Earth's Graveyard

En route to Akuryeri

I wish I had gotten to know the Icelanders on less of a superficial basis. I am attracted to their smart, reserved mentality. There is a part of them that seems a bit unattainable, maybe even aloof, but not in the conventional sense of the word--not rude or pretentious, but perhaps they are the type of people who keep to themselves until you offer a bit of yourself (hmmm....I find that sentiment to be oddly familiar...) There is a shyness about them that reflects nature rather than flaw, but then there is also an odd playfulness, a people laden with---must I say it again---quirks.

Poster from the Living Art Museum, Reykjavik.

It's not the same type of personal oddities as I find here in NY. They are not refugees of convention, as one may label a New Yorker (and this is great in its own right), but rather there are lapses in their solitude in which they become gently off-kilter, enthusiastic and comedic with a twist of the morose. Death is a mild-to-moderate undercurrent in the culture. Case in point: While there, I was reading in The Reykjavik Grapevine that local artist Snorri Ásmundsson was in search of corpses for a new video installment. (This is the same artist who sold letters of absolution to people, "claiming" that their purchase would free them of all sins. Read the the full article here: http://www.grapevine.is/Art/ReadArticle/wanted.)

With the dreary weather and months of almost complete darkness during the winter this is not so shocking, but an unheated, shaky bus ride through the western desert interior to the seaside city of Akuryeri emphasized just how closely people mimic their physical environments. Although, let the earth-mother in me rephrase because mimic is a bit misleading. It was a trip that reminded me how we definitely are our environments.

It's cold in No Man's Land.

The ride from Reykjavik to Akuryeri was the closest I have ever experienced to "No Man's Land." I have read the same thing over and over again about the Icelandic landscape--it's otherworldy, but in reality, it was this planet that I was truly introduced to for the first time; never before had I seen such raw, pure Earth and element. It was planet Earth in all of its jagged, desolate beauty. Time's massive graveyard lay stretched out in the smoke before us, as we drove past volcanoes no longer active, but whose final acts preluding extinction echoed through craters and frozen rock. Lava formations mimicked the ruins of crumbled monastaries and castles, collapsed onto themselves and sunken down into the moss. Faded out mountains loomed in the background. From time to time a flash of turquoise from an otherwise colorless stream, or tear-streaks of the lightest lime green broke the muteness. Otherwise, colors remained silent.

Colors become dull under such a harsh sky.


There is steam everywhere.

EVERYWHERE.

Yet another image of desolation. Perfect setting for a Twilight Zone revival.

Driving further along, I saw the faces of trolls and the feet of giants at the base of the mountains, made spiritual by the legends of gold and hidden people that shadow them. White caps of the first traces of snow barely broke the ruthlessly grey backdrop. Occasionally, we did run into signs of human life-- the steam from geothermal power plants shooting upwards and blending with the gray and silvery white clouds that seem to permanently drape the landscape, at times taunting with sporadic breaks only to gather together again. There is, of course, other mammal life, including a number of nonchalant goats (are animals a product of their culture?) They sit in the bleakness, side-by-side and lazy, face to rear.

Smoke from a geothermal power plant.

Peering up the side of a mountain in a geothermal area.

A highlight of this bus trip was my fulfillment of a most anticipated desire--to bathe in a natural hot spring, not like the Blue Lagoon, which we had visited the day before (full report of this is yet to come), but just a raw, no frills, hot spring. When we finally got out of extreme desolation, we passed by a campsite at Hveravellir, a geothermal area where the ground smokes and the air is rich with sulfur. There is a bathing pool here that is naturally heated, but cold water has to be trickled into it because it would otherwise be unbearable. Our blond-hair blued-eyed bus driver told us there was technically no place to change and that we could brave it and change in the freezing, hail-like drizzle, or do it the Icelandic way. "What better way to be one with nature," he said, smiling. Now, I was all for this. When in Iceland...Colin on the other hand was not all that enthusiastic as there were two German men already lurking within. So I was forced to go in clothed and found an old crickety bathroom to slip on my bathing suit; I then proceeded to sprint up to the hot spring in the hail. The water was hot at the surface, burning my nails as I skimmed the top, and cooler at my feet. Unlike the therapeutic Blue Lagoon, where mineral and stone massaged my soles, the ground here was slippery with algae. Still a wonderful experience, nonetheless. Ever since Colin had told me about Cleopatra's pool in Turkey, I have been obsessed with bathing in a natural "hot tub." And do to this on a cold, rainy day? A natural luxury.

