Iceland: Day 3

03 January 2016

I only hit the snooze button once, and when the alarm rang again at 08:15, I slipped out of my sleeping bag and tried to make as little noise as possible, as the only one awake in a room of sixteen sleepy hostellers. I changed into a clean pair of pants, a heavy cotton shirt, and extra-thick wool socks in complete darkness before taking the familiar hike to Hallgrímskirkja. Morning looked like night, but no more than fifty paces from the front doors of the church, the warm yellow light of Reykjavík Roasters painted an otherwise black and blue dawn. The frost that had formed in the corners of the coffee shop’s windows was slowly melting as the heat from my freshly poured, steaming cup of Nicaragua silently battled the wicked chill that rolled in every time somebody threw open the door.

I would consider Reykjavík Roasters the Barista Parlor or Intelligentsia of Iceland. They roast their own beans and make each customer’s coffee order with either a pour over or chemex. The barista’s tailor-fitted apron was embroidered with leather, and his beard bounced off of his ripped-apart t-shirt as he explained the tasting notes I should expect in my well-prepared cup o’ joe. I sat by a window in an old, tattered blue chair and watched as sparse passersby stuffed their hands deeper into their pockets and scurried onward with an envy of warmth.

At the last drop of coffee, I slipped my gloves back on and walked the return fifty paces. A hazy salmon sky rose behind the crisp tiered tower of Hallgrímskirkja; pastels of rose and lavender streaked across the canvas air as though a sweet Sunday morning wasn’t blessing enough. But the church bells indicated 11:00, so I hastily made my way into the sanctuary, where the only English words spoken were, “And to our foreign guests, welcome.” From my pew towards the back of the room, I whispered the Lord’s Prayer when what resembled the bits and pieces of German I remembered from high school were spoken by the congregation; “Faðir vor, þú sem ert á himnum. Helgist þitt nafn” sounded quite similar to “Vater unser im Himmel, geheiligt werde dein Name.” After a universally biblical “Amen,” the overbearing church organ and a modest choir began the Agnus Dei and communion was prepared. In a single-file line, each member of the congregation—minus a few spectators sitting in the last two rows—received the bread from the Bishop of Iceland, The Right Reverend Agnes M. Sigurðardóttir. In square-framed glasses, the first female bishop of this small Arctic country looked me in the eyes and said, “líkami Krists gefinn fyrir þig.”

I responded with, “Amen” and moved forward to the wine. The service ended as I wiped my eyes and absorbed this moment: an experience of the omnipresent One. Soon enough, friends and family would dip bread into wine (or grape juice) thousands of miles away. To a booming postlude and with a final prayer, I stepped out into the cold.

A brisk hike brought me back to Bæjarins Beztu Pylsur; yes, I did have two hotdogs for Sunday brunch. I wandered just about every street in Old Reykjavík before making my way to the Harbour, where there were more whale-related “Meet us, don’t eat us” signs than people to read them. Although restaurants, ice cream parlors, and clothing stores were closed for winter, teenagers working the kiosks for puffin and whale-sighting tours still showed up albeit knowing that business would be slow, and I could only imagine what fun this area would be during the summertime. I worked my way deeper into the Harbour, where creaking wooden fishing vessels slept in their creaking wooden docks with fat ropes the only things keeping them from drifting away. Just about every five minutes, another Cessna zoomed by overhead. The ripples of sound from their propellers disrupted only the squawk of gulls and the echoes of reverberating metal boat bellies. The seal of snow was only just broken—a single path of boot prints disturbed an otherwise clean blanket of white. I hoisted myself over a chain, beyond a “Do Not Enter” sign, down a few empty streets, and into the workingman’s territory. A fisherman welded the side of his ship as I looked out across the bay and to the distant cloud-crowned mountains. The entire fleet of the Icelandic Coast Guard was present: three patrol vessels and two survey boats. Before I got caught trespassing, I left the industrial section of the Harbour and made my way towards Café Babalú.

The bright orange exterior of Babalú isn’t too terribly out-of-place. With the rest of the city painted just as brilliantly, this quirky café with a famous neon Star Wars-themed WC fits right in. From a small plastic Incredible Hulk, to a collection of postcards, to an oversized and outdated poster of Manhattan, the walls are littered with trinkets much like those in the Mental Floss salon. I sat on a couch upstairs with my doppio and rested my feet while I read about Reykjavík’s legalization of street art—this explains the excess of graffiti. I soon set out to see as much of it as possibly before the sun sank.

I snuck down alleyways, behind buildings, and into construction sights in search of the best graffiti, but I found that every single nook and cranny was accented in some beautiful display of vivid and fresh color. Even trashcans were covered with a painted pattern or mural. And the work done was titivating—I guess the illegal nature of tagging is what makes spray-painting vulgarities so inviting for some folks; having the act legalized disintegrates those destructive tendencies. I found an interesting contrast between the complex human creativity pulsating through the streets of Reykjavík and the unadulterated natural world beyond the city limits. When the sun had sunk and streetlamps became the only remaining source of light, I decided my graffiti gallivant had to come to a close.

