midnight memories

It's past midnight and in my little corner of Reykjavik, I just spent 10 minutes with my chin leaning on the edge of my bedroom skylight, propped slightly ajar. It's quiet below, the sidewalks glazed with a crust of ice, and above me curves a smudge of northern lights. Christmas decorations have gone up, so although the inhabitants are mostly asleep, the houses along my street glow with fairy lights. The mysteriously mild November has now descended into deep negative numbers, so I'm wrapped in wool from the neck down.

Propping one's chin on a windowsill is rather akin to leaning on a pasture gate- it's the right place for a good ponder. After reading through a few years of my blog archives, I thought about all the things I once marveled at that have become so ordinary I don't even think about them anymore. I've learned to rip open milk boxes and how to fold them securely closed, I learned to stab juice boxes with a knife to allow smooth pouring, I'm no longer lost when it comes to figuring out what frozen goods to buy, even if the labels are all in Danish, and the plugs and switches I thought were so fascinating are forgotten in the midst of everything else on my mind.

When I go to the same gym I once visited with my friend T, it's the classes in English that feel wrong, not the Icelandic ones. I've learned all the body part words I need to know, and adjust my hands, my hips, my shoulders without a second thought to the language. This happened again earlier this week when I once again met H (still editing after all these years!). Our conversation began in Icelandic, shifted to English, flowed through Icelandic again, and continued this pattern as we worked through texts in both languages. As the wine bottle emptied we tried a few moments in German as well but abandoned that as the Icelandic crept in again.

My body's adjusted to the place too- recently as I exited the bakery on a particularly windy day, my grip automatically adjusted on the cake box so it wouldn't go sailing across the parking lot. Not so when I first arrived and an enthusiastic gust of wind ripped friend K's car door from my hand and bent it so badly that the door never shut properly after that. I think about the wind still, of course, but more as a practical concern. Which windows need closing, which direction is best for the run today, or should I just do inside-yoga instead?

I've been thinking a lot about what it means to be integrated somewhere, and I've realized how differently I think about this place compared to those first months. I remember being so aware of how isolated this little island is, imagining the vast black oceans beyond, the empty frigid mountains that ringed the city. Now, when I think about Iceland this night, I think of H across the street in her green-wallpapered bedroom, J nested amid her handmade felt-crafts a few streets away, M still in the apartment where I first met her in 2007, only now with tiny S sleeping at her side, K's family in their rambling home smelling of delicious cooking. Further afield, there's M in his cozy house with the crazily hand-tiled bathroom, V in his neat village on the edge of Eyjafjörður. In between lies a string of familiar places that I've visited and stopped at during the dozens of trips I've taken. This island is no longer a remote, forgotten piece of lava, it's a place crisscrossed with memories and people and experiences.

localized memory loss

Last Thursday night the first real autumnal weather arrived, a howling wind that spattered rain on the bedroom windows and tore leaves from the trees. It roared all day Friday, bringing with it a strange high mist that blurred the edges of the landscape. Along with rain, this wind blew in the memory of Iceland when it's not summer.

Every year as soon as the darkness disappears in late spring, the recollection that most of the time Iceland is a dark and moody place also disappears. Surely it's always this warm and gentle and green and delicious smelling, isn't it? And then June and July and the beginning of August roll along, months of camping without the need for flashlights, sunlit afternoons at the pool, runs along the sea without the need for hats and gloves. Iceland is a great place to live! The only place to be!

When I moved to the new apartment in June, there wasn't even a need to buy lamps. The ones I'd had before worked fine in the only spot they were useful- late night bedtime reading. The living room's southern exposure meant it was plenty light pretty constantly until mid-August. That's when the rather decent night view revealed itself- the glowing mushroom underside appearance of the university science building, the twinkle of lights at Bessastaðir and is that Garðabær over there? It was also time for a lamp or two to create the cozy feeling that makes up the other half of Iceland, time for candles and wool blankets and knitting and books and pots of tea, a time when the feeling of summer's endlessness is what gets forgotten.

This selective memory loss isn't just about the seasons though. I've experienced it in the landscape as well, when travelling through some of the country's more amazing landscapes. I can never pick which is really my favourite waterfall since the one I am currently at seems like it absolutely must be the best. At different times this year I've been certain my favourite must be Gullfoss, no, maybe Aldeyjarfoss, did I mention Háifoss, or perhaps the river above Skógar, and did I forget the secret snack spot in the highlands? They're all so differently amazing that it's impossible to choose just one.

Life should be about enjoying the moments as they happen, not spending it always thinking tomorrow will be better, or yesterday was when it was really good. Iceland certainly strives to remind me of that in so many ways, nearly every day.

escape artist

As much as I love it here and all that, sometimes a girl's gotta escape. Last year the grand finale of the Norway project phase 1 coincided with the collapse of all the banks (literally.. the first bank collapsed the day before I left for Norway, and when the installation team returned to Iceland they'd all gone under), so since then I haven't had much chance to travel abroad for work. I've had to figure out how to feel like I'm traveling a bit while actually not taking a plane instead.

Some techniques involve first of all, splurging on some less ordinary ingredients. Yes, avocados cost a bundle here but they remind me of sunny places. Same with fresh herbs. I am also happy to see that the dairy producers have stepped into Greek yogurt production, another creamy indulgence that makes for good breakfasts and delicious sauces when mixed with other ingredients.

