48 hours in Reykjavik

Iceland is not large. It's eye catching -- poised there in the middle of the ocean, but its land mass is actually slightly smaller than the state of Kentucky. And there aren't many people who inhabit it. About 335,000 live here. That's a lot less than the population of Wyoming -- America's state with the fewest people.

Reykjavik itself is tiny -- its population is 119,000 (and declining each year). But today, I think it swelled to at least twice that number. In addition to the Marathon and the Culture Night festivities, something else took place here today -- something so unusual that when it happens, people congregate in great masses outside to celebrate: it was sunny.



Everything about my travels today was easy, except that I didn't sleep and I ate poorly. Because the flight left Minneapolis late and was, in fact, relatively short (five and a half hours, flying east), Delta skipped the usual transatlantic dinner service, opting for a basket of snacks in the evening (think: nuts, potato chips and bananas) and then a breakfasty meal before arrival. I would have done exactly the opposite. I had left the farmette at 3:30 and had not eaten properly since breakfast on the porch. Sometimes on these longer flights I doze off. That didn't happen this time. Such is life.

Still, all went well and I even found my way from the Bus Station to the street with my rental apartment without getting lost. Remarkable.

The street where I live -- for 48 hours:






My apartment occupies the ground floor of this lovely little building:






The unit itself is brand new and it is full of beautiful light (witness that glassed-in porch):





But I can't get in. The lockbox has the key, I have the code, but the key refuses to turn. This is when you wish you had a desk clerk downstairs who could assist you. No such luck here.

Fortuitously that lovely glass porch has a door that someone had forgotten to lock. In I go.

All nice, fresh, pretty.





And now I have to start my torpedo run. Sort of like a marathon, only without any prize at the end of the day for pulling it off.

I'm going to post a string of photos. If you've been here, you wont be surprised by them. If you haven't, I hope you'll get an idea of what Reykjavik feels like, on a day packed with Icelandic people running, eating, banging out music, wielding fake swords in fake battles, drinking, pushing strollers with lots of bundled up children with remarkably light hair.


























At the very top of my list for today is a visit to the Sandholt Bakery, to get a proper breakfast (or is it lunch?). There are a number of good bakeries in town and they all will have trays of pastries that are sort of a cross between danishes and Viennese cakes and buns. Like this:






Too, there are a number of good coffee shops in Reykjavik with very good coffee. But few bakeries offer coffee and few coffee shops offer food. Sandholt is the exception here. And it's good! (I had an okay quiche and an exceptionally tasty "Viennese," which is one of the more typical Icelandic sweet treats.






As I walk the crowded streets of this very small city, I am happy that I can shake away my earlier tiredness. Cool but sunny weather, with a strong breeze from the ocean is just such a boost to the soul! (And it is cool here: today's high was 56F/13C and the low will go down to 46F/8C.)

Highlights from my rambles? Well, the sweet, colorful houses of course.






And the Harpa Concert Hall, which was built in 2011 -- a cooperative effort between a Danish team and an Icelandic architect. The geometric panels of glass have different hues and the entirety is just dazzling, especially in its waterside location.






To the side of Harpa, I see a few boats bobbing in the small harbor.






Reykjavik is at the mouth of a large bay and as you look out toward the water, you can just barely see a summit from the shore on the other side of the bay (to the right in the photo below). The summit is actually a glacier and it looks like it is rising out of the water. On the left side of the photo, you see the lighthouse warning of past and present dangers.






It's quiet here, along the shore of the cold Atlantic Ocean. All the noise and action are downtown today. Eventually I return to it, to enjoy the happy gatherings of people who rarely feel too warm and almost never experience the feeling of being just too hot.










In the evening, on the recommendation of my hosts (who are faceless email writers), I had booked a seat at the bar at Snaps Bistro. I'd been warned it's packed full of locals and it surely lived up to that hype. As I placed my order (which had some mishmash of French and English words), the woman sitting next to me asked (in English with that faint Icelandic accent) -- excuse me, are you French?
No...
I was hoping. (??) So... where are you from? (Isn't it obvious?)
The United States.
She waves her hand and shakes her head, but maintains her smile. (My interpretation: love all you creative people, but I'm somewhat mystified right now by your country!)
She is my age, waiting for a friend. He comes, smooches her all over, they chat in Icelandic. Then her brother comes and the whole thing repeats itself.

