Iceland: Day 9

09 January 2016

As with every other early morning in Iceland, I was torn between two very good things: being asleep and being awake. The still blue hue of a room alit by soft Christmas lights in the windowsill and the deep and quiet darkness of the arctic winter encouraged slumber, not a will to wake up for the day. But nonetheless, the three of us made our way out of our bunks and into our boots. Ryan dazedly poured me a large cup of coffee before we departed; by 05:00, we were out of the house and on the road. As we headed for the edge of town, we drove by the Einstök brewery, where some of the world’s most delicious beer is crafted. But it was not time for a drink; we had five hours of driving to get done.

Darkness covered the land as we trekked from Akureyri to Reykjavík. Altogether, we stopped twice. The first occurred about an hour down the road. Joey, staring out into the veil of night, requested that we pull over to the side of the road and soak in what he called “the darkest place I’ve ever seen.” We found a bend partially protected by mountains, turned off the car, and stood where we could no longer distinguish the hills from the heavens. It was as though we were wearing blindfolds, and every crinkle of a jacket or burst of wind somehow transformed into a wild beast that was trampling towards us. This, of course, was just a bit of somnolent imagination.

The second stop was an N1 petrol station, where I refuelled both the car and my caffeine level. This early morning dreariness called for a double Americano. I did not want to run the risk of drifting off to sleep and off the road. Joey and Ryan had been fast asleep since “the darkest place” but were roused by the chill of an open car door. While Ryan was out cold by the time we left the station; Joey struggled to carry on a conversation before drifting back into a dream. Oh, the envy! Another three hours passed with little conversation and even less light, my only companion being the always-apropos music of Sigur Rós. It was not until we reached the Hvalfjörður Tunnel, which passes under the Greenland Sea, that the hopelessness of the night began to take on the darkest shades of blue and brought to us the promise of morning.

For ISK 1,000 (USD 8.62), we descended into the sub-nautical six-kilometre tunnel. Although I guessed for the midpoint of the U-shaped tunnel, it was impossible to know when descent had turned to ascent without the horizon. The rapid flash of the overhead lights reminded me of the soft amber glow of the tunnel outside of Höfn; these passages would come to serve as bookends to our ring road trip. But just like that, and quite suddenly, the tunnel levelled out at its clearing and we were welcomed by a cerulean sunrise sky.

Beyond the Hvalfjörður Tunnel, the only things standing between us and Reykjavík were a handful of roundabouts and a scattering of homes. Although Ryan drifted back to sleep after we surfaced, Joey decided to muster through to continue our conversation from before. I was very grateful for this, having spent the previous three hours left to my own thoughts; besides, it is always good to catch up with my brother.

After a few wrong turns and a lot of anticipation, we parked at Hallgrímskirkja, the Lutheran Church of Reykjavík. Because the church doors were yet shut, our first real stop was Café Babalú, a coffee shop just down Skólavörðustígur Street. (If you recall, I visited Babalú on 3 January.) We crossed its not-too-terribly out-of-place bright orange exterior and explored the thousands upon thousands of gizmos and gadgets that littered stacks of shelves that lined every wall. We settled upstairs in the same room in which I had sipped a doppio just six days earlier—the room with the outdated and oversized poster of Manhattan, a collection of Incredible Hulk figurines, and framed postcards from around the world. Uncharacteristically, I drank a fruit juice rather than a coffee, because the large French press and double Americano and lack of food had given me the jitters. While we sipped, we played trivial pursuit to help ourselves wake up—cast across the table were the board game’s cards. On our way out, I showed Joey and Ryan the Star Wars-themed WC.

We headed into Old Reykjavík. Along the way, we stopped in a craft store, in which I purchased some lava beads for a bracelet. If you don’t want to spend a small fortune on the jewellery found in stores with names reminiscent of the Vikings, I would suggest making one on your own. They significantly cheaper (USD 10 versus USD 80) and totally customizable.

Before any sightseeing could take place, I shared with Joey and Ryan the pinnacle of Reykjavík culture: Bæjarins Beztu Pylsur. As “the best hotdog stand in Europe” (The Guardian), BBP sells what might be the most delicious hotdogs in the entire world. The lamb, ketchup, sweet mustard, remoulade, fried onion and raw onion combination was just what we needed to conquer the rest of the day. My only regret was that I only bought one. We ordered them eina með öllu (with everything). Ryan rated it a 7/10, Joey an 8.5/10, and I an 11/10. Now what is left is only bittersweet—for the rest of my life, admitting the best is behind me; when, oh when, will I have a BBP hotdog again?

We continued further into Old Reykjavík, where we separately ran into “Canada” (the man from the Höfn hostel, whose name we never came to learn) and “Britain” (someone we recognized from the Breiðamerkurjökull outlet, where we repelled the glacial moulins of Vatnajökull). That we crossed paths with these people—and don’t forget Tinn—goes to show the size of Iceland’s population and geography.