Further on the food front, there are still good restaurant choices in the cheep-and-foreign category. The Bulgarian restaurant that opened a few months ago has been consistently delicious and serves up all the right sort of spicy, including grilled hot peppers alongside their main courses. Then there's the decent Mexican place around the corner, the slow-but-tasty service at Saffron (although its Glæsibær location seems impossibly distant to those of us living in the west side of town), and the grand old standby Hraðlestinn. We're not suffering too badly here. I did try the much-Facebook-fanned Serrano a few days ago though, and I have to say that it's one that I won't be returning to sample again in any hurry. Their "chicken" was tasteless, they didn't do the nice cheese-melty thing like my old Boston standby Viva burrito, and the avocado cost additional, on top of their already steepish price of 900isk.

But, moving on, when I need a change of scenery from the openly sweeping vistas and frigid looking ocean, I take my new absolute favorite running loop. It starts at the Vesturbær pool going towards the university. The first bit of the route is a bit of a churn to get through, following bustling Hringbraut, past the domestic airport with the planes angling in to land overhead, down the touristastic street towards the airport hotel. But then, the reward comes, after the left turn into the only foresty place below Perlan. How did I not know of the magical mystery that is Öskjuhlíð? My friend M had said she was avoiding it because she'd heard of lurking men and fearsome rabbits but in my many trips through there this August and September, I've met very few other people, and seen only a few of the rabbits. The population of rabbits is supposed to have come from people releasing their pets to the wild when the novelty of the easter-bunny gift has worn off. Whatever the reason, they are certainly shy and certainly in great numbers. As for the people, I've seen a very occasional walker, and recently, only evidence in the form of a backpack or bag that someone's up in the woods picking the mushrooms that are prolific in this extremely rainy autumn.

What I love best about this short forest are the mossy stones, the gnarled trees with their tiny leaves, the hush that collects around me in spite of the rather downtown location of the place. The branches rustle with sparrows and other small birds, the paths twist away into shaded corners further up or down the hill, and the whole area smells of autumn leaves, mushrooms, and moisture. It's the smell of this time of year, one of my favorite markers of September in New England, and small though this "forest" is, and though it's lacking that swishing whisper of wind through large pines, it helps alleviate some of the homesickness.

And then finally, there's international films! For the first time I've been going to some of the films at the international festival that happens every September. So far the ones I've seen have been delightful and varied, and even better, they're all showing within a 5 minute walk of my house. Anyone in the area who hasn't should check the listings and try to squeeze in a viewing or two before it ends this weekend. There've also been some good releases to video lately, including a wonderful Lebanese film called Caramel. See it. You'll feel like you took a trip.

The last way I maintain some connection to the outside world is through the careful rationing of the Goodies From Abroad. When I came back from Martha's Vineyard, my parents loaded my suitcase with wine and jam and other delights, and S has brought more similar supplies (thank you for keeping me stocked with such excellent chocolate, C!).

Don't get me wrong- I'm not suddenly loathing this place and planning my imminent departure. The nice stuff that I always talk about is still here. It's just that sometimes I like a different sort of nice stuff, and thankfully have figured out how to make that happen within the confines of this tiny island which sometimes seems extremely remote.

summer barbecuing

One of the staples of an Icelandic summer is the single use grill. These are available at every grocery store and discount shop, and often at most gas stations as well. They're an aluminum pan filled with coals, covered with a sheet of paper soaked in some lighter fluid, and topped with a metal mesh. The idea is that you can have all the joys of barbecuing without having to own all the apparatus of grilling, and when you're done you don't have to carefully carry all the ashes back home.

On the covers they depict fat kebabs covering the entire grill surface, sizzling merrily. Of course this is rather far from the truth. The first challenge is to get them lit, which requires a wind-free spot (good luck with that in Iceland!), and a little prayer and a little bit of lighter-action. If you're fortunate enough to for the flames to take hold, the next feature to enjoy is that there is never a full pan of coals, so you maybe have 2/3 of the grill to work with, which always burns inconsistently. Still, it's enough to make a dinner for two with several grilled components. Word to the wise though- avoid the one that is labeled as being "handy, rapid, and sure!". We had a few of these on a trip to the West Fjords last year and discovered that all 3 of the claims were totally false. We got creative with the primus stove in an attempt to ignite the thing but ended up melting the aluminum and getting no reaction whatsoever out of the coals.

Enough of the boring stuff- what to cook on the onesie grills anyway? Well, in addition to selling these made-for-camping grills, the grocery stores sell all kinds of delights that make for the perfect picnic. To start, there are these nice shrink-wrapped packets of lamb, beef, and pork that are already seasoned in a variety of tempting flavors. Want Argentinian-seasoned beef chops, dry-spice lamb ribs? It's all available in an easily packable flava-bag. You can add grillsósa if you like, available in a dazzling selection of flavors- sundried tomato, green peppercorn, blue cheese.

On to the veggie department, pick up a package of the huge mushrooms stuffed in cheese and ready for the grill in their own little aluminum pan. These come with blue cheese (if you go to Hagkaup), cream cheese (if you go to Krónan- but skip these, they don't have enough zip) or my favorite, the industry standard ones filled with a soft cheese that's zipped up on garlic and herbs. Grab some Icelandic-grown red or yellow peppers, and then in the dairy section, grab a triangle of Akureyri blue cheese. When it's grill time, slice the peppers in half and mash some blue cheese inside. When the pepper starts hissing and the cheese has melted, they're ready (and soo mm good).

For dessert if you still have room, pick up a pair of bananas and some chocolate (I prefer the orange Sirius variety). Slice the bananas on one side, stuff with chocolate, and grill until the banana oozes and the chocolate is all melted. Add some screw-top wine or a few beers and that's all you need to have a grand time.

The best part, of course, is finding the perfect spot for this grilling where you can contemplate a great view, soak up some sun, and enjoy the amazing freedom and solitude that is summertime in Iceland. The countryside is chock-full of these staggeringly beautiful locations where the only company might be a few birds wading in the waves or a solitary Arctic fox slinking by, perhaps attracted by the smell of the sizzle.

