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?
22 April 2008
14 April 2008
you've adapted when
Back in Oslo for yet another sojourn, I've realized that there are a few things that are marking my passage into really being an Iceland dweller, moreso than any work/residence permit status.
namely:
namely:
- I was at the pool here the other day and couldn't figure out why my pre-swim shower n' scrub was being observed with perplexity, then I realized that there was no sign instructing you to scrub all your naughty bits with soap before donning the suit. After the swim, I then carefully carried my shoes out into the corridor where they unhelpfully did not have a bench, at which point it occurred to me that there were no signs demanding shoe removal before entering the locker room. The Icelandic pool habits are so automatic now that I apparently cannot fathom that anyone would do it any other way.
- So here I am in Norway, land of fishing boats, gnarly fishermen, and a fish preservation technique that's almost more terrifying than hákarl, and yet still, I'm thinkin "no, best not order the fish since it's never going to be good as the fish back home in Iceland." Best í heimi it is in Iceland, and even going to another country where they're fishing from almost the same territory is not enough to convince me otherwise (although I did order fish eventually and it was quite good).
- Then this afternoon I was walking down Main Street Oslo (Karl Johan) and I saw a Land Rover, the type Icelanders are always driving on glaciers, and I thought, "something's wrong with this car's proportions". These vehicles now don't look proper unless they've got the fat daddy Dick Cepek tires and a couplea antennas sprouting from the top. Don't forget a winch and shovel for proper Full Glacier Attire.
04 April 2008
welcome, April
Iceland has rewarded our suffering through the soggy autumn with a stretch of lovely days in the past month, so this week I have begun the search for the perfect morning swim-in-the-sun. A few mornings ago I tried the early shift at my new obsession-pool in Seltjarnarnes.
The pool staff was still cleaning the pool, sucking the black sand that had blown in during the winds the night before, so the water reverberated with the rat-a-tat of the vacuum clicking over the tiles in the bottom. At every lap, a little more of the pool bottom was swept clean, leaving behind a faintly iridescent sheen to the tiles.
This pool's the salt water one, which makes the water have a faintly sour taste on the lips, and the corrosion around the metal drains leaves fan-shaped rust trails on the blue tiles below. The smooth velvet texture of the water is as comfortable as being tucked into a warm bed with a book and a cuppa, but the extra buoyancy makes swimming feel like the only motion your body was meant to do. Shoulders rotate smoothly, and even the breathing is not a conscious hold-and-inhale. I always lose count in this pool as the sensations take over, and this morning was no exception.
Wednesday morning I tried Árbær, where again the crowd was almost all at least 40 years older than me, and the angle of the pool proved to be less than optimal for the early riser crowd. Still, the morning people are all about the swimming so the experience is far more serene than the afternoon. Same for this morning in Laugardalslaug where the frigidity combined with sun masked just how many others were swimming. Once again I was the youngest by far, and the only one doing more than a genteel breast stroke.
This crowd wants me to be an old person in Iceland so I can swim in the morning in a flowered bathing cap and then join the crowds of 3 and 5 bobbing about in the shallow end. I almost never see grouchy people in these morning crews, like this morning when I was enjoying the tiny triangle of sun that had splashed across the salt pot. A sprightly pair in their seventies came up, and one said, "nice in there, isn't it", to which I replied, "well, it'd be nice if there were just a liiitle more sun", and he answered, "well, this guy'll help brighten it, since his name's Bjartur" (which means bright). We all had a nice chat about the plans for a hotel next to the pool, the temperature of the salt pot that day (note: this is always an acceptable conversation topic at the pool once the weather's been discussed), and then it was time for showers and work.
No matter what else happens here in Iceland, from the sinking currency to the nearly daily truck driver protests that have created the first real traffic jams I've experienced here, there's always the pool. There's too much to do at the office and your hummus gets mold before you expect it to, but a swim in the peach-colored morning sun plus a nice long soak make it all not important anymore. It's the way to start the day properly.
The pool staff was still cleaning the pool, sucking the black sand that had blown in during the winds the night before, so the water reverberated with the rat-a-tat of the vacuum clicking over the tiles in the bottom. At every lap, a little more of the pool bottom was swept clean, leaving behind a faintly iridescent sheen to the tiles.
This pool's the salt water one, which makes the water have a faintly sour taste on the lips, and the corrosion around the metal drains leaves fan-shaped rust trails on the blue tiles below. The smooth velvet texture of the water is as comfortable as being tucked into a warm bed with a book and a cuppa, but the extra buoyancy makes swimming feel like the only motion your body was meant to do. Shoulders rotate smoothly, and even the breathing is not a conscious hold-and-inhale. I always lose count in this pool as the sensations take over, and this morning was no exception.
Wednesday morning I tried Árbær, where again the crowd was almost all at least 40 years older than me, and the angle of the pool proved to be less than optimal for the early riser crowd. Still, the morning people are all about the swimming so the experience is far more serene than the afternoon. Same for this morning in Laugardalslaug where the frigidity combined with sun masked just how many others were swimming. Once again I was the youngest by far, and the only one doing more than a genteel breast stroke.
This crowd wants me to be an old person in Iceland so I can swim in the morning in a flowered bathing cap and then join the crowds of 3 and 5 bobbing about in the shallow end. I almost never see grouchy people in these morning crews, like this morning when I was enjoying the tiny triangle of sun that had splashed across the salt pot. A sprightly pair in their seventies came up, and one said, "nice in there, isn't it", to which I replied, "well, it'd be nice if there were just a liiitle more sun", and he answered, "well, this guy'll help brighten it, since his name's Bjartur" (which means bright). We all had a nice chat about the plans for a hotel next to the pool, the temperature of the salt pot that day (note: this is always an acceptable conversation topic at the pool once the weather's been discussed), and then it was time for showers and work.
No matter what else happens here in Iceland, from the sinking currency to the nearly daily truck driver protests that have created the first real traffic jams I've experienced here, there's always the pool. There's too much to do at the office and your hummus gets mold before you expect it to, but a swim in the peach-colored morning sun plus a nice long soak make it all not important anymore. It's the way to start the day properly.
16 March 2008
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.
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.
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