This plan didn't work for long. Not long after they started this whole thing, instead of draining into the lava, the hot water just accumulated. Algae that live in it turn it a bizarre shade of powder blue. And then somewhere along the line someone decided to go swimming in it, and thus a tourist attraction was born. People come from all around to swim in it, and the Icelandic Medical Association has said that the water of the lagoon is helpful in treating skin ailments (and to be honest, I did notice that a patch of dry skin cleared up, though it would have done so anyway once the Indiana humidity came on).
The lagoon's about a 35-minute drive from Reykjavík. We were thrilled to see our favorite group of Swedish/Danish/whatever teenagers (we all had a running argument about this: that the teenagers were loud and obnoxious there is no question (they were teenagers, after all); Tyrrell was under the impression that they were Danish, and she would probably be a good one to trust here, since she actually speaks a bit of Danish, and Paul, Kevin, and John seemed inclined to go along with her. As for me, I decided they were probably Swedish, not because I speak Swedish (though figuring out the instructions on any Knorr product almost makes you feel like you do), but because the likelihood of these teenagers coming from the same country that produced ABBA and Ace of Base seemed incredibly high to me) boarding a bus leaving the parking lot as we arrived. You approach the lagoon by going through a curving walkway walled by lava on both sides, arriving at the large service building.
We changed into swimsuits and went out to the lagoon. It's possible to enter the water indoors so you don't have to be exposed to the wind when you get in; the place is, after all, open in January as well as July. The spot where we got in the water was just this side of warm, and some areas of the lagoon were pretty cold, but hot currents moved through the water unpredictably--a spot might be comfortably warm one second and near scalding the next. Buckets of mud for exfoliation (What did I do in Iceland? Exfoliate!) are scattered around, and it's a peculiar thing, because the water is an opaque blue, and although you'd expect the bed of the lagoon to be white, it is in fact like all the sand I saw in Iceland, black.
We stayed for about two hours, then headed on to the airport. We still had plenty of time before we had to get to the airport, so we stopped at a supermarket in Njarðvík to get food for lunch. I got some flatbread, cheese, a pleasantly dry Icelandic orange drink, and--how could I resist?--a bag of Doritos...Cool American flavor! Tyrrell got a blue drink in a bottle shaped like a hand grenade. We had a picnic lunch in the parking lot at the airport--the blue drink tasted funny and the Cool American Doritos tasted a lot like Cool Ranch Doritos but without as much flavor.
I was sorry to see the guys off, but with any luck I'll see them again. They'd been great travelling companions. I hoped Tyrrell and I hadn't worried them about New York. Tyrrell was lukewarm about it; it's my favorite city in the world (followed quite closely by Reykjavík and Nürnberg).
Back in the car, Tyrrell and I tried to figure our what we were going
to do with the day. We'd already seen all the standard attractions of southwest
Iceland. Tyrrell found a reference to lava caves at Garðabær
at a place called Mariúhellar, so we decided to go there. Lonely
Planet's not too clear on where this place is, so we had to stop by the
tourist office in Hafnarfjorður for help.
|
| Me standing outside a turf hut near Garðabær, a Reykjavík suburb. The hut contains sewer pipes. |
Perhaps we should have suspected something when the lady at the tourist office looked at us blankly when we asked about the lava caves, but she made a quick phone call and came out with a brochure in Icelandic and explained how to get there. We hit the road, and after passing through Garðabær, we came to a small parking lot at a trailhead. We parked the car and started walking. On the right side of the trail was a low lava ridge. It took us a while to realize that we had in fact already arrived at the lava caves--it's just the caves were barely big enough for a rabbit or a squirrel.
Despite our disappointment (and irritation at Lonely Planet), this actually turned out to be a very pleasant area. It's off the tourist track, and appears to be a recreation area used primarily by Icelanders. Extensive hiking trails cover the area, rising up on a hill that gives a broad vista of the Akranes moonscape, flat, rocky, and at the moment, dry. The trails also go through the only forests I saw while in Iceland. Part of the woods were made up exclusively of saplings just a few feet high, which reminds me of the only Icelandic joke I know, so here goes:
Q: What do you do if you get lost in an Icelandic forest?
A: Stand up!
Are you laughing yet? Anyway, parts of the forest in this area are pretty well grown--there are no old trees, but there are parts where standing up won't do the trick. Nevertheless, one runs little risk of getting lost in a forest in Iceland. The weather was warm and sunny, though, so the walk in the shade was welcome.
By the time we got back to the car, Tyrrell and I were both parched, and we were on a mission to find a grocery store to get something to drink. We got on the highway into Reykjavík (and this is the one case in this travelogue where when I talk about a highway, you are permitted to envision a US-style freeway instead of a two-lane road through Wyoming), and before long saw a Hagkaup on our left. We got off the highway, found a parking spot, walked into the store, and found ourselves in the Icelandic equivalent of Meijer.