In some ways this summer is becoming the swan song for the community I know here. At the last party I attended I talked to so many people who were planning to stay until the end of the summer and then move on to jobs elsewhere in continental Europe. As long as the weather's nice we can all ignore the situation a bit and get to our grilling and admiring of sunsets but sooner than I'd like to think, the great weather will be all over and then what?

unfamiliar

On Tuesday I went to the American Embassy's reception, where I stayed only long enough to see the state where I voted be the first to declare its tiny 3 votes for Obama, to see that of all the states in the union it had the highest percentage voting Obama. Then at home I watched more, as state after state went blue, then fell asleep and woke just in time for his speech in Chicago. It's an exciting moment and I am glad to see some hope, some inspiration, some new possibilities.

Here in Iceland I have only met 3 McCain supporters- the American Baptists from the church on the road to the airport. Everyone else is delighted, and on Wednesday evening at my choir rehearsal nearly my entire voice section congratulated me on "my new president". And then, as we dug into the Christmas songs that will be our holiday program, I thought of how the roles of my two countries have reversed. For so long it was easier, more convenient to say that I was coming from Iceland while abroad, since being American could bring trouble. Now, mentioning Iceland abroad seems to bring trouble while it's finally ok to be American.

Don't get me wrong, I've never pretended I were Canadian, or pretended I were Icelandic, or hidden my Americanness in any way, but I have been aware that in general we were not a popular nation, or rather our president was not a popular one. But now, somehow the hopes of America have become the hopes of the world. One president of one country cannot solve it all but a little inspiration does go a long way, and as a colleague said, the Americans now have something that I think Iceland needs right now- an inspiring leader with a totally different background that those that have been in charge for years.

I do fear that somehow the whole world is looking to this one man in one nation to fix the ills that have crippled countries everywhere. I know that can't happen, that we all have to work on it together. And yet somehow, having someone is already at work, is making even the most politically cynical people feel that he's talking directly to them, gives me hope that somehow we can all find our way out of this mess together.

Here in Iceland there definitely has been a greater rumbling of disgruntlement, but as one of my choir members said, Iceland has never been in the habit of complaining. In America, the break from colonial rule came by actually fighting for it. Here it was taken at a time when the ruling country was busy dealing with much greater, more immediate troubles. But now, in one person's words "Iceland is turning into France". The protests tend to be a bit disjointed, with a few hanger-on groups trying to push their own agendas, but at least there's something happening. It remains to be seen what will happen, whether it will really cause any sort of governmental change.

new stuff

On Friday my office moved for the third time since I came to Iceland. I swear my destiny in this country is to put things into boxes and take them out again- six house moves and three office moves in three years is kind of a lot.

But this move is the best yet. My commute is less than half as long (and at 16 minutes it was hardly a stress before), my post-work trip to the pool now only a few blocks long. The office is an entire floor at the top of a building along what some call Reykjavík's "Wall Street", perhaps the reason why this space lingered empty for some time. It's a grand spot though, where I can watch the weather sweeping over Esja and the sea, or the pointed spires that top the skyline of downtown. The color scheme here is warm- wooden floors and rusty orange-red, the space full of air and light, exactly the place one wants to spend the darkening days of Icelandic winter.

I've also taken up running in the past month, and discovered that what S said is true- this country is surprisingly good for running with all these flat distances and excellent lighting at night. It's just a bit terrifying when the weather factor is added to the mix but this is a good time in Iceland to work on toughness and feeling fierce. Nothing like battling a windy snowstorm in the dark to really feel euphoric in the hot tubs afterwards (and that of course is yet another reason it's awesome to run here- the hot tub is massive drawing incentive to get the whole painful running part over with). Plus, it's a nicely inexpensive hobby to be investing in during these times, and reminds me of what is great about life here. The mountains haven't changed, the fresh air, the smell of the sea- they're all there and as exhilarating as ever.

But the fallout is indeed starting to happen- companies are folding with little advance notice, others are trimming staff, trimming salaries, trimming extras, doing whatever they can to stay just the slightest bit above water. Prices on things have increased, in some cases extremely, like medicine that was 5200isk in early October was 6200isk on Saturday. I'm hoping it was just because I was at a different store. In other cases the price change was less than rumored, like with the story about the alcohol prices going up 20-30% over the weekend. The information on the Vínbúð website says it was a 5.25% increase, but when S and I went for some bottles of wine on Friday evening, the shop was crammed with people and the shelves alarmingly picked over. Trust it that Icelanders don't panic about food shortage rumors being published internationally, but a whiff of trouble with the supply of booze and everyone's running to stock up.

In spite of it all I remain here, grateful for my job and all the strangely happy circumstances surrounding it, for my great coworkers and friends here, for my thrifty New England upbringing, for these opportunities to go all homemaker and make the good food at home instead of going out for it, for working on homemade Christmas gifts, for nice plans ahead with family and those I most want to spend time with. Sometimes I do wish I weren't on the frontlines of this terrifying moment in history but it has chosen me to somehow be part of it and I'm not ready to leave yet. Sometimes I do get discouraged too, but I remember that I'm among the most fortunate here- mobile and young enough to leave should the need arise, with a job here and a lifestyle that's well below my means so I can afford to choose my path.

