Last Day in the Renault---Golden Falls

7. Friday. Our last full day in Iceland is dominated in the morning by the crossing of the expanse of the coast plains of the giant wide glacial rivers that  pour out from up the canyons on the ice cap, relieving the water into the sea, at times in a volcanic cataclysm. The road is up on a causeway, the existence of which one year to the next is at the mercy of the magma and rocks, and other volcanic side-effects. When the water comes pouring down, it is merciless.

Along the sea are also bizarre standing "islands" that emerge up out of the coastal plain, stranded by the retreat of the glaciers in earlier times.

We leave enough time in the afternoon to explore the tourist areas around Reykjavik, since we'd come almost all the way around the island by now, and we coming back into the somewhat populated area, that could be taken for rural Wisconsin at times. Of course we visited Þingvellir where the first Icelandic parliaments met, in open air, a thousand years ago. It is located right at the meeting point of the crustal plates. Footpaths take one up from the river through the fissures between them. Rounding out the trio also hit Geysir and Gullfoss, the magnificent "Golden falls" that Red thought was the best falls of all. They were also submerged in a dam, due to corruption of the legal process, but were saved by a young woman who threatened to jump in the water unless they were preserved.

Gullfoss, looking here like a slice of pie. Yummy.

There was also a stop at a farm for ice cream made on the premises, by cows that one could see through a window from the place where ice cream was sold. One gets the sense that Iceland is still in a farm-estate-centered state of society, like Norman England. The signs along the road often point not to actual towns but to historic farm-estates, some with chapels, as if the nucleus of what would have become a town had it been on the continent. Iceland blows your mind that way.

We stayed the night at our third of the Icelandair hotel chains, this time at Fluðir, a small town not far from Gullfoss. It is the center of the country's greenhouse growing industry, and the hotel restaurant had a menu of locally grown produce. Outside in the courtyard were hot tubs. Iceland is quite nice.

The wi-fi at all of the hotels we stayed in was tremendous. Not a smidgen of complaint. Also Red noticed that her T-Mobile iPhone actually got higher bar levels throughout most of Iceland than she usually got in Portland.

We even tried to extend our stay, but changing the air ticket would have cost quite a bit more. So instead on Saturday morning we decamped,  drove back into the outskirsts of Reykjavik---the strange re-emergence of small urbanity amidst so much sparseness, and merged onto the tiny faux Interstate for the last fifty kilometers to the airport. After gassing up the Renault once last time, and dropping it off, we lugged our rolling bags down the sidewalk into the terminal, and went through security, showing only our tickets and not our i.d. cards (btw in Iceland on domestic flights you can actually carry unloaded firearms---it would hard to imagine not allowing this).

I felt wistful to be leaving. But we were looking forward to the next stage of the trip. Besides we had got the last bit of great Indian summer weather probably, and it was a splendid time to leave. So we stood in line in the Icelandair terminal and boarded the afternoon flight for...

The Day of the Á

6. Thursday. A day of looking at ice. We leave Hof under grey low hanging clouds, the kind of weather one expects and follow the highway along the coast, over one glacial stream after another. In Icelandic, the basic word for river is á, pronounced "ow." Driving around the country, one sees it many times in the standardized signs at the bridges. It is always part of the word, at the end. A basic word for a basic concept.

The ice cap is tantalizingly close, just over the crest of the mountains. Coming around certain points on the coast reveals the sprawl of glaciers in streaked splendors emerging down into the coastal plain. But the sky is snarly---not great for pictures.

We get our fill of ice close up at the glacial lagoon of Jökulsárlón, which literally means "glacial lagoon." It is a large lake with an opening to the coast, where pieces of ice calve off from the retreating glacial. Then they float in the pond, breaking up into small pieces that have the consistency of ice sculptures, and seem via pareidolia, to at times resemble broken fragments of a heap of ancient classical sculptures.