Now I realize even some Americans don't know what Meijer is, but it's a Midwestern grocery chain that originated the concept we now see in Big K-Marts, Super Wal Marts, and whatever the super-king-kong-mega-mega-Targets are calling themselves. These stores are massive--bigger than football fields, and offer the peculiarly American pleasure of being able to buy, say, fresh basil, high heels, and a power saw, all in the same store.
Tyrrell and I wandered up and down the aisles of the grocery section, desperately seeking bottled water. It took some time, during which we discovered that Hagkaup carries English romance novels near the socks. In the dairy section we found juice boxes and cans of fruit sodas. I picked up a couple of these. Eventually Tyrrell found a section with bottled water; we both bought big bottles. I approached the checkout with four beverages (I was a little indecisive) and a ball of yarn (for a coworker back home).
Folks, be careful about the bottled water in Iceland, and read the label very closely so you can be sure it is what you think it is. Wanting nothing more complicated than cold water, we ended up with some fizzy lemon water conconction. Which would have been fine if it's what we wanted and would probably mix nicely with Tanqueray. I guess it did the job--but then I drank that, a boxed lemon drink, a can of lemon soda, and a bottle of grapefruit soda, so I guess there was no way I couldn't get hydrated one way or another.
When we got back into Reykjavík, Tyrrell and I wandered around the harbor for a bit, taking a look at the giant stylized steel sculpture of a Viking ship, checking out the fishing boats, and enjoying the views of the bay and the pleasant weather. A group of Russian sailors on a fishing boat flying both the Icelandic and Russian flags called out to us and asked if we has cigarettes, which we did not.
Tyrrell's flight left for Copenhagen the next day, but she had one final goal for her trip, and I had one more for mine. She wanted to try puffin. I wanted to try hákarl (an apparently rather fragrant Icelandic dish consisting of sharkmeat that's been fermented for six months, and which Lonely Planet describes as smelling something like a mix of roadkill and cat piss). The guidebook suggested a restaurant where we might be able to get both, called Naust, but upon arrival we immediately discovered that we were both underfunded and underdressed. After wandering around for a bit, we arrived at a place called Hornið, a relatively small restaurant with big windows and reasonable prices. If you want a very good meal without spending an obscene amount of money, I recommend this (Lonely Planet doesn't mention it, but it's just a block or so to the west of the Læketor bus station downtown). I had sauteed cod in a tomato and olive sauce, served over linguine with an assortment of grilled fresh vegetables, and Tyrrell had grilled salmon with capers, served in a similar manner. The fish was fresh and perfectly cooked, and the sauces for both were flavorful, but not overpowering. The vegetables, unlike some others I had encountered in Iceland, were not frightening at all, but were very good.
We went back to the hostel and returned the rental car, stopping to fill up on the way (there are two gas stations open till 11:30 near the harbor). After a quick change of clothes, Tyrrell and I headed back downtown, hoping for some excitement on a Friday night.
We decided against the Victor and headed for the Dubliner, an Irish pub near it, run by an Irish transplant to Reykjavík. It's a small, dim, but overall very pleasant place. It wasn't very crowded when we came in at about 10:30, and we ordered a pint and found a table. It wasn't long before a group of about six middle-aged women from Vestmannaeyar joined us at our table. They had flown up for a girls night out, leaving their husbands at home. The one sitting next to me was worried that she would run into her daughter, who lived in Reykjavík. They were planning to head to Spotlight, a gay club, because they wanted to see something new and different, and they wanted to dance. She asked if I wanted to join them, and I agreed. Tyrrell, in the meantime, had become the center of attention of a few young Icelandic men, and had no intention of leaving, so I wished her a safe flight to Copenhagen and we said goodbye.
When I left the bar, I had lost the women. I thought about heading over to Spotlight to see if they were there, but figured (a) I can hold my own anywhere, so I didn't need to follow them, and (b) if they'd left without me, they were probably just being polite and didn't really care if I went along anyway, which was fine with me. I went to the Victor
It's quite different on Fridays from Thursdays. Tables are cleared from a large portion of the downstairs, and it becomes a dance floor. I went up to the bar to order a pint, but it was incredibly crowded, and I was having trouble getting the bartender's attention. Someone tapped me on my shoulder. I turned around, and there stood a very tall and very beautiful woman with glittery eyeshadow. "When you get your beer," she said to me, starting immediately in English, "come dance with us." It must have been the jeans that gave me away as American. No one wears jeans in Iceland.
I was bored of waiting for my beer. "I'll come now," I said. I followed her into the middle of the dance floor where three of her very attractive friends were dancing. The woman who had brought me here went off to collect more men. She soon came back with two more Americans, one of them very visibly excited. This was one of those moments when it's just annoying to be gay. I have straight friends who would die to be in this situation, and all I could manage was amused disinterest.
