Iceland: Day 2 (Part I)

02 January 2016

Morning

As the plane descended towards the runway, the yellow streetlights and shadow-strewn snow below me began to take a clearer shape—tiny homes scattered across a blanket of white presented a paradox of comfort and isolation. The plane touched down at exactly 05:00, and I was welcomed by complete darkness, save for the heavy freckles of gray snow that flashed between my eyes and the airport guiding lights littering the runway with red, yellow, and blue.

Apparently the handful of airport employees on the clock for the early-morning shift hit the snooze button, because although we landed ten minutes ahead of schedule, it took another thirty for them to prepare the loading gate for the pilot to dock. A thick blanket of snow covered everything; were there winter tires for A321 airplanes? The small herd of us passengers stretched our legs, slowly de-boarded the aircraft, and made our way single-file through the empty corridors of the Keflavík International Airport. Only the security lights were left on as we silently moved from our gate to customs, where the only words exchanged were “Góðan dag.”

I visited the duty-free store for some breakfast: black liqourice and a KitKat bar. Although I was going on ten hours without any food, I forgot my empty stomach due to exhaustion and excitement. After inhaling a latte from Segafredo Zanetti, I purchased a bus ticket for the forty-five minute ride from Keflavíkurflugvöllur to the Reykjavík bus terminal. KEF is a relatively small international airport, but I still managed to get lost trying to find my way to where the coaches were parked. Eventually, I found the right exit and stepped into the dark, early Icelandic morning. My first breath of Nordic air was as crisp as ice and as kindling as fire—but a few steps forward brought with them the faint smell of diesel fumes. The driver probably waited no longer than fifteen minutes before departing, but knowing that I was on my way to Reykjavík made every second feel like an hour. With a seat two rows behind the driver, I had a clear view out the large front window to watch as the bus slid around the road and through a few feet of freshly fallen snow.

The bus was nowhere near full, but I made a quick connection with the few others sitting around me—students from Washington, D.C., on a January term trip to the northernmost capital in the world. We only chatted briefly, because our attention was soon turned outward onto the dark horizon of the Suðurnes peninsula, where distant unknown wonders hid themselves behind the veil of night. The first thirty minutes of darkness were only divided by the paucity of sleeping houses with yellow porch lights; but as we made our way northeast, homes became neighborhoods and stop signs became traffic lights.

I’m usually decent at understanding my whereabouts, but the small, vague map I carried was of no help. All I knew was that we took Route 41 to Route 40 to Route 49—some of the busiest roads in Iceland, which were nearly empty at that time; it wasn’t until the last few minutes of the drive that we actually passed another car.

The Washington students and I clumped together at the bus terminal, waiting for instructions for on which of the smaller transit buses we were to board as transport from the terminal to our individual hostel or hotel. The only roadblock we faced was that we didn’t speak any Icelandic and none of the six bus terminal workers spoke much English. After saying the name of my hostel no less than five times and receiving a very dissuasive “Sure, sure, get on,” I clambered in and buckled my seatbelt. A short ride later, I hopped off as we pulled into the parking lot of The Capital Inn.

The hostel sat right in the heart of a small neighborhood a little more than two miles outside of the city centre. I pulled the front door open and was welcomed by a blast of heat and a sleepy “Halló.” The attendant spoke only enough English to check people in and out and direct them towards the nearest metro stop. I asked if I could store my suitcase in a closet for a couple of hours, as check-in wasn’t until 10:00. He led me downstairs and into a maintenance closet, where I set my bag between an old vacuum and a five-gallon bucket half-full of hammers. Ah, my first taste of the simple, bare-essentials customs of the people of Iceland! After providing some less-than-helpful directions, the attendant gave me a hearty smile and went back to his cup of coffee and Twitter feed.

Even though it was now around 07:30, the sun was nowhere near ready to rise. Winters are doubly cold because the midnight sun takes a southward sabbatical during these blistery months. In the stillness of the early morning, I slipped on my gloves, wrapped a scarf around my neck, adjusted my hat to cover my ears, and began the 2.3-mile hike from The Capital Inn to Hallgrímskirkja, a Lutheran church in the heart of Reykjavík. I decided to keep my backpack with me because it didn’t have a lock like my suitcase had; I did not yet understand that the Icelandic are exceptionally trustworthy and overwhelmingly kind—well, all of them except for ex-Prime Minister Sigmundur Davíð Gunnlaugsson.