The glaciers are retreating lately, but they are still further advanced than in the Middle Ages when Iceland was first settled. Along the southern coast are many dryland fjords where early settlements were wiped out in the centuries after the first settlers arrived, because the ice advanced.

We spend the night at a quaint small bnb run via a Latvian immigrant on a farm outside the harbor town of Vík, about as far south as one can go on the island.

Bónus Day

5. Wednesday. After breakfast we wander around the guesthouse farmstead taking iPhone photos of cows and horses. One sees these horses throughout the island. The cows are seen in the more settled areas, such as this oasis. Much fewer than sheep.

Before leaving town, we venture into a supermarket, one of the many examples of the Bónus chain throughout the island. We go just for fun but also for snacks. One sees these supermarkets in any settled area. Seeing one of them as one comes into town, or leaves, becomes part of the road experience in Iceland, along with the similarly situated N1 gas stations and convenience stores, where we refuel the Renault daily. We patrol the many items inside just for fun, and remark and the subtle differences from an American truck stop.

Iceland reminds of the way America used to be, back in my small town youth. People were much more relaxed at casual things. In Iceland, for example, children are still mostly "feral" by American standards.  And when I take pictures of things, no one seems to care. Or at least I can't imagine anyone caring, the way I used to imagine that in America---the no one cared about a guy just doing his thing.

Outside of town the road goes quickly up into the mountains, like the Colorado Rockies, and turns into gravel for a section. On the other side of the pass the road is steep with switchbacks coming down into a massive chasm leftover from recent glaciation. This is the coldest coast of the island---the southeast---where the massive ice caps come right up to the sea in places. At the bottom of the wide valley, the road skirts the placid coast weaving in and out of the fjords, close to the rock wall and the ancient farmsteads that cling there.

We stay the night in a hotel in quiet Hof, right along the coast near the edge of the massive ice cap of Vatnajökull. The hotel is in a house, and has a shared bathroom. Across the street is a lobster restaurant where we dine on bisque. The house has a pleasant dining room with a view of the sea. kitchen. We take our breakfast with a couple from Spain. The Spaniards seem to love Iceland. 

Subarctic Sheep in an Unexpected Heaven

3.  Monday. We leave Reykjavik. A long first day's drive from up the west coast to the island to the largest fjord on the north coast, stopping at the way in Borgarnes to see an exhibit on the sagas at a heritage museum.
At this subarctic latitude (65°41′N), the hay and sheep farms are lush and green, like Wyoming in late spring, but without irrigation needed.
We stay in another Icelandair hotel, in Akureyri, the island's second largest city, a quaint college town where the evening breeze is still warm in mid September, even though out the fjord northwards is nothing between here and the North Pole.  In the morning, I get up early and walk around quiet to see people going to work.

4.  Tuesday. After breakfast in the hotel---we always have skyr, of course---we drive out of town, heading across the wasteland part of the island. We stop at Goðafoss, the mighty glacial falls where the last great pagan chieftain through his idols in the water, a thousand years ago when Iceland became Christian.. Against a volcanic landscape a bit like Death Valley, we navigate among steam plumes until we find in the Myvatn baths, where take in the warm pool amidst some Swedish tourists. Later we reach the great cascade of Dettifos, and take photos of ourselves standing next to rainbows.. From there we cut inland across the flat interior volcanic plateau, where no one lives at all, and there are no sheep to be seen for many miles. We pass through the downwind wafting of the very sulfuric plume of the eruption of Bárðarbunga, visible on the horizon to the south. In the afternoon we come down to the fjords again on the east coast, and the land is lush again with sheep. We stay the night in the historic guesthouse farmstead of Egilsstaðirr, which is now the nucleus of the largest town on the eastern coast.