We danced for a while, and then the women wandered off. "We don't like this song," one of them said. "We'll come back when they start playing 'Maria, Maria.' Do you know that song?" I nodded, rolling my eyes inwardly and thinking how odd it was that "Maria, Maria," only a minor hit in the US, was going to end up as a recurring motif in my Icelandic travelogue.
The area around the bar had cleared a bit, so I was finally able to order another beer. I brought it back and stood near the dance floor. As soon as "Maria, Maria" started, the women were back. I danced for a little while longer, but the fact is that I don't even like that song, and my amused disinterest had become boredom, so I finished my beer and left.
I considered heading back to the Salvation Army, but it was only 2:30, so I wandered around for a bit and found 22, which Lonely Planet describes as a mostly gay bar where you can hang out with aspiring Hell's Angels and spider women (note to Lonely Planet: the Icelandic club scene has changed). I ordered a beer (incidentally, I had by this point switched to a beer called Egil's Gull, an Icelandic beer that is not only quite good, but seems to be superior to the imports, if only because of the lack of abuse during transport) and surveyed the place. It's a three-story building, with cafe style tables on the first floor, a dance floor above that, and restrooms and more tables on the third floor.
Before too long I met two (bleach) blond guys named Thor and Sigfus, who were bored. So as soon as I finished my beer, we were out the door, and on to another bar. Out in the street, Thor asked me if I was a leftist. It struck me as an odd question, but being a left-leaning democrat since birth, I simply said yes. We entered Nelly's Café. This was the only place I went that had a cover, but it seemed unfair to charge it, since there was next to nothing going on inside. We went to the bar and ordered more beer. Thor changed the subject from his fiancé to, "So would you like me to hook you up with a guy or a girl?" Thor was just full of fun questions. "I'd generally say a guy," I said, "but I've got a boyfriend back home, so you don't need to set me up with anyone." Thor shrugged.
We found a table upstairs and sat down, and discussed issues in Icelandic urban planning. Here's the big one: the Reykjavík airport functions as the national airport for the rest of Iceland. There are some direct flights between Akureyri and other Northern cities, but basically Reykjavík functions as the hub. The thing that's unusual about it is that the airport is in the middle of the city. There are low-flying aircraft coming in over downtown all the time. People throughout the country really like this--the plane lands and you're in downtown Reykjavík in five or ten minutes (walking to the airport is a perfectly feasible proposition). So the problem is that (a) Reykjavík is growing, and the airport is taking up a large piece of very valuable real estate and (b) a plane crash in downtown Reykjavík could have disastrous consequences (Icelandic air transportation has a very good safety record, by the way). So some residents of Reykjavík think the problem is best solved by moving all air services for the city to the Keflavik airport (where the international flights come in). But then everyone's unhappy about the 45 minute drive to Reykjavík. The plan is to mitigate this by constructing a high speed rail line from Keflavik to Reykjavík. According to Thor and Sigfus, as a leftist, I'm supposed to agree that the Keflavik idea is the smart and obvious choice. As an American, I decided to stay out of it. Pretty good memory for a guy on his sixth pint, right?
Then some song came on that I hadn't heard but Thor and Sigfus liked, so we went upstairs to dance. As for the next song, however--diehard Four Non Blondes fans, Reykjavík is your town! (I will admit that "What's Up?" is a guilty pleasure, and will further assert that it's a far higher quality guilty pleasure than Britney's silicone-enhanced disposable nymphopop.)
We went back downstairs after a bit and returned to our table. Thor and Sigfus were off doing something, so I sat at the table alone for a minute.
"Hey, are you from the base?" a woman asked me. There's an Air Force base at Keflavik.
"No, just on vacation."
"I used to travel a lot on my job--Helsinki, Brussells, New York, Amsterdam..."
"Oh. What do you do?"
"I'm retired now, but I was a dancer--a stripper, actually." She seemed to have the body for it. "But I got married and had kids, so I decided to settle down."
I didn't quite know what to say to that. Is it polite to say, "Well it looks like you've still got the body for it"? Does Miss Manners address this one? But she was very friendly and was clearly not awkward about being a retired stripper, so I decided not to be awkward either. She introduced me around her table, and asked how I liked Iceland, which was probably the one I got most often. Icelanders seem simultaneously very proud of their country and surprised that anyone would bother to visit, much less stay for long.
Thor and Sigfus came back, and we talked a few minutes more before leaving. It was about 4:30, and the streets were still crowded. Thor went home, and Sigfus walked me back to the Salvation Army, as it was on his way home. Somehow on the street, Sigfus managed to acquire half of a gin and tonic from an acquaintence, and as we passed near the Alþing, he said something to a woman (who I verified after that he did not know) in Icelandic, and she handed me the bottle of tequila she was carrying. I was puzzled, but, "Cheers," I said, and took a swig, and handed the bottle back.
I stumbled into bed at the Salvation Army around 5. If I were in the states, I'd say something wistful about how I was going to bed just as the sun came up, but the sun had already been up for hours, so never mind.