Earlier, I had told her that I had been in Reykjavik as a young woman.
Iceland has changed so much! -- she tells me.
Yes, you've had some dramatic moments -- the 2008 financial crisis, the volcano...
Oh, the volcano -- that was nothing! It blew all that stuff into the air and no one could go anywhere! So interesting -- we all had to stay put. But the financial crisis -- that changed us. We worked so hard and someone else was getting rich. We said -- fuck you, we're not going to be martyrs. (She is an extremely well presented woman, but she does not mince words.) Those motherfuckers, we're not going to kill ourselves for them. (Do they teach such vocabulary in school? English 101: speak as the natives would speak...)

I eat my slabs of halibut in a fish broth. We are so parsimonious with our halibut in the US, but halibut swims all around Iceland. Indeed, the largest halibut that was ever caught anywhere came from Iceland -- all 220 kilo of him.







After dinner, I watch the streets fill with people. They're all heading in the direction of the big hill that overlooks the bay. It's the fireworks: I'm in Iceland on a day that is like the Fourth of July, only people are huddled in scarves, jackets and caps and the fireworks wont start until 11. It still is not really dark before then.






 I hurry home. Maybe I'll fall asleep before the noise begins. Maybe. I need a little rest for the tail end of my trip here. I have big ideas for it. But I need to rest first.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 

on the up side, I didn't have to put away the chickens

In all my travels to Europe, only once did I miss my overseas flight and it was because that flight itself was cancelled (due to weather). Oh, I've paid the price for such a good track record: I have spent long, long hours at airports. For Europe trips, I book flights with hefty layovers.

Except this time. For my Icelandic escape, I had to connect in Minneapolis and that connection was a tad tight. One hour. A little wiggle room, but not a lot.

Why would I stray into this thin ice? Because. Last minute bookings don't offer much for the budget minded. It's what was available.

I know you'll have predicted the outcome. The storms exploded in Madison exactly at the time the plane that was to take us to Minneapolis was coming in for a landing. Low on fuel, it had to be diverted.

The storm lasted some twenty minutes, but the diversion sealed my fate. I would miss my connection. And because it was the next to last flight out of Madison for the day (the last one was to Salt Lake City -- not good for those needing to cross the Atlantic), I had no choice but to call it quits and return home.

The agent was very empathetic.

Delta is a nice airline and they will have surely given me credit for a cancelled trip. Because I should cancel. Flying on Friday would have me land in Reykjavik on Saturday morning. My flight back home leaves Monday morning. I mean, who goes to Iceland for 48 hours?

Well, I do.

I admit, it did give me pause. I'm not in love with having jet lag twice within just two days. But I booked a place to stay that had a "no cancellation" policy. I already lost a paid night (at hefty Icelandic prices). I'm not going to lose two more.

Moreover, I have chicken sitters. (Whom I waved off for this day at least.)

And so the rains came down and in the darkness of the night I trudged home, poured a glass of wine and emailed Ed, who is not reachable, but still, I wanted to groan and I don't like to groan too much with daughters or friends.


Today, I did not work in the garden. After feeding them, I ignored the animals. And I didn't see the grandkids -- all of whom are being engaged by other grandpeople this weekend.

I have for you one photo of lovely holdout lilies, one of cheepers -- wondering why the hell I'm still here, and one of a solitary porch breakfast.
















Three Reykjavik emails appear in my inbox, all of them make me smile: in the first, my hosts express their sympathy at my missed flight. "You'll have to cram a lot in!" Indeed.

In the second email, the cleaning staff informs me that the unit is now available and I can come any time. Oh yeah! My unit is three thousand miles away from where I am right now!

The third one is from the "Heimaleiga Team." Iceland people. They manage rental units. My own included. The email informs me that due to two extraordinary events on Saturday, much of Reykjavik's streets will be closed to traffic. If you have a car (I don't and I wont), you will not be able to bring it downtown before midnight. It appears that two events are taking place: it is the day of the Reykjavik Marathon and perhaps even more importantly -- it is Reykjavik's Culture Night, billed as Iceland's most important festival. I looked it up of course. The events are all over the place, physically speaking and content wise: from hip hop and free jazz and symphony at the incredible Harpa Concert Hall, to a demonstration of how "bloodthirsty Vikings solve a small problem with war" by the Pond -- that body of water that I had so ineptly captured in my photo that weekend in November of 1973.