We explored Old Reykjavík for a few hours before making our way back to the now-open Hallgrímskirkja. Sitting in pews, I reflected on the simplicity of the sanctuary, which was just as beautiful as before but a bit smaller than I had remembered. As we made our way from the church, a friendly tabby cat decided to join us as we walked down the street. After a few scratches behind the ear, she scurried off. We were still talking about the church when we arrived at the not-so-family-friendly Phallological Museum.

The Icelandic Penis Museum. It’s the only one in the world, and a lot bigger than you’d expect. Oh, get your head out of the gutter. I mean that there are quite a few—uh—“specimens.” From silver castings of the Icelandic handball team to wood carvings of medieval Vikings, the Phallological Museum has it all. But if you’re wondering, why would anyone have a museum of penises, I have the answer for you.

Not too long ago, as the story goes, Sigurdur Hjartarson accidentally brought a whale penis to school. Hjartarson was a shepherd, and it was common for shepherds to use the penal bone of a whale as a staff. He must have forgotten to take it out of his sack the night before coming to class, for when he pulled a whale penis out of his sack instead of his homework, his peers had a good laugh. Enjoying the attention that this had granted him, Hjartarson decided to collect penises en masse. He started with the whale variety, but eventually expanded his interests to include the penises of elephants, giraffes, horses, zebras, bulls, dolphins, pigs, dogs, cats, and mice. Over time, Hjartarson had gathered hundreds of penises, which he preserved in formaldehyde. His interests expanded, again, when he started to collect mythical genitalia—troll, ghost, and elf penises—alongside castings and photographs of human specimens. He decided to make his collection available to all, so he opened the Phallologial Museum to educate and entertain. There is a must-see documentary on Hjartarson, called The Final Member, which tells of the Museum’s final exhibit: the penis of Hjartarson himself. This emotional film will bring a tear to your eye, guaranteed. And now that I’ve reached my “penis” quota…

We were not far from our hotel and decided to mosey on over to check in and drop off our bags before exploring more of Reykjavík. Although we had booked three beds in a twelve-bed dormitory room, the hotel owner had overbooked the room and upgraded us to a three-bed room with a private bathroom. What a delight! We decided to celebrate with another round of BBP hotdogs.

We then meandered about the opera house, Harpa, and a lake in central Reykjavík, Tjornin, known for its swans. Most of Tjornin was frozen over, so only a small wedge of water was left for the swans to swim; we got to see the whiteness gathered all together—what a sound they made. Plenty of people were gathered around, tossing chunks of bread over which the whiteness fought. We slipped our way out to the middle of the lake and to an island that was littered with discarded firework launchers and empty beer bottles.

Afterwards, we drove to the Old Harbour, dawdled at the end of its docks, gawped out over the bay, surveyed a shipyard of antediluvian wooden vessels, and listened to seaplanes sputter overhead. With the sun already setting and it yet a few hours from dinner, we rested up at the hotel before going to Le Bistro for a traditional Icelandic meal, which consisted of dark rye bread (rúgbrauð), pickled salmon (hennareyktur lax), smoked herring (síld), smoked lamb (hangikjöt), black pudding (blóðmör), minke whale (hvalakjöt), rotten shark (hákarl), and a shot of schnapps (brennivín).

Our last supper started promisingly with warm, sweet rúgbrauð followed by hennareyktur lax and síld. I have always held smoked salmon near and dear to my heart, and pickled salmon did not let me down; it melted like butter and its lingering flavour complimented the herring, with which I was not displeased. We moved onto the hangikjöt. Although this smoked lamb was delicious, nothing will trump the BBP lamb dog. Next came the blóðmör. I’ve had black pudding before and will have it again; there is nothing quite like congealed pig blood to liven up a meal. Sure, it might not be everyone’s favourite, but I sure wasn’t complaining.

Now came the main courses—the ultimate tests of our palates and stomachs. I tried minke whale at Ostabúðin on the third, after which I recalled the “Meet us, don’t eat us” signs at the Harbour and felt embarrassed and guilty. I had mixed feelings about this portion of the meal, but in the excitement of the moment, embarrassment and guilt were pushed back and I went against my mores for another bite of whale. I suggest you check out the International Whaling Commission (IWC), where you can learn more about the negative and wasteful effects of whaling in Iceland, Norway, and Japan.

The most anticipated portion was next: hákarl. But before I describe its taste, I want to share with you how it is prepared. Back in the early 1000s, when the Norse finally settled the island, poor cultivation conditions and cold winters forced Vikings to find nonconventional means of sustenance. Somehow, they discovered that the Greenland sand shark was “edible” after the toxins in its skin were removed. At catch, fishermen would take the shark ashore and bury it six feet deep on the beach. Three months later, they would dig up the crushed shark and hang it in a shed, where its belly would be slit and its innards dried out for another three months. Over the course of this six-month process, a bacterial mould would produce ammonia, neutralizing the shark’s poison. The shark was then cut up into little bits and served, sans cleaning or cooking. Thus, what I had on my plate was a piece of six-month-old rotted and raw shark skin. Bon Appétit!