The City's Best Hot Dog

The first two nights we spend in the capital:

1. Reykjavík
2. Reykjavík

We recover from jet lag at the Icelandair Hotel, which is located at the old city airport, that is still used for domestic flights. The exterior is classic 1960's High Travel Era (TWA, Pan Am, etc.), the era that my grandparents traveled in. It was comforting in a jet age kind of way. The interior has a contemporary Nordic design, and is quite cozy. The first evening we eat the Laundromat Cafe, a hip pub-like place that is a spin-off of a place in Copenhagen by the same name. On the second day, somewhat rested we make the obligatory visit to the Hallgrímskirkja, and of course to Bæjarins beztu pylsur (the famous hot dog stand that locals love). We shop for wool hats and gloves at the many shops in the center of town, and partake of a whipped coffee drink in the local version of the famous American coffee shop chain, a local franchise of which does not exist here. Even though the high summer has passed, we find the city to be lovely, and furthermore to be remarkably similar to the image of it presented in this video made by locals (note the way the young woman wears her hair).

Making the Virtual into the Real

Out in the parking lot, under a foul autumn North Atlantic sky, we find our car---a Renault. The last Renault I drove was 25 years ago. This one is more modern. We put our bags in the back hatch. Across the steering wheel is a paper map showing the regions of the island where one is not allowed to drive the car, under penalty of fine. Fortunately none of the areas on our agenda are in the exlcuded area. I double check.

The electronic key confounds me for a moment. Then we are underway. It is still early morning Iceland time. We drive on the side roads out through several small towns, all the way to the tip of the peninsula that the airport is on. We drive down onto the fishing docks, which are still and without person in sight at the moment. I get used to the road signs as we go in and out of several times.

We head south along the coast of the peninsula, towards the meeting plate between the North American Plate and the European Plate, where the jagged edges come up out of the sea. Much ofthe land is new here, with only clumps of grass at times. I remark that it is much like the coast of the Big Island of Hawaii, especially along the south edge of the island, which is all new volcanic terrain as well.

After a couple hours of this, we are at the hour of the morning where we are supposedly guaranteed check in to our hotel is Reykjavik. We start heading back, on the back roads past the famous open air hot springs pond called the Blue Lagoon (with an Icelandic name as well, which is on the road signs). We decide not to go to the pool for now. A few miles later, we find ourselves on the only bit of highway on the island resembling an Interstate. It takes us into the suburbs of Reykjavik, the nice ones near where the Prime Minister lives, and then into the heart of the city proper. We find our exit, and merge onto a divided boulevard heading west into the urban center.

I recognize the surroundings. I have never been here before but I saw it on Google Maps Street View, while navigating the area around our hotel. I easily find the turn off towards the hotel, and follow the uncanny curve of memory in real three-dimensional space until I see the hotel itself.

Thick Milk

 Þykkmjólk. A very viscous yogurt drink with chunks fruit. Red gets the apricot version from the dairy case in the nearby convenience store in the terminal. Difficult to drink from a carton, but delicious as we share the carton. Our first great find in country.

We head over to the rental counter. There are a few folks in line, and it takes forever. The kid and the counter is diligent but somehow over his head with some issue. In the counter next to us, a young woman with a rather typical Icelandic female visage sits on a chair mostly staring off into space and listening to music on ear buds. Her hair is up in a small bun on the very top of her head. It's the typical and distinct way young Icelandic women wear their hair---up on top of their head.


Later in the trip Red tries wearing her hair that way, to be Icelandic. It works. She is mistaken for a native by other Icelanders, just in her appearance.

A Viking Greeting

Day One: Keflavik Airport. Very early morning. Wheeling luggage down the narrow terminal pas the lines for departing flight. We get our checked bags. We wheel them through the internatioal lanes and around several corners of the maze they always make you go through. Then a hall and several lines, for EU nationals and others. I get in a line and wait. I approach the booth and offer up my passport. A grarled old man of sturdy frame takes it through the window and looks down at it.

"Góðan daginn,"  I say, having rehearsed the phrase for many months. Actually it my first words of Icelandic spoken to a real Icelander.