I now understand why it was nearly impossible for me to find an accommodation in Reykjavik this weekend.


I'm posting from Minneapolis, so you'll know that at the very least I got this far today. On an earlier flight. With lots of time for a connection. 

May I assume that the next post really will be from Reykjavik? Please?

Iceland

I remember it so well: November of 1973. I was living in New York, still wondering if leaving Poland had been the right thing to do. I was nearly done with college. Thanksgiving was just a few days away. I had wanted to go skiing in New England, but there was no snow. I wanted to get away from the city. On a student budget. I was working the late shift at an upper westside bookstore. I had enough money to go somewhere. But where?

I chose Iceland. Cheap airfares. Somewhat exotic then.

So many things stand out from that trip: I arrived without a place to stay. The Tourist Office found me a room in someone's house. Waiters were on strike and so I couldn't eat out. Everything was expensive. And the days were very very dark.

In the three days I was there, I walked, took pictures, had a massage. First one ever. On the last day I rented a car. A VW bug. I was happy that they allowed a rental to someone who was just 20. I sort of kind of knew how to drive a stick. I headed away from the city and got stuck on some icy stretch of lonely road. I was told there would be geisers, but there was only ice on a moonlike landscape and the car slipped and I pumped the brakes and tried to shift and somehow I made it back to the city.

I took a photo of the frozen lake in Reykjavik. I really liked the image -- a child pulling another child on a wooden sled across a lonely stretch of frozen water, but it wasn't otherwise a very good photo. I submitted it to some local contest and not surprisingly, it did not win. I also wrote a story about my weekend. It was my very first short story. I did nothing with it. It's probably in my trunk of forgotten papers.

Don't you think I should return to Iceland? I'm on my way. I should be there tomorrow.

The day was otherwise a blur. Misty skies, fading gardens, pesky chickens, lovely children. Breakfast.  All of it compressed into the morning and afternoon hours.






























It's evening now. Storms come, storms recede. Chicken sitters are in place. And as Ed chases away buzzing biting flies somewhere on a boat far away, I'm waiting for my flight to Minneapolis. From there -- Reykjavik.

path well traveled

There are many ways to get to know a person and a place. Observe, listen, watch, read -- all good means to that end.

Most of you know me only because I blog. But since I write daily, whether I'm peppy or morose, meditative, or bummed and punchy, or just plain tired, if you pop in on a regular basis, you'll have yourself a mountain of words and images.

When I am in a hurry (and name me one day this summer when I haven't been in a hurry), I tend to favor taking the predictable picture. I know what is loveliest in my garden (at least to my eye). I go there. I photograph it, always with a sigh of pleasure at having had a chance to pin it down, to put something into the camera that I can look at (and work on) later.

(the big bed in late summer: green and lush)






And so you get to see the farmette most often at her best. But of course, for me, she always has a grand side showing. The way I present the farmhouse and gardens here is the way I see them myself. These are the images that I carry with me.

Sometimes predictable...






Sometimes a little less so....











I suppose breakfast is always predictable! I take no chances -- I take it where I know beauty abounds.






When I asked my Mom where I could take her this morning (there are still big box items that we need to purchase for her new apartment), she did mention one store, but she also asked if she could see the farmette gardens. She is feeling strong enough for such an adventure (the farmette holds many navigational challenges for an older person).

I tell her that the garden is past its prime, but still, it is beautiful in a wild and crazy sort of way.






She looks at it from the perspective of her great grandchildren. And she understands the enchantment. Because really, the farmette is very enchanting.






I do have to smile when she says of both the garden and the inside of the farmhouse -- it's just like in your blog!






So, if you are a reader who has never been here and is not likely to ever visit, know that it looks and feels pretty much just as it appears here.

(Path from the barn to the farmhouse -- a bit wild now, but it surely is a path well traveled...)





In the meantime, the sailors are skirting storms and navigating locks. They will be making a big turn and by tomorrow, the bow of the boat will be pointed in the direction of their final destination. Estimated Time of Arrival? You can never ask. Because they can never say.