And as I sat at the dinnertable at my choir's annual party on Saturday I thought of how much has happened in the years here, how the reasons for my moving here are so different from the reasons that keep me here now. I love that my own life surprises me, that I can have these moments of "wow" when I step outside of whatever I'm doing and look at how things are unfolding. Yeah, I'm posting a lot of Pollyana lately but what else can I do? I can't make the monetary policies here, all I can do is keep doing my best with where I am, and being grateful for all that I have, which is really quite a lot.

shifting

Somewhere along the way since my last post, it became winter here, with well-below-freezing temperatures, several snowstorms last week, and the glorious chaos that is the Icelandic approach to winterizing the roads (basically it seems to be "it'll melt eventually so why worry?" resulting in some interesting skating effects on the way to work). It's a bit harder to love Iceland now compared to the golden and seemingly endless summer, but there is a certain majesty to the sprawl of Esja all covered in white, the clear blackness of these Arctic nights.

In the past weeks it's become clear that the worst of what's happening here is yet to come, the unemployment, the inflation, the wariness of Iceland on the world markets. So far it really doesn't seem like much is different in the small corner of the country that I occupy. My friends are still all working and doing most of the things they always did, the choir goes on, the shelves in the grocery stores still stocked with a few spot exceptions reported, the plans for Christmas parties and annual dinners are in progress. Life as usual.

There have been the occasional story from this person or that of being unable to find Cheerios, or green onions, or my trip to Krónan last week that yielded not a single lemon. These stories of shortages usually are followed up by walking into a competing store and being confronted with a literal wall of Cheerios, or six boxes of lemons, so it seems to me that it's more the typical shopping experience here rather than a sign that the shortages are upon us. To further test the stories on the international wires against the experience here, I asked my hair goddess N (seriously, if anyone is looking for that perfect person to cut your hair in rvk, she's the one) if she was having trouble acquiring supplies for her salon, she said that she'd been worried about running short on hair color during the holiday season when everyone's wanting to look their best, but she'd had no trouble at all. It was even a British company providing her products, and they'd been very agreeable to working with them however and whenever they could pay.

So life goes on here, admittedly more frigid outdoors than before, but it remains cozy inside as I've turned to a more domestic style of life- it's all about baking and cooking and movie nights with friends lately, which has not felt like any sort of compromise in fun at all. It's the time of year that is more about those kinds of activities naturally anyway, and when you throw in a bit of musical practice and some concerts, it's hard to argue that the quality of life is suffering.

The one thing I've thought about a lot recently is how as an Icelandic tax payer I will be paying for the failures of these banks, but then I realize that as a resident of America my taxes there were going to things I didn't personally agree with, and that people worldwide are having their taxes siphoned off to pay for their country's banks collapsing. I guess that's how it goes in any modern society- you pay for things you don't agree with, things you never will use, but you also pay for things that you get to enjoy and take advantage of every day. Somehow it all feels more immediate here since we're all so much closer to the people who're deciding things, exposed to the winds of international forces much more than I ever felt I was in America.

two sides of the story

This morning dawned perfectly October so I strapped on my rollerblades and went out along my favorite route by the sea. A bright blue windless day, it was the perfect time to enjoy the autumnal colors of landscape- the orange kelp thrown up on the beaches, the wheated grass, the mossy color of the seaweed, peppered with eider ducks. Across the bay, Esja slumbered stoically, unchanged in the chaos. The best bits of Iceland are still here. I didn't come to buy a no-money down Mercedes jeep with a loan in Euros, I didn't come so I could spend my weekends in shopping malls, and most of my friends are not that sort either. We're here, going about our daily business, having coffee, preparing for new babies, going to work, reading, talking, swimming, running. In the meantime, I've been collecting info from anywhere and everywhere about what to do now, reading everything I can, absorbing Icelandic financial terms, quizzing my dad (a voracious newspaper reader and all around clever guy).

A few say that heads will roll and are extremely depressed, predicting massive fuel shortages and a dark and gloomy time ahead, others say that there'll be some unemployment (inevitable when the such a major sector collapsed), a lot of restructuring and some discomfort but the future's bright. Time for fish, time for manufacturing, time for increasing the farming production, time for getting on with things, doing what Icelanders know how to do and get creative. Maybe the þetta reddast spirit will prevail. I think we all have to hope it does, since there really is so much to love about this place.

I had a long talk with HK, an economist friend today, and she said it was high time this happened. The foreign labor that came to work on the construction sites will go home, and no longer be sending their incomes out of the country, the economy will have to diversify, the people get creative. There's been an incredible pulling-together of people here, as the nudd-pottur in Laugardalslaug is full to bursting every day, people talking about what's happening, what should happen, what we can do. Most people I know are NOT going crazy buying as much food as they can, most are not storing their cash under their mattress. It's wait-and-see mode for now. The scale of activities at work now is such that we can only watch and keep doing our usual stuff, praying that the credit cards will still work when we go to pay the grocery bill (so far, so good).

Of course, everyone's got a story of someone who did something foolish, taking out a loan in foreign currency to buy stocks in one of the now-collapsed banks, only to then lose his job at said bank, someone else who invested their entire life-savings in a single bank, also to find themselves penniless. There's stories that the suicide rate over the weekend was alarmingly high too. But as HK pointed out, these are the things that every economist learns first off to not do- don't take out a loan in another currency than you're earning, don't put all your eggs in one basket. We may have all gotten by in the past by not being economists but maybe now it's time to start a bit more, be a bit more careful.

I would also like to point out that in spite of what it may have sounded like in my last post regarding the Iceland-for-Icelanders group, this was a small, much derided group, and not at all the general feeling of the populace. My experience with Icelanders continues to be a positive one. I've got some wonderful Icelandic friends here, and the people I work with are the sort to be truly proud to stand beside. The team spirit where I work is excellent, and after my boss spent an hour and a half yesterday explaining various economic ins and outs, the future of our company, and all the great ideas he had, I could only think, "this is worth sticking around for".

october freeze

Yesterday morning was one of those beautiful magic-light and pink clouds that make me remember why I love it here. It's hard right now, since the chaos that has hit the international news is unfolding here around my ears. Just like with the earthquake a few months ago, I've been getting questions from people all over, asking me if we're bankrupt, if I'm ok, so here it is.

