. It turns out that Olafur Eliasson's work is on display in Reykjavik, as he is from Scandanavia (Copenhagen.)

In the backdrop slumps a sculpture of a despondent man.

So it was on our second day when I came to the simple realization that it was just, in every respect, quieter here. You hear muffled voices and people walking, the heels of their shoes clunking (quite ryhthmically) to a backdrop of nothing but periodic chimes and tolls. And if you're in the vicinity of the massive Tjornin pond, you may hear the honking of ducks. But despite this widespread calm, there is no want for life and energy. In fact, Reykjavik advertises itself as being a place of "pure energy," and rightly so, from its "pure," recyclable geothermal power process, to its musical, hard-working, and playfully sarcastic--but quiet--vibe.

Window of an art supply store. The amount of "blue" paintings throughout the city were countless, which is ironic considering most of the time we were there, everything was cast in grey due to the clouds and rain. But the minute the sun comes out, the landscape seems to burst into blue, and this is what is captured.

Back to Hljomalind. We ordered hot "Magic Yellow" soup that had a curry twist to it. I sat back and absorbed my surroundings as much as I could. A bright blond Scandanvian girl sitting crosslegged on a cushioned bench on the wall, in bare, stripe stockinginged feet. A sign advertising "Organic Haircuts." Muted florals covering the wall with white, orange, yellow, green, and brown, somewhat like the guesthouse the night before. A red Picasso-eque picture hanging by the glass window in the front of the cafe that, after putting my glasses on, turns out to be a rug. On another wall, swims a painting of a sperm. On our second visit to this cafe, later in the week, there would be a bit more conversation, as asian reporters interview local Icelandic bands, possibly for the upcoming Jazz festival.

Yes, so far, I liked it here.

Next stop for us.....