In the afternoon, Snowdrop comes to the farmhouse.

Sweet, sweet child: she'd been working through the challenges of life in her head the past few days, but today it looks like she reached some resolution. She is her usual happy, playful, incredibly imaginative self.

We play (among countless other games) flower shop.






I buy them all. She asks me to pay with a credit card. In the alternative, I can use my pennies. She likes their color -- under a certain light, you can even recognize a pink sheen to them.

Evening. Calm, still, as if waiting for the big moment when summer turns to fall.

snippets

For good or bad, I have been giving Snowdrop an after school snack of a pain au chocolat for a long long time. (I go to the bakery twice a week so yes, on some days, she does have to suffer the indignity of eating a day-old or even two-day-old bread product.) Perhaps I was influenced at one point by hearing that a tartine with nutella (bread with a chocolate-hazelnut spread) is a typical afternoon snack for a child across the ocean. Or, perhaps I liked the routine of going to a bakery.

She rarely finishes it. Ed or the cheepers revel in the remains. But this week, for whatever reason, she took only one bite, then tossed it aside. It was fresh, crisp and perfect. Nope. She didn't want it.
Okay, Snowdrop. But I'm inclined not to get this for you if you don't really want to eat it.
Never one to want to hurt my feelings, she pauses and tells me: I don't want it today. But I love the water you brought me, grandma. Thank you for the delicious cup of water!






It had been nearly half a year since I had a haircut. I wasn't in a rush. What for? Long, short -- does it matter? Well, it does. Older and long rarely go well together. Women who are well past retirement somehow do not look good to me with hair that spills into their lap. And though mine isn't quite of that length yet, I decided I had pushed the limits on length.

Take tons off! -- I tell the hair cut person.

She does. Oh! I didn't mean that much! Oh well. Hair does grow back. Thank goodness.






Ed calls right around breakfast today, so you could almost way I had his company for the morning meal. The sailors are going through the locks today. I'm not sure if that's exciting or boring. Probably a little of both.

It appears to me that the men are sailing and the women are cooking dinners and touring old lighthouses and small town museums on land. I tell him -- sounds pretty gendered. He answers -- it is. We are of that generation.

I ask if bugs bother you when you're out on the water. Ed says when the air is still, black flies come and land on you. They'd had to close the doors against them. Are there any other reasons I can add to why sailing seems so utterly miserable to me?






Lilies who refuse to stop blooming are my pals right now.






But so are the other flowers in my gardens.






It's true: everyone has days when life just seems a bit overwhelming.






One coping strategy: a pause at a cafe. A snack. Tea for grandma. A pen and paper for the little one. Ideas emerge. Life seems normal again.










In the morning I hack away at shrubs that came out of nowhere and grew to be six feet tall seemingly overnight.

In the afternoon, I ask Snowdrop -- which child (in your class) do you think is happy?
Me! -- she answers.

Evening. I am in love with leftovers. I haven't cooked since Sunday.

The light is flashing on the thermostat. I wonder what that means. The windows are open wide. The air is full of a beautiful summer night.

Monday

As us three girls are spending the night at the farmhouse (Snowdrop, mom, and grandmom), three sailing boys (Ed et al) spend the day moving a boat along to its destination. (Their wives are taking a day on the shore, and this one sweetie is, of course, tending to farmette matters.)

Snowdrop has spent nights here since she was a wee one, but with a new brother and all the spring and summer hoopla, it has been a while. Plus, Ed, who is her official pancake/waffle pal, is not here right now (did I mention this already?) and, too, on this visit she is waking up to a school day. Everything is a little off.

Nonetheless, I find mornings here really special. And there is plenty of time for stellar moments, including, of course, breakfast on the porch.






The girl does love bacon and cherries, even more than whatever item she is dunking in maple syrup.






Perhaps the most precious moments for me are ones where I do farmette chores. Whereas when I am alone, many of the chores surrounding plant and beast weigh me down, Snowdrop is so excited by them (especially the animal-related stuff), that it just makes me smile endlessly when she tags along.

(Running to help me with the cheepers)






(Dishing out corn...)






(May I pick some flowers?)






(I can never say no...)






(Flowers and smiles go hand in hand)






Eventually, we do drop her off at school and I proceed to take my daughter home. I pause there to spend time with the little Sparrow boy.






