lay low in the snow

The snow is just warm enough to slide down the window in lazy ribbons, accumulating in fractals along the lower sill, and my trustily unreliable streetlamp winks and flickers as always. The air is unusually still, so the snow billows beneath the illumination in ways remembered from childhood. Across the street one tiny tree on a doorstep still twinkles with ice-blue fairy lights, left from Christmas a little longer than the rest, and inside, my feet steaming gently on the radiator, the solitude of a single song repeated.

The weather's shifting now, clattering in occasional ice pellets on the panes, and the houses across the street go dark as night falls deeper. Time for sleep, just once this song finishes one more time. My secret so small, I forget it's there.

beatcha!

Today is the vernal equinox, the day when we up here get to start appreciating our extreme position on the curve of the globe. We get 12 hours and 12 minutes of light today, finally surpassing my previous East-Coast home, and from here it's a bonanza of illumination until all darkness is erased by May. This constant shifting means that it's easier to remind myself to appreciate exactly the light we get now since it's going to already be different tomorrow.

The weather today's a little harder to love with the special thunderous wind that screams against the rafters and makes the raindrops on the windowpanes shimmy in some kind of Deco jive. They call extremely cold, crystal clear sunny weather here "gluggaveður" (window-weather, best enjoyed from the inside of a window) but I think this is the true gluggaveður, that makes the feather pillows and Álafoss blanket on the sofa seem like the best-ever idea for an evening. It may be spring according to the sun, but Iceland says it's winter for another few months.

In other beatcha news, yesterday I decided to not let my still slightly busted ankle (post sledding adventures) stop me from new activities, so I joined T at the all-woman's gym near my house for an evening class. It's an otherworldy man-free existance that reminds me of the days at my single-sex college, but unlike other similar gyms I've been to in the US, it was refreshingly uncrowded. The class had plenty of space for everyone and their mats, and no elbow-bumping or creative limb interweaving was requited. The Icelandic candle-love manifested itself here too, with a line of tea lights along the front of the room. My US firecode autoprogramming kicked in with this one- Shocking to have OPEN FLAMES in a public space!

The instuctor, reminiscent of an 80's music vid dancer with her sideways ponytail and multicolored tank top straps protruding from a wide-necked top, led us through various yoga-tastic poses for the next hour. It was a workout for both mind and body as my brain worked overtime to remember my vinstris and hægris and all the Icelandic words for elbows, ankles, toes, twisting, and breathing.

By the end of the hour, the Shakespearean porous absorption of the language had finally kicked in, so during the lie-down-and-relax I could actually think of what she was saying instead of "what does that word mean again?". I've found that just like watching Shakespeare theater, when you give up and stop trying so hard to understand, the switch flips and you're "in", the language pouring straight into the processing center instead of going via the English-filter.

Anyway, I suppose part of the point of this post is to demonstrate that not everything about life here is incredibly thrilling. Sometimes it's just about the gym, the rattling rain, and lots and lots of gray clouds.

new norms

Living in any new place, even if it's just a different city in the same country, brings up all kinds of weird differences in the little details of the normal lifestyles. For example, the other day on my second foray to IKEA for new-house stocking up, I marveled that every single towel, washcloth, dishrag, and teatowel had a little loop or strap for hanging. The ones that didn't had the product label sewn in such a way to make it hook-friendly. All this time I've been folding my towels and hanging them on a bar, or just hanging without the benefit of this feature, these people up north have been throwing loops on their stuff and hanging like mad. My Icelandic friend K said it was an "of course" here, that towels and washcloths come with loops. Personally, I'm not fond of this storage technique since the soggy towel gets all bunchy and doesn't dry properly, but maybe there's some Swedish invention that takes care of that too.

Another new norm is the shift in what default flavors are. If someone offers you a breath mint here, chances are it's going to be licorice, and even more likely, salt licorice. This flavor reigns supreme, and is available in toothpaste as well as gum, creepy schnapps that someone always brings on a camping or hiking trip, and the ubiquitous pastilles. I was put in Intensive Licorice Training last year when I arrived so that I would appreciate this feature of living in the north, and while the pastilles are pleasing, that schnapps stuff (a la Tópas) is always a little iffy going down.

Also, when it comes to your default meat, it's not what I'd grown accustomed to. In the States, land of big cattle ranches, chances are if the type of meat is not specified, you're getting beef. Here, expect lamb. It's in the hotdogs, it's thin-sliced and grilled for sandwiches, it's what the meatballs are made of. Just today I had ítalskar kjötbollur (Italian meatballs) that were lamb. Don't think they're making that variety down in Rome.

And finally, in another one of those from minority-to-majority experiences (like my name that is so common here but rare in the US), my blue eyes have given me that special Cloak of Seemingly Local Obscurity. After coming from a place where I was often questioned on whether those contact lenses I wear are colored (of course that's the only explanation for blue eyes, right?) I'm in the midst of calm acceptance of the ordinariness of blue eyes. Sure, it's a recessive trait everywhere else in the world but here in my office of twenty or so people, almost everyone has eyes in shades of gray, green, or blue, even those with the dark hair. When I went on that trip to Italy a few weeks ago, it was 100% blue/green in the Icelandic group I traveled with. It seems that there ARE brown-eyed folks here, but when questioned, they always have some kind of external influence- a smidgen of French or some other marauding seafaring fellow that spiced up the all-Icelandic family line.

So folks, if you want to blend in up here, buy yourself a be-looped towel, acquire blue eyes if you don't already have them, and get to those licorice candies!