The thing is, for the time being, life has not changed so much in the daily activities. I am sure it will but the extent of the change is still totally unknown to us. It's pretty evident that the building boom was not sustainable as it was since there is not enough population to own and live in all of those apartments, and now that's the same problem that's going on with the banks that are simply far too large for the GDP of this country. There are just not enough people or money here. I knew it wouldn't last but didn't realize that they way it would collapse would take everyone down so severely.

A few months ago there was a big rumpus over a group called "Ísland fyrir Íslendingar" (Iceland for the Icelanders), an anti-immigration group that said Iceland should only be for the Icelanders. At the rate things are going here, they will get their wish. It started with the architects, most of whom are returning to their home countries or moving on to other places, and now others are going. The amount of savings and effort lost in the blink of an eye is phenomenal, and the blossoming exchange rate is pinching the budgets of the students to the extent that many will be unable to afford living here on their stipends if they are paying off loans in other currencies. One guy I know owns a house in his home country that he is paying off in ISK. If the exchange rate continues to spiral, he too will have to leave.

The whole thing has the effect of being in a movie- these events are so large scale and so unbelievable, the consequences so far-reaching and staggering. News all over the world has been picking up the story that the country is bankrupt, that people are panicking and stashing food and everything. I've sensed a certain schadenfreude, like "we may be dumb but at least not as dumb as those fool Icelanders." That may be true but the news I'm hearing all over the world is not really much more wonderful. Banks are collapsing everywhere, and as they do they take even more institutions down. Iceland's not alone in this and in some ways is the canary in the coal mine.


This country may be poorly located in terms of its remote location and dependencies on imports, but we do at least still have heat and electricity, fish and dairy and vegetables. Hopefully there will not be starvation and freezing this winter. If worst comes to worst (and what exactly that means remains to be seen), I will lose money, of course. Enough to hurt but nothing I can't recover. I'm lucky- I'm not on the verge of retirement and watching my savings dry up like a puddle on hot asphalt, and when I calm myself enough I remember I'm educated, healthy, I survived a move here, and I am not alone. Thanks to S and his practical positivity, thanks to my parents and their confidence, thanks to the few dollars I have squirreled away in the US, I'll get through this somehow.

So what to do? For the time being, I am still with job and home and at least one other compelling reason to stay here. My job has most of the customers abroad, paying in other currencies, and we just pulled off a not insignificant job in Norway with good success. We're moving to a brighter, nicer, more conveniently located office that I could take the bus to or even rollerblade or bike should it come to that.

I'm going to weather the storm for now, but if Iceland has now become so poisonous that nobody will trade or do business with it (based on the ratings of the country being so severely downgraded, and some people comparing the country to Zimbabwe, I can't help but wonder), I may have to update that plan. Hopefully should it come to that, I'll still have enough money to escape.

final rewards

I've mentioned that in the deepest winter there's that time that happens here in the summer that makes it all worth it, and yesterday was one of those days. Since I returned from Oslo, the days were solidly and nearly unrelentingly all about the cloud, so yesterday when it was warm enough for t-shirts and with only the slightest of breeze, the entire Icelandic nation went outside. I arrived at choir practice early and spent the 15 minutes I had lying in the fresh grass outside the church, eyes squinted in the sun.

This is my fourth May here and it's just as magical as the first time, except now I know that the spicy scent in the air comes from the newly unfolded black cottonwood leaves, and the rich scent of the plants in shade reminds me of camping trips and hikes, bonfires and endless days of Icelandic summer. It all happens so quickly too- in the 2 weeks that I was away, Iceland went to the ordinary gray most-of-the-year look to blossoming with green and perfumed air, and night became eternal sunrise/sunset. The birds returned, leaving evidence on the top of my car every morning, but bringing songs that, in the still of early morning make it easy to forget I live almost in the center of town.

In spite of what I've written here that generally exudes positivity, my life in Iceland hasn't always been easy or overflowing with awesomeness. I miss family, I miss times of guilt-free native language speaking, I sometimes swear at the impossible weather, the ongoing paperwork that allows me to stay here, and the tiny size of the community can be claustrophobic. But when it all comes together there really is no better place. When I'm swimming in the sun and the timing is just so on each lap, the turns a smooth ripple of interruption with a view to my toes, when I'm learning a new song with this choir that's become so much a part of my experience here, finally able to laugh at the jokes and when the weekend's full of plans with friends, it all does seem worthwhile. I know nobody's life can be great all the time, but here the moments of down are more extreme, and the ups equally or more so. For one thing, the past three years certainly have not been boring.

(we will return to Finland in next post, I promise!)

beyond the groove

I'm about to come up on my third anniversary since I came to Iceland to try to find a job. At the time, the reasons I came were quite different than the reasons I'm here now. It's been nearly three years of all kinds of unexpected, and every time I'm in the airport, a place of unlimited possibilities, I think again about what it is that keeps me in Iceland versus the thousands of other places I now feel I could choose to live.

Moving here and working so much in other countries where I meet people from all over the world making their own little communities has made me feel like there's no place I can't go, can't find a job, and make a little world of my own. So why Iceland? What is it about this place that made me grin so huge as I was flying home on Friday two weeks ago from yet another week in Norway? Sure, it was partly that after a week of unrelenting rain in Norway, seeing clear sunshine and freshly-laundered mountains was food for the soul, but even the Icelandair flight attendants reminding us to fold up our tray tables in Icelandic was comforting.