My girl, Sparrow and I take a long walk in the neighborhood and I see that he, too, is a stellar stroller baby. He and Primrose are alike in this regard. You probably think he is a serious little boy. Maybe. But I wouldn't put any money on it. He is, after all, only two months old.






And in the afternoon I pick up Snowdrop. She isn't with me long -- she has an appointment with her parents later in the day, but it is a terrific little spell of reading and rehashing the day's events.






Evening: a subdued time in a subdued garden.

One last study of the irrepressible effervescent lilies...












Ed's boat is likely full right now. They may well be playing cards. Or recalling yet again who did what way back when (the guys were once at the UW together), but at the farmhouse the evening is very, very quiet.

what if

What if I got up very very early, even before the cheepers are set loose by their automatic door opening mechanism, and what if I plunged into farmhouse cleaning and yard maintenance and animal care, with only a brief pause to answer a call from the sailing Ed -- what if I did all that before breakfast? Wouldn't that be splendid?






Splendid -- maybe. But it would also mean that I would not eat breakfast until after the noon hour. Even working at a brisk pace, it takes well over five hours to do all that and I must admit that I cut some corners.











And 12:30 is just too late for your first cup of coffee.






(There have been times when Ed and I have worked hard on some outdoor project and we would be so determined to get it done that indeed the morning meal would be equally late. However, working together on a project feels good. Working alone on house cleaning, window washing, yard maintenance and animal care feels ... like work.)

Determined to make the now no longer morning meal a calming and lovely experience, I pick up the New Yorker and read an article about the indie filmmaker, Nicole Holofcener. There are many good things about the piece, but what sticks in my mind are pairings of words used to describe some of her characters: "alternating strains of wickedness and remorse..." where her protagonists "try to be good, (even as) they often find unnerving evidence that they're actually bad..." And finally, there are the "intricacies of relationships -- what makes them both maddening and indispensable."

I think about Ed's call this morning. It was later than usual. I thought nothing of it -- he may well be sailing through an area of no cell service. Just before the call came, I got a text from one of his sailing pals, with a photo of an old lighthouse that they were about to visit. It was pretty. They must have been passing it just as I was furiously pulling out weeds in a futile attempt to control the overgrowth in areas of the farmette. Ed's call came shortly after.

We sailed out in dense fog -- he tells me. I couldn't call. I was completely focused on navigating with radar and GPS coordinates.

I gave this a few seconds' thought. Finally I asked -- why did you sail in morning fog, when you knew it would lift in an hour or so?

I don't know why I asked. I'm as sure as anything of the answer: they sailed in dense fog just because of the challenge.

And now the sun was out and they are about to explore the lighthouse that I was looking at on my smart phone.

When you spend so many hours working physically in the house, then in the yard, you have plenty of time for meditative, calming thoughts. But in your efforts to be that good person -- one who tends to the hearth and home and makes sure good meals are offered, along with kind and loving words meant only for your sweetie whom you adore to pieces -- you sometimes notice yourself slipping, because unfortunately, that bad side that lurks in all of us, comes to the surface every now and then.

Suffice it to say, Ed heard no sweet and tender words from me on the phone this morning. Were I near that boat, I might have been tempted to push him into the water and make him swim to shore, though I dare say, he would have regarded that to be an equally good challenge. (I do have good moments when I'm not recalling that Ed finds my form of travel too comfortable and therefore too dull. Those moments were not present this morning.)

In the evening, the young family comes for Sunday dinner and this very special meal comes with a twist today: after dinner, the dad takes little Sparrow home, while Snowdrop and her mom stay for a girls' night at the farmhouse. In other words -- a sleepover.

First, dinner.











The sleepover is something Snowdrop has been asking for and, too, it is special for my daughter, who thinks (as well she should!) that an evening on the porch watching fireflies flicker as the sky fills with stars to be somewhat magical.

We all three put away the cheepers. There's the shower -- a farmhouse first. And books, one after the next, night time favorites and old comfy ones...






And now we're out on the porch. Look, Snowdrop! The fireflies are dancing their crazy dance to the tune of the cricket song!

The child falls asleep instantly. Her mom and I stay out on the porch, listening to Italian music.