Goal achieved.

Back on the bus, I am damp and freezing, but satisfied. Listening to Sigur Ros, which provided the perfect soundtrack to the landscape, I realized that despite the overwhelming and intriguing sense of deadness, with the slightest break in the clouds, the same eerie world becomes blue and beautiful, shedding its aloofness and bursting into life.

Harboring Gluttony

Just a quick one, but worthy of mention. We were intent on eating infamous fish kabobs and lobster soup at Saegreifinn, a little shanty down by the harbor, recommended by Lonely Planet. By the time we actually found it, though, we were suffering from homicidal hunger (the colder weather and constant walking really having perked our appetites) and there was a massive line and nowhere to sit. Up the road a bit we saw a modern circular building resembling the pinnacle of a Jetson skyscraper, next to a street sign reading "Burgerjoint." And lo, it was indeed a "Burgerjoint."

Corner of Burgerjoint with harbor and mountains in the background. 

We opted for a quick fix here, although towards the end of our visit we made it back to Saegreifinn, and despite its very comforting, ship-cabin ambience, the food was minorly disappointing. The lobster stew, though I must admit was well-enjoyed after a day of trekking in the rain on Videy island, was a bit too brothy. We never tried the kabobs, partly because the site of dark, congealing whale meat mixed on display along with the fish turned us off a bit. Whale is served as a delicacy, though not without controversy.

Sitting outside of Saegreiffin.

Colin fancying himself a seafaring man. 

An old whaling ship down by the harbor.

We entered Burgerjoint and were immediately warmed by the Christmas lights on the ceiling (a touch that I believe makes anything cozy), a colored sky light and disco ball rotating to old-time American blues. We ordered cheeseburgers and fries and plopped down at a high-top table. Behind me to my right, a poster of a very young Johnny Cash was tacked up right next to a resurrection of the original Soprano family. Turning to the left, ETs finger pointed directly into my face. Back to the front and on the counter, donning Santa apparel,  Scooby Doo smiled at customers with his big white teeth. I was beginning to sense some sarcasm in the decor. I determined that this was less of a themed place than just a very bizarre conglomeration. And to top it off, lurking behind the counter, leering over the grill sporting his apron and instigating attitude was what Colin rightfully described as "your cocky burger flipper." But still, I seriously think this young, bleach-blonde Icelander was consciously acting the part. After all, he gave me a free coke.

Colin with an oddly disturbing countenance in "Burgerjoint." Must be the flashing lights. 

By right, the joint was speckled with Icelandic touches; above the counter hung downright weird pictures drawn by children, one of a walking hamburger. Another was a wavery sketch of a girl drawn four times, each with a different expression. I could only make out two: happy and sad. I don't believe I have ever seen such faces as were on the other two. I chaulked them up as lost in emotional translation.

One of the oddities that particularly tickled my fancy were the two books sitting at our table, "The Sea" and "The Universe." Colin took the latter, I the former, and I opened immediately to a page flaunting the skeleton of a giant fish. The title of the section, "The Story in Stone." Finally getting my basket of food, I started to read a passage.

Ninety million years ago a 14-foot fish, the portheus, attacked and swallowed a 6-foot whale. The portheus died almost immediately after the heavy meal to be transformed finally into a vivid fossil record of fatal gluttony.

I closed the book and and continued to eat my cheeseburger, which was indeed a good burger, as the disco lights flashed and reggae started to play.

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.....