At the airport the Monday after, the weekend was as refreshing as a trip to the spa, all sun, hot tubs and good company. My skin settled down, my body relaxed into the sunshine and the irresistible combination of rollerblading by the sea while surrounded by the solidity of white-shrouded mountains. I've been away from Reykjavík so much that every weekend is a mania of visiting and parties and lunches out, but it's made Iceland feel more special than ever before. It's my home that I never seem to quite get enough of. So for now, maybe that's my answer. It's not game over here just yet, and if the place feels right, do I have to question why it does?

why the silence

Since I returned from Norway, I've spent nearly all my time in Akureyri, while my new life and room in Reykjavík lie empty and unused, cellophane-wrapped like a fresh pound cake. It's been 2 weeks of nearly daily snow squalls, the gentle kind that fall freshly yet fail to actually accumulate, the snow of movie sets and Nutcracker dance sequences.

While in the north, I've had plenty of offers to move there, from M offering flat options, to G suggesting one of M's wife's brother's as excellent dateable material, to V asking if the paperwork I held one day was the papers that declared my intention to give up on the southern life. The first week I was there, my planned 2-day trip somehow stretched out one day at a time until it was five, as I checked out every day and sheepishly returned to the hotel every evening, receiving a different room every night.

Thankfully, Akureyri's got a nice hotel and a variety of restaurant options. It never ceases to amaze me that a town on the edge of nowhere, nearly to the Arctic Circle can be so relatively bustling. There's the curry hut where I order in Icelandic from a square Indian man, the best Arctic curry to be had. Then we have the vegetarian place, where turnip burgers are served among a palette of carefully chosen earth tones, from the twig-colored velveteen curtains to the leafy wallpaper behind the silverware table.

During my nearly-nightly swim I certainly did think of whether I would like to live there. In some ways it is "öll lífsins gæði" (the best of everything in life, the Akureyri motto), with its enchanting scale and dramatic setting. It is a safe feeling to be living among what feels like a big family, and to feel like evening is properly a time of rest and repose, so empty are the streets of any sort of bustle or activity. The architecture is low and unobtrusive against the sculpted mountain landscape, just fanciful enough in detail to feel as if you're in an invented place.

However, everyone my age seems to be busy at one thing: family or the making thereof. The guys I work with are busy with wives, children, houses, and laird-o-the-manor guesthouse operations. They are busy installing lights, tiling bathrooms, connecting stoves and redoing the downstairs den. All of these activities are perfectly nice things to do but are not the sorts of things I think about in my vagabond lifestyle, so foreign to the Icelanders I know here.

Still, they are a rather nice lot, these northern Icelanders, which was enforced by my most gracious welcome in the form of a free taxi ride from the airport. I've always had a splendid time in the north, so spending more time there has been no great source of pain or discomfort. However, I think I am still one for the southern life, with its nearly constant traffic of people from other land stopping by, for a night or three, or for several years. I'm not ready for an even smaller scale of life, but I'll be happy to go again, flying over the landscape between here and there, so open and empty, ridges of mountains sprawling free and clean, empty of human activity.

in the fifth

writing today from Paris, where I met my younger brother in the airport this morning. This is the city of my first experience abroad, when I called my parents from a phone booth opposite the Eiffel tower, a college girl giddy on her first real "I did it myself" experience.

It's now my fourth visit here, and I'm finding that after a few hours, my ear for Parisian French has returned, and with the help of my faithful map book, my brother and I have been busy exploring the streets now so familiar to me. The map book I still carry, Paris Par Arrondissements, had been my oldest brother's guide when he'd been working here years ago. On the eve of my departure for my second trip to Paris for studying literature, he gave it to me, filled with his maps and notes. I used the book the whole time, and it gave me that special exploratory confidence that there was No Corner of the city that I would not be able to find my way out of with this little red book.

When a friend went for a study abroad session in France, I lent it to her so she could experience the same magical freedom-powers, and she sent the book back months later from Spain, a note slipped inside that described her adventures with the book.

Today when I was flying over from Iceland, I took it out again and went through the pages of stories- the note from her now taped to the inside cover, the RER and métro maps added by my brother, the sticky notes of restaurants I added, the markings of the hotels, the métro stop where my aunt used to live. Walking these streets again and showing everything here to my brother is like going over those last 8 years of my life, from when I first was discovering foreign lands. I remembered the first time I saw the top of the Eiffel Tower, another winter day when I watched the pinkness of sunset fade from the facade of Notre Dame just like we did today, the discovery of the magical croque-sandwich creations in the cafes, the delirium of crooked streets, cobbled corners, the Seine and all the humped bridges, fanciful roof-tops and skaters in front of the Hotel de Ville.

Paris may be over-hyped in some ways but the marvel of it is that beyond those centerpieces featured in every film are so many more cool things- the street full of comic book shops that lured my brother into each and every one, jumbled angles to the buildings all pressed together around a tiny public garden, the hidden restaurant we happened upon that contained all the right elements for the first vacation-day dinner. The décor was all warm honey tones, one corner devoted to a big wine cave, the owner touring the tables and greeting everyone, and the menu laced with warm cheese dollops, rum-soaked cakes, escargot, lapin, and plenty of butter and garlic. Just right for a year's worth of proper catching-up to do with family.

forgotten fall

September and October are my favorite months usually- crisp air, bright leaves, a chance for scarves, coats, and wool. This year though, it seems like it has almost never happened, with the nearly endless rainstorms, and the high winds of last week that ripped off most of the leaves before they had a chance to go colorful. Last year it was a proper fall here, and the trip to Vermont would take care of anyone's yen for foliage.