But when in Rome, do as the Romans do. The heavy wooden door of Ostabúðin swung open, and I was seated in the middle of the room. A flame flickered from the end of a single candle, off of the deep red mahogany table, and into my eyes as I scrolled up and down the menu. The waiter filled a glass with water; “Good evening,” he said, and shortly thereafter returned with a warm basket of pumpernickel bread. I ordered the barded minke whale steak and a pint of Einstök, the white ale. “A great pairing, sir,” the waiter added. Something was off-putting.

Shortly, the whale arrived with a skewer and another basket of bread. I was tempted to take a picture of my plate, but I overcame the Instagram-bait and raised the first piece, both nervous and excited. They say that a good rack of ribs falls right off the bone; well, minke whale is so tender that it begins to melt as it touches your lips. As delectable as it was—so smooth, so soft, so savory—I was reminded of the “Meet us, don’t eat us” signs at the Harbour, and delight became embarrassment and guilt.

Back in 1986, in order to protect the endangered and plummeting population, the International Whaling Commission (IWC) had almost every country’s signature for an indefinite ban on commercial whaling. Only three countries refused to sign or have since revoked their signature: Iceland, Norway, and Japan. And although Icelanders do eat whale, “up to 40% of the meat from minke whales slaughtered in local Icelandic waters is eaten by visitors to the country.” When in Rome does not mean eating whale while in Iceland. There are countless articles on the subject of whaling, and they do a much better job than I could of explaining the cruel, painful, and wasteful ways in which whales are cleaved from their ocean paradise to a dinner plate in places like Ostabúðin. Please learn more here, here, and here.

After dinner, I made my way back to the hostel, where the usual blast of heat and a sleepy “Halló” were my welcome. I threw my backpack down at the foot of my bed and collapsed into an exhausted half-sleep. But moments later, I heard a shy “excuse me” and lifted my head. Christine was a Dutch girl with curious avocado eyes, rosy cheeks, and a knotty braid tucked under a wool hat. She asked if had seen any Northern Lights while I was outside, because she had heard that there was a good chance for them tonight. I was zipping up my jacket in no time.

We were the only ones outside as we walked to the hill I climbed the night before. At the top, I set up my camera and waited. Christine told me about how she studied in Norway last semester and had her first Aurora Borealis experience while in the fjords on a holiday. She left for Reykjavík as soon as her final school papers were submitted and was on her way to America for the first time, where she would stay with a friend in Seattle. We stood facing each other, and she watched the sky behind me and I behind her.

But in the middle of some story about her time in Oslo, she let out a scream. I jumped—had someone snuck up behind me with a knife? I flung myself around, but nobody was there. “Look!” She put her face up next to mine and pointed up into a pitch-black sky. I didn’t see anything. She kept pointing at nothing. “Don’t you see it?” I began to think she was crazy when a flicker of green danced ever so faintly just beyond the tip of her finger.

Immediately, my stomach was in my throat and I leapt for my camera. Although the flicker lasted only a second, I had a feeling more were to come. I was at the ready, like a sniper slowing his breath right before taking the shot. Another wave of green peaked out from behind a cloud and recoiled before I could capture it. Christine was nothing short of jubilant, and so was I. But I was entirely concentrated on figuring out what shutter speed, ISO, and aperture would best limn the Northern Lights. A third flash of green jumped out from behind a cloud and shimmied its way over the Hallgrímskirkja steeple before fading into the nothingness. And then, entirely unexpectedly and completely unannounced, the heavens opened up. A ballet of emerald commenced in the sky; the snow under our feet glowed faintly of the same color. Like green snakes scurrying effortlessly across a yard, the Aurora Borealis moved with delicate and luminous grace, like a ghostly wet sheet hanging to dry on a windy day. Christine’s celebratory laughter faded away; the numbness in my hands faded away; the blanket of snow beneath my feet faded away. I watched as heaven and earth collided. I was consumed in an explosion of Transcendence.

But the phenomenon ended as abruptly as it had begun. Christine, the numbness, and the earth were back. I had totally forgotten to change my camera’s settings, and Christine and I looked at the pictures feeling that they didn’t do justice for the miracle we had just witnessed together. She said that tonight’s Lights were greater than any she had seen in Norway. We walked back refreshed, drawn closer through our shared experience. I thought about this as we talked: I just watched the Northern Lights from the top of a snow-covered hill overlooking the city, a rather romantic and spiritual act, with a complete stranger. But I also thought about the resemblance the Lights had to the Morsmordre (summoning the Dark Mark) or Avada Kedavra (the killing curse) incantations. The Northern Lights were magical—maybe they were actually signs of a duel between dark wizards. Whatever the case may be, for the second time tonight, after a blast of heat and a sleepy “Halló,” I threw my backpack down at the foot of my bed and collapsed into an exhausted, but peaceful, sleep.