Cold as Iceland

I begin this chapter on Iceland, unsure where to take my narrative or how to organize my jumbled recollections. Three visits over 25 years blur together, making it hard to separate one trip from another. Even a layover at Reykjavik airport—possibly spent in the city—has faded into stew of experiences. This overlap makes ordering the chapter chronologically a challenge: I can’t promise each memory happened during the visit I think it did.

I am certain, however, that on my first trip, I stayed only at a hotel operated by Icelandair at Reykjavik’s domestic airport and took day trips from there. On the second visit, I may have spent a night in Reykjavik but spent most of my time in B&B’s at Akureyri and Lake Myvatn, but I don’t remember how much time I spent at each place.

My third visit included another Reykjavik B&B and exploration east of the city. Memories from Reykjavik and excursions to Thorsmork, (which I visited twice), and other areas in west Iceland are jumbled together in my memory, making it hard for me to untangle these trips.

My feelings about Iceland also changed over the years. The first trip in the 1980s felt exotic and remarkable—geysers, waterfalls, and rural air thrilled me. Iceland seemed alive and full of promise; I wanted to marry the place.

By the third trip, my outlook had shifted: the country felt expensive, chilly, gloomy, and empty.

Beyond Reykjavik, I saw only moss, lichen, wet grass, and a few sorry sheep. The marriage was over.

Though I never visited in winter, I imagine Iceland can become even darker and more desolate destination.

Expressing these shifts of feeling is challenging within my now muddled chronology. Once Iceland’s sharp light mesmerized me; later, its endless wind chilled my soul. Which feeling should I pass on to you?

Which is more honest?

 

This chapter will likely seem like a checkerboard of unrelated experiences, shaped by vague recollections, shifting emotions, and varied visuals, but to me, these impressions somehow fit snugly together in my conscious and unconscious memory of the place. If I can experience such contradictions simultaneously, I hope you can too. It’s easier than you think. We all forget, remember, like, dislike, and then like again the memories we accrue each day; we easily live with such inconsistent memories. I believe you already know how to read this narrative, because it’s how you already integrate your past with your present.

 

My first visit to Iceland was part of my second trip to Europe in the late 1980s. Icelandair made it much more comfortable than my first, direct New York-to-London flight, where I arrived jet-lagged and confused. This time, Icelandair offered a layover, letting me explore Iceland for a few days. With only a short flight from Boston to Iceland and a minor time difference, I arrived in Europe rested. Icelandair’s fares were much lower than others then, and it ran a hotel at Reykjavik’s domestic airport, which I booked along with my ticket. Choosing Icelandair was a no-brainer. It was a cheap, easy way to see what felt like a forbidding, little-known land. Icelandair’s advantages aren’t as obvious now; I only flew them two or three times after this first trip. Its prices increased, and it landed in odd places in Europe like Glasgow or Luxemburg. My travels also began to branch out to other parts of the world.

 

Anyone reading may find my emotional changes confusing. Do I like the place or hate it? Both. Iceland’s contradictions resist tidy resolution. My memories and feelings don’t fit a sequence, and my narrative will show that ambiguity.

Another confusing aspect is my photography. I used slide film on the first two trips and a digital camera on the last. The photos differ so much that it’s hard to believe they reflect the same country.

Even after my first trip to Europe in 1985, I was still an unworldly novice traveler. The Icelandair hotel sported a sauna. I had heard about them but had never been inside one. So, the first thing I did after unpacking was undress, put on a robe, and trek down to the basement sauna. It was cold and empty when I arrived. I figured out how to turn it on and waited. Being an impatient sort, I finally entered and sat in a lukewarm room for about 10 minutes before leaving. It wasn’t until years later that I learned saunas could become really hot and worth sitting in.

 

Since Viking times, Scandinavians have experienced many difficulties related to the consumption of alcohol. They love the stuff, but it doesn’t love them back, and many bad, sometimes bloodily violent situations have resulted from this unrequited love. Governments have had to step in to reduce the mayhem that often occurred after extended drinking sessions. When I first travelled in Iceland in the 1980s, the government banned the sale of hard liquor and allowed only watered-down beer. Sometime between my first and second trips there, Icelanders convinced their government that they could behave when under the influence, and that full-strength beer could be sold in restaurants and hard liquor could be sold in limited quantities during restricted hours at government-operated liquor stores.