This year it's been Norway where I have watched the season unfold properly, over the course of four trips there since mid-August. It starts with the train ride into Oslo from the airport that displays all the right markers- alarmingly bright orange punctuating misty hills, stands of trees clustering against deep red-painted barns. In the town outside Oslo where I go for work, it's the smell of fall rain hastening the leaf decay, the fog-hazed fields all trimmed of their August hay crop and lying golden and stubbled. Days that start with finger-chill and mist in the river valley, then warm up to almost short-sleeve temperature, and then close around you cool enough to cause the puff of white in your exhale and make the stars twinkle crisply.

If only it were like that sometimes, just sometimes, here in Iceland this year. Like others, I've been remembering the views of other autumns, when there were chances to appreciate the size of the landscape here and how marvelous the light is when it chooses to be. I know that weather will come again someday, but after what feels like two months of non-stop rain, I'm starting to plan delicious non-Iceland escapes to visit foreign friends with glee. It's a tough love sometimes, this Iceland.

continental divide

Back at work again, on too little sleep and with suitcases still standing stuffed in the hallway. I landed last night in a crisply clear light, dark enough for stars yet with enough peachy horizon glow to silhouette Snæfellsjökull. Welcome back indeed.

The coming back this time was harder than last trip to the States, and it's taken until lunchtime to feel like I am here again, even without the jetlag factor. It's been a week of familiar in a way that Iceland will never be, mixed with the newness of rapidly growing nephews.

I spent the week on Martha's Vineyard, where my family has been going every year for over twenty years. The house there is one of my earliest memories, built on a scale and fancifulness that that suits children perfectly- windows low to the ground, gingerbread trim, and a little bedroom painted in an unsensible shade of bright yellow. It's set in a specially American summer place, a neighborhood of 300+ original Victorian summerhouses, trimmed in wooden lace in bright colors and skirted by porches, standing elbow-to-elbow on barely drivable roads amid a swath of ancient oak trees. In August there are all sorts of activities- agricultural fairs, fireworks displays over the wide oceanside park, lots of oom-pah band concerts, plenty of ice cream and sand in your hair, sunburned shoulders, parties on the porch, and an evening where all the little houses are decorated in Japanese lanterns and parasols.

Combine this with lovely New England seaside weather and it's not hard to see why it was hard to leave. In my many hours of transit though, I kept thinking of what my friend C said when we caught up at the Boston classic Oak Bar last week. She's back in Boston after a year in Paris, and my exclamations over prices and the ease of communicating in your native language were both familiar to her. However, after two weeks, the price delight wore off, and she started tuning into Portuguese radio stations as a way to recapture that perennial out-of-the-loop feeling that comes from being adrift in a new language. I remember doing this myself, back before I heard handfuls of languages as a regular tune to my life and travels.

Writing so often about living here has made me hyper aware of the feelings of familiarity and belonging, or the alien and new- which are comforting, when it's stifling, how much is enough of one or the other. Maybe it's also the lowness of a gray Icelandic day, the sudden solitude of my apartment after days in a small house with lots of people, or how it feels when the flight attendant says "velkomin heim" at touchdown in Keflavík. Is there ever a perfect balance?

stories

Today at lunch, a guy I've seen in the cafeteria but don't know by name was next to me dishing up soup. He turned to me mid-ladle to ask how I liked the skiing in Selva back in February, because he'd seen me and some others coming out of a ski goods shop wearing the (really nice) jackets the company gave us that are emblazoned with an arm-logo. It's pretty incredible that even foreign vacations are Observed here, and somehow word always gets back to you.

The population here is small enough that whatever you did last week was not anonymous, whether it was a road trip or a night out at a bar. The network of relatives, friends, and co-workers somehow manages to spread across the globe, so wherever you go, you'll meet someone you know, or at least their cousin or former schoolmate. For people who grew up here, it means that the witnesses of their youthful indiscretions, the relationship that may not have worked out as they wanted, or a different version of their personality once attempted are all still around you. You'll have to figure out how to reconcile your past since it's going to be part of your future. Even those who move away are still remembered years after they left, since the rest of their family is here and the reports continue to filter back.

Anytime I meet a new person, a friend's already got stories lined up about how they went fishing with them four years ago, or how he's the friend of someone else's boyfriend, or they met in Scouts. Sometimes it's all three. I think in the past six months I have not met a single person here that doesn't have some filament of a story already woven through my own corner of the society.

There are advantages and disadvantages to a society like this. In the US, most people have several chances at total reinvention- going to university, moving to a new city, starting a different job. The chances that there will be people from your past in the new place are slim, so you can claim to be whomever you want, and nobody needs question what you say. Whatever pieces of your past you are unhappy with can be conveniently forgotten in favor of your newly invented self.

I'm told that there is a certain feeling of that for those who come from a small town in the north to come to Reykjavík, but there's still going to be some cousin or sainted aunt that remembers something about your mom or what have you. It seems that this makes some people feel a bit trapped at times, but it also makes people more forgiving of those moments when you might have slipped up. Had a festive evening with co-workers? Everyone will still be in on Monday morning and working away as if nothing happened. Saw that guy you shouldn't have had the evening with three years ago downtown? Smile and nod and move on.

I do feel that this gives a greater understanding for the complexities of being human, and the multifaceted nature of everyone. I've seen more sides to most of my friends and coworkers here than I ever knew about in the US. I know about their children, the pet turtles, met grandparents and stayed in the apartments belonging to unknown relatives.

Of course, incorrect stories do circulate and there is such a thing as a bad reputation, but for the most part there is a more forgiving approach to the things people do that aren't always the smartest. I do feel like it's made me really think about the implications of many decisions, you really have to own your actions and take personal responsiblity in a way that's not so necessary when living among many thousands of others who are moving in and out quickly.

