At about 11, Knutur and I loaded up his car, settled the bill, and we were on our way back to Viðigerði, where I would catch the noon bus to Reykjavík. Viðigerði is not a regular stop for the bus, so if you want to catch it, you have to stand outside, ready to flag it down. This meant that I couldn't wait and have a cup of coffee in the restaurant at the petrol station, but stood on the side of the highway with my bags, bright yellow hood over my head in the cool air and gentle drizzle.
While waiting, I discovered that you can see cars coming from the east when they're about 6 kilometers away. As near as I could tell, the highway comes through a pass somewhere, and at that point, you can see its headlights (24-hour use of headlights is mandatory in Iceland). If you wait half a minute or so, you can tell whether it's a car or a truck/bus as the road turns perpendicular to your line of sight, so you can make out the profile. Then the road dips into a shallow valley, and you lose sight of the vehicle altogether until it's maybe 750m away, and you can definitively make out what sort of vehicle it is.
After a while I noticed noon had come and gone and I was still standing in the rain. It seemed the bus ought to be here by now. I wondered if the bus was running early, and I'd missed it, and started to think about hitching my way back to Reykjavík, or Borgarnes, or however far I could get, because impressive as the landscape here was--and it was impressive, with low farmland surrounded by steep mountains free of vegetation--I had no intention of spending the night in Viðigerði, and was ready to move on. It was about the moment I had decided to try hitching that I saw a vehicle that might be a bus come through the pass, and pretty soon I was on my way.
I had been tossing around the idea of making an overnight stop at Borgarnes on the way back to Reykjavík to see Borg. I had read Egil's Saga before coming to Iceland, and surprised myself by enjoying it. Borg, the farm that Egil settled during the early Viking settlement period, is in Borgarnes, and my guidebook described it as the historical equivalent of Mt. Vernon in the US, which, incidentally, I have never visited. I mentioned this idea to the guide on the Mývatn tour, and he suggested that I not bother; there's little to recommend Borgarnes if your time is limited, and there's not really very much at Borg. Katja, who had been working on a farm in Borgarnes for eight months before she started traveling, echoed that opinion. The guide did tell me that if I wanted to see Borg, it was possible to see it from the highway as we approached Borgarnes, and advised doing this. I never used to be able to sleep sitting up, but somehow the bus just put me to sleep. Around Hvammstangi I fell asleep, and I didn't wake up again till we got to the Akranes crossroads, well past Borgarnes.
On arriving at the hostel in Reykjavík I was informed that they had made a mistake with my bookings, and that while there was room for me that night, I would have to move the following night because they were full. I was a little annoyed, but these things happen, so I took my bags upstairs, grabbed my swimsuit, and was off to the pool
Here I had my first encounter with what was to be the bane of the rest of the trip--the group that had caused the full booking at the hostel. It was a large group of teenagers with a few adult chaperones. I could tell they weren't speaking Icelandic, but could identify whatever they were speaking as something Scandinavian. As I sat peacefully minding my own business in the large hot tub just outside the doors to the locker rooms, a group of about seven girls ran out and immediately began screaming in whatever language they were speaking, wrapping their arms around themselves and dancing around before clambering into the hot tub, which they immediately proclaimed too hot.
I swam a few laps, then got into one of the smaller, but much hotter, hot tubs. The girls were running from hot tub to hot tub, getting in for a moment, proclaiming it too hot, getting out, proclaiming the air too cold, repeat cycle.
After my swim I headed downtown for some food. Katja had informed by of the existence of döners in Reykjavík. For those not in the know, a döner is a far superior version of the American gyro, very popular in Germany, and apparently also in Iceland as well. Perhaps they're all over Europe--I'm not quite well-traveled enough to know. Anyway, the ingredients are pretty much the same as a gyro, but somehow they come together much better--I'm not sure if it's because the meat's better or the sauce is spiced differently or what, but they're fantastic. Anyway, the place to get them in Reykjavík is right downtown, next to the McDonald's. It's a place called Kebab Husið, and the prices are probably the best price/quantity ratio I found in Iceland. While there, I flipped through one of the daily papers, looking at the pictures. The Icelandic press, for reasons I was never quite able to discern, really has a thing for Jennifer Aniston. This was the first time I'd seen her picture in the paper there, but I saw her in the paper on every subsequent day of my trip.
Back at the hostel, I met my roommates. One was a Scotsman in his mid-40s who was in Iceland biking for a few days. There were three English guys, a bit older than me (I was 23 at the time of this trip) but not by too much, Paul, John, and Kevin, who were on their way to New York City but were stopping in Iceland for 3 days. And there was an American woman about 25 or so named Tyrrell, who had landed in our room because when she made to booking, the hostel staff assumed that Tyrrell was a man's name. She was on her was from the US to Copenhagen to begin several months of backpacking through Europe.
John, Paul, and Kevin were planning to rent a car the following day
to explore the area. Tyrrell, who may well be the most forward person I've
ever met, immediately asked if she could join them, and they agreed. I
thought about asking as well, but it seemed an imposition and I had my
own plans besides. I did, however, join them all for a trip out for drinks.
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| At the Victor. From left to right: Paul, Tyrrell, Kevin, & John. |
Having been in Reykjavík before, I was appointed guide to get us to the area of town where the pubs are, which I accomplished without any trouble, though once arriving at that area, my inadequacy was revealed, as I hadn't been out in Reykjavík before, and had no idea where to go. Tyrrell approached a group of four women and asked where a good place to go would be. They thought for a moment, pointed across the square at the Victor, and we had our place.
The Victor is in the heart of the city, about a block or so away from the harbor. It's a dark, two story place with hardwood floors and a generally friendly staff. Even on a Wednesday night, all the tables downstairs were full, so we headed upstairs (Tyrrell scouted for us) which was less crowded, better lit, and had more comfortable seating than the wooden chairs downstairs. We sat around and talked for a bit, and after a while I went back downstairs to order us another round. When I came back up, Paul asked if I wanted to join them in the trek around the southwest the next day. Having no plans I minded putting off and enjoying the company, I happily agreed.
By this time it was getting towards 1:00, closing time. A large table of perhaps 16 people nearby were singing Janis Joplin. Tyrrell, who apparently has little affection for Janis Joplin's music went over and asked where they were from and why they were singing such awful songs, whereupon the whole group of Norwegians, as we found out they were, broke into this year's Norwegian Eurovision song contest entry. It was clearly time to head back.