Imagine yourself running a marathon without any deodorant on a hot summer’s day. Now, take your nasty armpit sweat and cake it into a fleshy, rubbery chunk. Take that chunk and let it sit outside in the blistering heat for a few more hours. Put it at the bottom of a garbage bin of pungent rubbing alcohol and stale hard-boiled eggs. If you’re willing, take that chunk of armpit sweat and put it on a plate, grab a fork and knife, and dig in.

I would rather take that over another bite of hákarl. It was, by far, the worst thing I have ever tasted. Thankfully, the portion was small enough to get down in one bite, because I guarantee that I would not have gone back for seconds. I’m not exaggerating here! Jack Maxwell of the Travel Channel has said that hákarl is the worst food he has ever tasted. In a frenzy, I washed the shark down with a shot of gasoline-flavoured Brennivín, nicknamed “Black Death.”

What’s worse is the hákarl’s long-term effect. Although I do not have proof that it was the shark alone—and I am not a doctor—I have since had a severe intolerance to lactose. My hypothesis: ammonia and bacteria shocked the enzymes that break down lactose. Because of this nasty piece of rotten meat, I can no longer enjoy ice cream or cheese. Please let me know if you are aware of a solution to this, for it is one of my life’s greatest woes.

With supper (hardly) down, we walked over to Kaffibarinn, the bar in which, on my first night in Iceland, from a little rickety wooden table in the corner of the room, I reminisced about London over a pint of Icelandic stout while listening to locals at the bar chuckle over some story told by the bartender. Now, on our last night, again by candlelight and over pints, the three of us reflected on our time together and the ways in which we felt the island of fire and ice would continue to impact our lives.

But we were tired. It was neither the long day in Reykjavík nor the five hours spent driving in the darkness, neither the lack of sleep we got the night before nor the upset stomachs with which we were now dealing. This tiredness came from a good place—the kind of exhaustion that meets you at the end of a journey well spent. Thin places will always demand rest.

Rainier Maria Rilke says that all persons are immensely divided by a collective solitude. While he envisioned this solitude in the lives of soldiers, our solitudes were brought alive through the synchronicity of atonement and alienation across the Icelandic landscape. It required little speech to communicate the inexplicability and homogeneity of our experiences. Although we spent much of our time at Kaffibarinn telling shared tales of Northern Lights, glacial dives, and waterfalls, it was in our shared moments of silence that we truly embraced solitude, that our humanity was recognized, and that we saw each other as a protagonist in his own story—sonder.

We closed out. We headed back to the hotel. We packed our bags. However, being our last night in Iceland, we wanted to give the Northern Lights one final shot and consequently made our way half an hour’s drive south of the city. It was blisteringly windy and frigid (-15ºC), but we persisted for thirty minutes. Just before calling it a night, Joey let out a shout and pointed a numb finger north towards a single thin wisp of green. We jumped into the car and sped down the road in its direction. However, the more we drove, the more north the wisp went. But I knew of a place with a view, so we made our way towards the hill on which Christine and I had seen the Lights on the third of January. When we made it to the top, I set up the camera and we waited.

The show began at midnight. A distant faded-malachite patina pulsated through a sky coming back to life, once dead in darkness. But with a swelling, billows poured over us, faintly illuminating our bodies in its sort of radiance. Joey reached for his phone and began to snap pictures between oohs of wonder. But I told him to put it away—I was capturing the memory on my camera, and he should soak in the moment, for I had already seen green snakes slither over the cityscape.

They weren’t the brightest Lights, but they sure were the largest; the sky facing west was as green as it was black. The waves moved overhead, and it felt as though the earth was sending us this parting favour, dazzling us one final time with her beauty in an unexpected encore. Besides the clicks of the camera shutter, the blustery bursts of wind coming in with the Lights, and the occasion grousing engine of a passing car, we stood silent with the world and marvelled in reverence towards Creation.

At the fading of the last Light, we skipped back to the car, unable to contain our joy. On the drive back, we sang songs together—some real and some made-up on the spot. Somehow Gaston from Beauty and the Beastwas a popular topic throughout our lyrics. But I think real jubilance is always a bit nonsensical.

We got back to the hotel around 01:30. I had a bowl of ramen and relaxed before getting into bed to close out another successful day in Iceland with heavy eyelids and a happy heart. Although I knew that I would be leaving when I woke, I was glad that the journey reverberated with success. I could not have asked for better friends or better memories.

Post-script: If you would like to read about my day in Reykjavík on 3 January, as it is mentioned throughout this post, click here.