It also means when someone needs help, it's much harder to brush it off as someone else's responsibility. Icelanders often seem very proud of their independence, and it can be no coincidence that the most internationally famous novel from Iceland is entitled Independent People, but I don't think we are so independent here. It seems to be almost impossible to be truly, completely alone here, for better or for worse. Someone's always looking out.

Hardware specifications

One of the perennial signs of not-in-Kansas-anymore (literally!) is the little widgets you deal with on a daily basis. I've already discussed the marvels of the bathroom some time ago, although I failed to mention the mini- or maxiflush option the toilets here offer, something that delighted my younger brother when he visited.

There's also all manner of house and office hardware that make for subtle shifts in all those little habits in life. The outlets here, for example, are large, round and deep set, with the grounding on the side instead of the little sad-faced third hole like American plugs. They're often slightly diagonally set on power strips, which is kind of clever if you have all those massive cell-phone-charger plugs that never line up well, but means I'm often fumbling madly trying to line everything up just so.

Switches too are all kinds of different. First of all, the love of dimmers has hit hard here, and many of the switches are a push-on-then-twist-for-romantic-dimness. Those that aren't are opposite style to me, where pressing down means on and up means off. Figure that one out in the dark when you're tired and forgot where you live, whydontcha?

And then we have doors and windows, two bastions of interesting hardware. I'm from doorknob-land and I have landed directly in a handle territory, which has created all kinds of hilarity when I'm walking around my house with a wide-sleeved bathrobe. I keep getting stuck on the handles, especially, for some reason, in the kitchen. In the most complex permutations, there are some doors that have a lock that can only be operated if you rotate the handle upwards and then turn the lock. This still is a confounder for me. The windows are also new, since I grew up with windows that slide up and down, sometimes with rope-suspended weights you could hear rattling in the frames to keep the lower part up in the summer. The closest I got to hardwared windows was in college when the leaded glass panes of my senior dorm room opened outwards like a proper Romeo-wherefore-art-thou-Romeo window should. Then I get here and it's a majestic trio of locks and a latch that also holds the window ajar or fully open even in a 60mph breeze (like last night's non-stop wailing wind). Cool stuff once you figure out how to work it.

Of course these days I am not thinking about this stuff so much anymore, but every now and then I'll be absent-mindedly washing the dishes or something, and I'll look over to the right at the outlet on the kitchen counter and think "oh yeah, I'm living in Iceland. Weird stuff, this is". And then I go back to swabbing the soup pot in the sulphurous hot water.

ordinary

I wake to white- white clouded light reflecting off white walls, white sheet spreading towards the bed edge, white duvet, with just the corner of the navy starburst embroidery cresting near my eye. The bells are ringing at Hallgrímskirkja, this time not the usual Big Ben borrowing, but something more local. The crisp triplets remind me of an Icelandic psalm my choir is probably singing across town right now, without me, my voice hoarse from the flu that's been snuggling up to me these past days.

Coffee first, simmering in the now beat-up $15 espresso maker my brother customized for me over 10 years ago, the curlicues etched in the aluminum spelling my initials, our family name. The yellow Italian cup and saucer awaits, but for now I'll take up my spot at the kitchen window, resting my chin on the edge of the open window so I can inhale the frigid clean air and look out over the place where I live.

Below me the last of yesterday evening's snowstorm is still nestled in the dips on the red corrugated roof of the sheds, a smocked spot of color surrounded by the gray of the apartment walls nearby. The clotheslines sway in some kind of private courtship dance, a pair of clothespins adding unexpected twitches to the movement. In the distance, the backside of Esja is covered with snow, and I imagine I can taste the wet snowbreeze that is sweeping down the sides. Later, after coffee, there will be the pool, where I will soak in the steam and the hot water, leaning against the turquoise tub-edges and looking out over the other side of Reykjavik, to the paired towers of Háteigskirkja and into my friend T's living room window just across from the pool.

Last week I heard that yet another of my friends is moving abroad. This will be the fourth since I have left Boston to abandon the United States, for China, for Dubai, for Canada. The people I know here are a constantly shifting mass as well- in the past seven months many of the friends I have met here have come and gone, mostly to return to the country where they came from, but others to new adventures in other foreign places. It's like my ex-boyfriend once was told- "you're one of Them", the people who need to, want to, have to wander the world.

Thing is, I'm not sure that's me. When I stand with my nose in the breeze and wait for the sizz of coffee's-done, I'd rather not go anywhere else. How do people who go back to their home countries know when It's Time To Go? Must it always be so? I know more than one person views my living here as one of those things people of my generation and education level are bound to do, but there's that knowledge that they will always Come Home. Do we have to? How do we ever know when we've found the place where we belong, that belongs to us? This is a question even if we never go within more than a day's drive from the place where we were born, but given the relative isolation from familiarity that moving abroad can bring, it's on my mind often these days.

I remember my grandparents, early pioneering expats, who lived in two countries and dozens of foreign cities before ultimately returning to an all-American New England ranch house upon retiring. They didn't want to grow old in a place where they would always have to remember what language to speak. The house, though ordinary on the outside, was crammed with the remnants and memories of the places they lived, some of which are still here with me now- the rug from who-knows-where, the gallery exhibit posters from all over France, the Brazilian wood and stone carvings, the Murano millefiori glass bowl I had always loved.

The decision of where my life will take place does not have to be made all at once, I know, but the more intertwined with Iceland I become, the less this feels like a temporary choice. I've never been the kind of person who had a 10-year plan, or even a 2-year plan, for that matter, so I've never put a timeline on this current adventure. As long as it still feels sometimes so disbelievably fantasyland, I think I'm going to stay a while yet.