Arrival

I held back tears leaving Reykjavik last Sunday. It was an involuntary reaction that just snuck up on the way to the airport. I haven't been so sorry to leave a place since Disney World at age five, despite my assumption that after the small beds and shared baths of guesthouses, the relentless freezing rain and the miniscule cups of coffee, my stiff legs and arms from the constant walking and packing up, leaving and arriving, then leaving again, that I was ready to come home. Not so. While in one sense this odd world made it seem like I had been gone for months, in another I now couldn't believe it was already ten days ago that I boarded a plane with a frenzy of flying fear shadowing half-waking daydreams of the hot springs and glaciers to come.

The Myvatn area in northern Iceland.

At some point through the flight to Iceland I began to get antsy, wondering how many hours were left. I was slightly sedated and had already been through three episodes of My Name is Earl and two hours of Hugh Grant--needless to say, my capacities were a bit dull, but with what I estimated to be less than two hours to destination, I found myself thinking about geothermal pools, the Golden circle, wherever else our trekking would take us. There was a slight buzz of conversation from a mildly drunk crowd on the plane, but it somehow made the whole flying experience more comfortable, and suddenly I got the feeling of Christmas Eve as I swung my shoe-less feet on the ground and felt oddly cozy in my seat. The pit of my stomach tinged with excitement as I read in Lonely Planet that according to Scandinavian folklore, the Northern Lights were the final resting place for unmarried women.

Lava formations in Northern Iceland.

And still more beauty from the Myvatn area!

We landed and took the Flybus from Keflavik airport to Reykjavik. En route, the mildly drunk crowd from the plane had suddenly become the highly inebriated and loud drunk crowd on the bus. They were American. New Yorkers, and as it turns out, the NYFD coming to Iceland for a bachelor party, so one can imagine the level of, shall I say, unawareness to surroundings? Funny coincidence, but slightly disappointing, first, because the non-Americans on the bus all seemed to be sneering, of course, at the loud Americans, and second, no matter how much I love New York, when going to a foreign place in an effort to absorb a new culture ( and possibly having minorly deluded ideas of the exotic) I did not want to feel like I was riding the N train back to Astoria. It was too dark see much out of the windows, but halfway through the ride we were introduced to Iceland via our sense of smell as the aroma of sulfur seeped into the bus, a smell that would find a home in my lungs and airways for the next ten days. I never knew that not only could I get used to the rich smell of rotten eggs, but I would actually come to like, and eventually miss it.

Sulfur at its finest--The bubbling mudpots and smoking grounds in the North. Temps of the pools reach up to 200 degrees centigrade.


Eventually we made it to the Salvation Army guesthouse (or gistiheimili), one of the last places to have a vacancy for the night, but still smack in the middle of central Reykjavik. It was a small, no frills room with only a wash-bin and two twin beds resting perpendicular to each other, but I liked it. I liked the paper thin curtains of pastel orange, blues and yellows, the flowery designs on them, and the unintentionally meshing impressionist-type painting on the nearly bare walls. I liked the simple wooden crucifix hanging over the bed. I even liked the prayer on the wall, stamped on paper with old black ink. It was the Our Father, in Icelandic. I felt like a "traveler." (Colin, who has traveled half the world already probably just felt "tired.") It was too late to get a sense of Reykjavik, it being Thursday night at 1AM, but we would stay for a few days, and I had heard that there was a festival on Saturday--hence, the lack of vacancies in the city. There was a bell tolling outside. This, I would soon learn, was coming from Halldrimskirkja, the city's largest Cathedral. After staying longer in Reykjavik, I realized with its constant tolling or chiming every ten minutes, it set the pace for the city. I fell into an interrupted sleep, revved up by thoughts of seeing some of the most beautiful landscapes that the world has to offer, and that life is for exploring.

Sorry for the hiatus....

Sorry, the 2 week hiatus was due to my recent trip to Iceland...so, in true fashion, I am again putting off my promised garden entries and will be filling the next couple of weeks with pictures and accounts, and even some poetry of this beautiful, eerie place. For now, I can just say that we have definitely had our fill of hotdogs and rainbows, sulfur and dark, twisted humor, smoking grounds, hot springs, volcanic deserts, lava and rain. But we wound up falling in love with it. And we fell in love with Reykjavik after about five minutes, with its calm creative energy and its quirky simplicity. So stay tuned, I will try to post as much as I can in the upcoming days....