This arrangement continues to this day, though the smashed glass panes of a bus shelter I passed on a Sunday morning make me think the government might regret its decision.

 

As a young man driven with excess testosterone, I expected to find many Icelandic women (who in my imagination all resembled the women of the Swedish Bikini Team that represented some suntan lotion brand) would be going out of their way to meet me.

This was based on “research” that more than half of all Icelandic children were born out of wedlock. I soon found out that this statistic was meaningless as it related to me. Yes, there were plenty of single moms walking about, and plenty of kids who represented only new responsibilities rather than uncontrolled passions.

I had had some luck flirting with waitresses in the US, but this luck didn’t apply in Iceland. No one flirted here that I could see. Also, waitresses brought their kids to work, where they were allowed to crawl under tables, knock over silverware, take sugar packets from your table, throw them at each other, and stand next to your table to stare at you. When you frowned and stared back, they began to cry. All this was breezily ignored by their mothers. After eating restaurant food a few times, I had to admit that there would never be any chemistry between the waitresses and me.  I surmised that the high number of single moms in Iceland had more to do with Iceland’s solid social safety net rather than any randiness on their part. They didn’t marry the fathers because they could easily survive on their own. After two days of restaurant dining, I decided to pursue the country’s other natural beauties, its landscapes, instead.

 

Uninformed about Iceland, I took the Golden Circle Tour—a full-day sample of western Iceland’s main sights. The tour includes Geyser (the hot spring that gave other geysers their name), several waterfalls (one near Geyser), and, most interestingly, Thingvelir, Europe’s first parliament.

There’s also a long, water-filled crevice where the North American and European plates pull apart.

 

This first parliament was a rough-and-tumble institution that didn’t try to hide the violent and petty side of human nature, unlike modern parliaments, which desperately try to do so. Honor killings that resulted from personal and family feuds were rampant across the island when this first parliament (Althing) established laws that sought to reduce the violent chaos. Of course, it couldn’t stop it completely, but it did introduce universally understood consequences for murdering your fellow man. These consequences were more complicated than those we enforce today.  First of all, the “government” did not directly execute murderers. Some murders, for example, the murders of someone else’s slaves or someone of little importance, could be punished with a cash fine. If the killer couldn’t or wouldn’t pay, the Althing could then vote to “outlaw” the killer. This meant that the killer was banished from society, and the Althing could also banish anyone who dared to aide the outlaw at the next Althing session. Since the outlaw was now considered outside the law, he could be killed by anyone who could find and overpower him with no legal consequences. Prior to his outlaw status, anyone killing this person would himself be considered a murderer; afterwards, he was simply a legal executioner. The outlaw’s friends and family were not allowed to retaliate unless they wanted the Althing to vote them outlaws as well. (Of course, a politically popular family might prevent such a vote, but friends one day could easily become enemies the next). One or two outlaws managed to survive in the backcountry by stealing an occasional sheep, but most were found and killed. The safer alternative was to escape Iceland to Norway or other Viking-controlled lands, and possibly return when the political winds changed back home. Some successfully did this (along with some armed friends), who persuaded the Althing to rescind their outlaw status; others found this move only confirmed their status as outlaws. Reprisals under this “legal” system still occurred, but it made them less frequent and created a thin layer of civilized conduct over everyday brutality. rather than allow everyone to hack away at each other. Another unique aspect of this, um, system of “justice” established by the Althing was an island where delegates during an official session could fight and kill each other with no legal consequences. If a challenge was made and both individuals agreed to fight there, they would wade across the river and try to kill each other. Their followers were forbidden to cross the river to help them. Instead, they stood on the opposite bank and cheered on their favorites. Sometimes the spectators got excited, and scuffling would break out, but it was usually quickly suppressed by the other Althing members, who didn’t care which island combatant won or lost. One of the sagas relates that during one such island duel, someone on the far shore shot an arrow at the duelists. He apparently didn’t like either of the two, and though I don’t think he was punished (he missed), I remember the saga indicated his behavior was bad form.