The trek north on Bústaðavegur felt so much further than 2.3 miles—I guess thigh-deep snowdrifts aren’t the most navigable of terrains. I managed to make it to the church, not because I consulted my map, but because the steeple jutted out above the rest of the city. Hallgrímskirkja is magnificent: thin pillars of finger-like stone wrest themselves from the earth and reach into the sky. The building stands mightily against an empty background. I made my way into the sanctuary—a place so strikingly plain. But I wouldn’t say that it lacked stained glass, even though there was none, because the sanctuary didn’t need it. I rested in a pew on the left and gave myself some time to realize where I was sitting; only the sound of hushed whispers from a few fellow visitors and the rhythmic scrape of a man quietly cleaning wax from the votive candle altar echoed around the room. Soon after, the other visitors departed, the church keeper retired to another room, and I was left completely alone—these moments were ineffably peaceful and undeniably powerful. With my eyes closed and my head bowed, I struggled to understand and embrace an omnipresent Creator that is more delightful than what I felt and grander than the 5,000 miles I was from home. By the time I left Hallgrímskirkja, the black sky had turned blue and the snow had stopped falling (for now), but the city was only just beginning to stir. Hallgrímskirkja sits on top of the city—in all directions the roads twist and turn downwards—and my eyes peered into darkness from the end of the lovely Skólavörðustígur street.

If you look forward to December 25th and enjoy reading Clement Clarke Moore on the Eve of Christmas, I would suggest moving to Iceland. They have exchanged one St. Nicholas for thirteen rowdy trolls and one day of Yuletide for an entire month of celebration and gift giving. The more I have learned about these Nordic people, the more I see them as every Who down in Whoville who liked Christmas a lot...but just wait until 8 January to learn about Dimmuborgir, the home of Gryla, Leppaludi, and their thirteen sons.

Reykjavík was in the midst of this month of Yule, and the streets were covered in snow, and so it was cool. Poles were wrapped in lights, evergreen bells, and swirly gumdrop delights, and pleasant little windows were stuffed with ribbons and tags, packages, boxes, and bags! Although it was chilling, the feeling of Noel was fulfilling; for Christmas is joyful, and here, too, was it thrilling. When all through the town not a creature was stirring, besides an antsy college graduate with an appreciation for gingerbread. All rhyming aside, Skólavörðustígur was quiet and quaint, and its picturesque character was only complete with the numbness of my fingertips. Every building was covered in graffiti or painted an intense color—from aureolin to begonia to capri. It was like walking through rows of presents wrapped in decorative paper.

With the smell of freshly ground coffee beans and homemade breakfast pastries filling the frosty air, the emptiness of my stomach surfaced in my brain and the immediate pain of hunger meant that my first stop would be the nearest coffee shop. Fortunately, Kaffitár was open, an Icelandic “chain” with a whopping eight locations across the country. I ordered my second latte of the day and a generously sized coffee-flavored muffin. Given that this was my first opportunity to sit down and utilize some free wifi, I took about an hour and made a list of things I wanted to do with my first day in Reykjavík.

I spent the next few hours meandering about aimlessly, learning the layout of the city and making mental checkmarks next to the destinations I happened to come across as my feet tirelessly went on, my toes numb, my eyes watering with the wind, and my mind trying to ignore the growing pain in my back. I walked around Old Reykjavík, where the house-sized Parliament is located; warmed up in Harpa, the oddly shaped concert hall designed by Danish-Icelandic artist Olafur Eliasson; snapped photos of the cloud-crowned mountains sleeping across the bay; watched children feed swans at Lake Tjörnin; and refueled with a doppio in another coffee shop (unfortunately I forget the name) as an excuse to rest my aching feet.

Whether I wanted to or not, my feet decided to walk back to the hostel. I used Hallgrímskirkja as my guide, stopping inside once again on my way back. Although more people were visiting the church than were there at 07:30, it still felt empty. With a population of only 110,000 within the city limits, Reykjavík did not know what “busy” or “crowded” meant. But what the city lacks in people, it makes up for in snow. Of course, as soon as I began the 2.3-mile return journey, the snow picked up into a blizzard. By the time I was again welcomed by a blast of heat and a sleepy “Halló,” I was covered in snow and wanting nothing more than to lie down for a long and heavy nap.

I retrieved my bag from between the old vacuum and five-gallon bucket half-full of hammers, unrolled my sleeping bag on a bottom bunk in a sixteen-person dormitory room, changed into sweatpants, hung my socks up to dry, and called Mom to let her know I was still alive. At 14:15, as soon as our phone call had ended, I fell into a deep and very necessary slumber. It was 09:00 Chicago-time, and I had just walked 8 miles in the same clothes I wore on the flight, with my heavy backpack strapped to my back and my camera frozen to my neck in -4° C weather with blizzard-like conditions, and my only source of sustenance was six shots of espresso and a muffin.

Regardless of how eager you are to explore some place new, don’t do as I have. Eat more than a muffin, drink water, and take it easy. You’ll thank me later.