Without looking up, and in crisp booming tones of a unique sing song, the old man repeats my greeting back to me. He was, I felt, teaching me the true way that ones says it while pssing a neighbor on a Sunday morning.

On the other side of the big door onto into the commercial area of the main terminal, we see through the big glass windows to the grey imposing sky. We watch as other passengers come through the doors behind us. There is a television crew of some sort, with lights and a small crowd. We look from off to the side, just savoring the feeling of arrival.

From Little Iceland to Big Iceland

For the second time in the span of several weeks, I find myself sitting at an airport, looking up at the national flag of Iceland.

Only this time the airport is not the impromptu one at Black Rock City in the Nevada Desert, and the flag is not the one I had hung in the inside of the rental trailer. Instead I am in the main terminal at Keflavík International Airport (63°59′06″N 22°36′20″W), about thirty miles outside Reykjavik, near the tip of a short volcanic peninsula jutting out into the North Atlantic. The flag is a decal on the side of a window for a shop selling locally made wool sweaters and other winter garb.

Our trip here had been marvelous---everything we had hoped for. Indeed, for all the preparation we had done, the months of research and planning, and the playing at being Icelanders at Burning Man, we had somehow succeeded. Arriving here for the first time it had felt like home to both us.

The idea had begun as a whimsy last spring, when deciding where we should go in the fall after Red had taken her boards. She wanted to travel for a couple months until she began her formal career as a physician. Similarly I had wanted at last to take my road-work lifestyle abroad, as I had been talking about for some time.

I had been cautious about taking this step until the the time had been right. I had wanted to perfect it in the U.S., where I felt comfortable.

In my perfectionist logistic way, I had wanted the arrival here to go smoothly, like a rehearsed routine. But it had turned out to be quite hectic, mostly because of all the events leading up to it, not the least of which was the enormous time, money, and energy spent on Burning Man this year.

Even arriving back in Portland from Reno our work had not been over. We had only nine days until our flight from Seattle on Icelandair was due to depart.  The days were crammed not only with the usual slog of cleaning up our clothes and gear, but with the daunting task of packing up Red's apartment in preparation for all of our possessions into storage.

During this time, most of my possessions were out on the porch where I surveyed them and rearranged them.

"For someone who came up here with only a car trunk full of gear, I sure have wound up with a lot of stuff," I told Red. "But it seems ninety percent of it is for Burning Man."

It wasn't until the night before our flight, when all of our things were finally in secure storage down on the Portland waterfront that I could begin the task of arranging the things I would take overseas into the plum-colored Rick Steeves rolling carry-on that I had recently ordered. It had arrived from the warehouse in Seattle only a day before our departure for Reno.  Seattle was a recurring theme for this trip, which seemed appropriate since I had spent my last birthday there. I enjoy that kind of subtle continuity in life.

Even at that point we faced a small crisis when our plans for long-term storage of Red's car near Sea-Tac fell through at the last minute. She scrambled and found an alternative. We drove up there the day before our flight, and after a night at the Hampton near the airport, we dropped her car off with a friendly retired couple who tended the storage facility, and rolled our carry-ons to the shuttle they provided.

As we waited for our flight in the lounge I practiced some of the phrases of Icelandic that I had been learning over the summer. Then like a true Icelander,  I broke out my Kindle and read a bit from my download of Independent People (Sjálfstætt fólk) by Halldór Laxness. I had been working my through it for a over a month, savoring each chapter.

The novel is considered the "national story" of Iceland by many folks there, the characters and theme reflective of the way Icelanders see themselves. One finds prominent copies of it, both in Icelandic and English, displayed in bookstores all over the country.

Then they called our flight and we boarded. The captain and the head attendant gave us our instructions in both Icelandic and English. We took off over the North Cascades on a bright sunny afternoon and headed across the Canadian border on a great circle route that would take us over Hudson Bay and Greenland. At last we were on our way home.