Iceland: Day 2 (Part II)

02 January 2016

Evening

I have never been more pulled in opposite directions than at 15:00 on 2 January 2016. Half of me was desperate for more sleep—an hour just wasn’t enough compensation for the extraordinary amount of exploring I was doing on such an empty stomach and an unrested head. The other half of me knew that the entire city of Reykjavík was waiting to be explored. The latter half came out victorious, because in no time I was beelining from The Capital Inn to Hallgrímskirkja. By now, segments of sidewalk had been somewhat shoveled, making the trek’s only burden an unimpressive and unhampering ankle-deep trench. But rather than stop to soak in the shadows that cast themselves across the church’s front lawn as the always-setting winter sun cast its red, orange, and yellow beams from the steeple to the ground beneath my feet, I continued my pace south on Skólavörðustígur Street, not stopping until I was in line at Bæjarins Beztu Pylsur.

Bæjarins Beztu Pylsur is a small hotdog stand in Old Reykjavík that sells the most delicious hotdogs in the entire world. This says quite a lot coming from me, considering that I was born and raised on Chicago-style dogs (shout out to Portillo’s). Considered “the best hotdog stand in Europe” in Britain’s The Guardian, BBP has proudly served locals and tourists since 1937. The meat is lamb-based, which gives the casing a crispier bite, and Icelandic-style comes topped with ketchup, sweet mustard, remoulade, and both fried and raw onions. At only 420 krónur, go ahead and fill up with two, and make sure you order yours eina með öllu!

With my stomach full, my taste buds pleased, and my body ready to keep on going, I wandered from one side of Old Reykjavík to the other, from the bay to the lake. Tjörnin was less crowded that it was earlier, the curious children and cautious parents having headed home for supper. Elderly couples lingered with loaves of bread for the swans as they walked home. The sun finally sank below the horizon after it spent a good part of the afternoon setting across the city.

Being there gave me mixed emotions: I was disappointed by how tourism had affected the town, but I knew that my presence just meant that I was part of the problem. Although I wanted Iceland to remain as characteristically Icelandic as possible, I contributed to the next corner gift shop as soon as I purchased my airplane ticket. But even my wanting Iceland to remain “as characteristically Icelandic as possible” is naïvely sectarian—my illusionary assumption of some unadulterated fish economy run by men in Viking helmets, bear pelts, and beards is an outdated, pretend presumption.

Somewhat defeated, I decided a drink was in order. I moseyed on over to a pub in central Reykjavík. The sign over the door read “Kaffibarinn” in white lettering over a blue box and red circle, much like the symbol for the Underground. This quiet little pub was tucked away on a side street and felt like the kind of place only visited by locals. It was lit only by candlelight. From a little rickety wooden table in the corner of the room, I reminisced about London (thanks to that Underground symbol outside) over a pint of Icelandic stout while listening to locals at the bar chuckle over some story told by the bartender in their native tongue…now that was one way to bring an end to my first night in the city.

Reflecting back on my very first full day in Iceland, I have to say that living in Reykjavík would be rather pleasant. It’s small enough that traffic, long lines, and sizeable crowds are nonexistent, but also large enough to host an array of entertainment. Even though I had spent nearly the entire day exploring the nooks and crannies between brightly colored homes, I still had so much to see. The people are patient and polite; with such a simple fish-or-farm sort of lifestyle, the only real issues faced by Reykvíkingar are blizzards, melting icecaps, and snow drifts. The few locals that aren’t working the land or the sea (teachers, doctors, artists) are quite odd and would probably fit in comfortably in those in Shoreditch, Williamsburg, Portland, or East Nashville. The artistic graffiti covering most of the buildings in town showcases the eccentricity of its people. But most importantly, with coffee shops and bakeries at every corner, this city would fuel my coffee addiction with ease.

After finishing my pint, I wandered back up Skólavörðustígur, crossed Hallgrímskirkja, and headed towards The Capital Inn. About halfway through the 2.3-mile journey, I climbed a hill where a fresh footpath had been carved away by many different boots; I figured that there must be some kind of wicked view from the top. At the peak, I scanned Reykjavík skyline—glowing yellow lights danced below me. I probably could have drawn a horizontal line from the lens of my camera to the cross atop Hallgrímskirkja’s façade, but the view only reaffirmed that this city was relatively small. I could see everything from the bay in the north to Heiðmörk (a conservation area) in the southeast to the Northern Atlantic Ocean in the west. Reykjavík looked small, but the endless and colorless night sky above made me feel small as well; so we shared this moment together, the city and me. I lingered atop this hill, waiting for the northern lights, but they never came. Thirty minutes passed, and I packed up my camera and finished the journey home.

I pulled the front door open, was welcomed by a blast of heat and a sleepy “Halló,” stumbled down the stairs, threw off my backpack, and hopped into the shower. One of my only complaints about Iceland is this: please remove the natural sulfur from all of the water! After a long, cold day of exploring, the last thing I want to do is bathe in steamy fart water, brush my teeth in peppermint fart water, and have a cup of chamomile tea steeped in boiling fart water. All of Iceland’s water is pulled directly from the island’s sulfuric hot springs, no filtration, no sanitation, just au naturel fart water. The only upside to this: no one knows if you’ve farted or not.

Well, I put on some pajamas and rubbed my feet. My step counter recorded 32,000 steps and 12.9 miles—all with 17lbs on my back. It was approaching 22:00 when I decided to climb into my sleeping bag. But just as I did, two late-arrivals pulled open the dorm room door and began unpacking their things on the beds beside and above mine.

Theresa was from Cyprus and had messy brown hair and a big smile. Being native to a Greek-speaking country, her English was not that great; I had to explain what ridiculous meant. She was soft spoken and very curious about America, because she had only ever been to the Mediterranean and England, where she met Gevin at the University of Essex. Gevin was from Zambia, and he was obsessed with Star Wars. We chatted about Episode VII, how he was getting along in the United Kingdom, and what they were planning to do while in Iceland. Only there for a few days, Theresa and Gevin were going to visit Reykjavík, Þingvellir, and Vík.

It was 23:30 when I decided to call it quits. I think traveling is particularly exciting when you’re in your twenties because you get to meet so many friendly people from around the world (just wait until we meet Tinn). Although hostels don’t provide the best security, comfort, or privacy, they make up for it in conversation and community. And as someone that doesn’t particularly require a soft bed to sleep or a locked door to feel safe, hostels are just right for me.

I quickly drifted off into a deep sleep with the Sigur Rós album Takk playing in my headphones, my sleeping bag pulled up over my eyes, and my alarm set for 08:00.