nose-walk

this post inspired by Maya's comment about the smells of Iceland

A few days ago we had unusual weather for Iceland- a light, low drizzle with absolutely no wind, the kind of day that I think is perfect for walking. I threw on my trusty Iceland-made raincoat and headed out towards Öskuhlíð's tiny forest. The path there is close with pine trees and moss, all sharply scented in the mist.

From there I came out near the thermal beach at Nauthólsvík, where the delicious dinner smells from the newish café there wafted across the path. Then came the sweet smell of the white clover that clusters along the airport fence. A plane came in to land overhead, along with a cloud of jet fuel. Moving on, I came to the stretch where one can look over Bessastaðir and the completely slack sea. The water there is so clear I could see ducks as they dove on their underwater path through the seaweed. To the right, rainwashed rose bushes gave off velvety clouds of perfume, their heads heavy with water. Then comes the grassy stretch on the other side of the airport where they'd just mowed the soccer fields on both sides- warm and grassy smell there.

Further on I turned onto Sörlaskjöl, past houses hiding behind the pointed sharp smell of arctic birches, and then through the center of Seltjarnarnes. The walking path continues beyond the pool and heads through a thicket of sea grass, fresh and airy in the drizzle. I passed the golf course and detoured through the beach where the eider chicks have grown up so much they look like adults, but still peep like babies. A few wading birds scurried along the lackluster tide, but the smell of the Atlantic was strong and familiar from all my summers on Martha's Vineyard.

Turning at the lighthouse I wandered past the rank reek of seaweed in low tide, beyond the miniature seaside hotpot to the part where nothing smelled particularly interesting but the view was enough to keep me busy. To my left, Esja with a loaded cargo ship gliding in, straight ahead the skyline of Reykjavík, still happily dominated by Hallgrímskirkja (and not skyscrapers), to my right a dilapidated garage where a band was raging through a song that definitely did not need more cowbell.

To finish off I took the sneak-path that leads almost directly to the pool in Vesturbaer, then past my old house (new pavement smell near there), then through the park near Tjörnin where it was already so late they'd turned off the fountain spray. When I got home it was well and truly dark and my three hours of walking made me drowsy and happy to be inside with a hot cup of tea.

In other news of this walk, I finally also saw Björk in her native habitat. It's often one of the first questions people ask when I say I live in Iceland and until now I've had to reply that I hadn't spotted her in spite of living in the same neighborhood for years. At the beginning of my walk she passed me on a bike wearing gold sparkle shoes, blue velvet leggings, and enormous headphones, doing her usual Björk face contortions. She passed me short after going back towards her house, apparently just out to enjoy the misty air like I was.

lucky number seven

I've just completed the move into my seventh home in Reykjavík, back in my original moved-to-Iceland postcode, and a few blocks from this place. It's a lovely old house from the 1930s with graceful proportions and funny little details like a frosted glass window on the narrow bathroom door, and a pantry. Unlike my last apartment, the ceilings here are so high I can only see into a third of the kitchen cupboards, so I'm no longer ducking to get to my fridge or closet.

One of the grand things about this neighborhood is that it's old enough to have proper vegetation, so the view from the kitchen window to the back is a jungle of berry bushes, tall trees, shrubs, rhubarb, and cats that prowl through the underbrush. From the front of the house the view is bounded by the mountains to the southeast, with bits of ocean visible between the cute houses opposite. It's a street I remember walking down in 2005 on my way to the immigration office, never imagining that someday I would occupy one of these lovely places.

Our downstairs neighbors have lived here for decades- he's been in the house since he was 3 and he's now in his 80s. They've got a book binding room and a Finnish sauna in the basement, and the garden overflows with plants I didn't know could live happily here, like deep pink peonies that are blooming now against the warm stone wall of the house. It's a lovely place to live.

Since returning to this neighborhood I've returned to Sundhöllin as my local pool, a spot that seems most frequented by tourists who wander lost in the mysterious maze that is the locker room. These mini-dressing rooms are one of my favorite elements of this pool, as well as the generously sized hot tub on the roof with views over the city (and into the apartment opposite once occupied by a friend). I've noticed that the locals who go there seem to have certain locker loyalties, so while I'm lacing up my shoes I overhear the classic old pool-going men specifically asking for locker sixty-two please. I haven't noticed any particular difference in the lockers, other than the importance to get a high number so as to avoid the boring overflow lockers, so I do wonder what the attraction is.

But back to lucky number seven, where I am typing this while watching the little calico cat that lives opposite prowling the territory, and admiring the flowering trees that line the street. I've realized that with the exception of my first home here, I've always had a view- a snippet of mountain, a sheen of sea, maybe both. It can spoil a girl to have a couch oriented so that the seagulls and the airshow are all on display. This is why there's no need for a TV- an open windowshade is all I need.

I'm still finding out about the neighborhood essentials though. Yesterday en route home from downtown I found a video store, and there's a bakery that seems heavy on the chocolate-themed baked goods but not so much on the breakfast staples, but I'm still hunting for the last-minute-open-late shop. Plenty of guesthouses and hotels around though, and we certainly don't lack for tourists because of that. It's a great place to walk around, full of architecture that varies from late 19th century to a few more modern 70s looking places, trimmed with charming gardens and friendly cats patrolling their section of pavement. The only downside is that I've had to learn how to parallel park properly for the first time in my life. Can't have it all, I guess.

not mourning the departure

After our first attempt to hail the departure of McDonalds failed, S was determined to try again, so we went again a few days later and braved the line for a final "góðborgari" for me and a McFish for him. As always, the food tasted exactly like the McDonalds in France or Canada or America (the only locations I've tried it) and came in the exact same packaging as always. Nothing special there except for the line snaking out the door and the trail of cars idling for the drive-through window.

The replacement joint opened only hours after McDonalds closed, so one week later we went to sample the new wares. For proper comparison purposes, I ordered the same thing on the menu as before, still called "góðborgari" (apparently the Icelandic names weren't copyrighted by McD's), still located in the same spot on the light-up menu, still without explanation of what it contained. The new joint doesn't have fish burgers so S had to go with something else, breaking the continuity.

In terms of décor, it seems that all they did was swap out the sign, and order a bunch of round brown stickers with the new logo that they slapped over all the spots where the golden arches were. Everything that was yellow and red before is now brown (brown shirts, brown writing, brownbrownbrown), but otherwise they're doing their best to replicate the feeling. As many of the names as they can are almost the same (McFlurry is now Flörri or something that sounds pretty much the same if you say it in Icelandic), and the burgers are still served in boxes like the McD's style, although I confess to being less than charmed by their graphic design. The boxes are covered in neon pink and blue squiggles with one of the new brown stickers slapped on top. Still, they're a domestically produced package so yay for that I suppose.

Foodwise, it's a mixed bag. The burger is undeniably that Icelandic flavor of patty, detectable upon first bite. The sauce was also pure Icelandic burger-sauce, the kind you can buy in squeezebottles at any quickieshop. The one positive change in the burger department is that the vegetables were recognizable as what they were- crisp real lettuce and a properly flavorsome tomato. Still, would I go out and pay for this in the rather inconvenient location when Búllan is so much closer and at least makes efforts at secret sauce? Probably not. I don't love burgers-in-boxes that much, and the fries weren't superlative in any way either.

I also tried a chocolate shake since I don't remember the last time I had one and that was so wretchedly non-chocolate flavored that I gave up after drinking about a quarter of it. So much for brand new excitement. I think I'll save up my kronurs and go somewhere that's got a worthwhile menu like Basil and Lime, where I went with a friend on Saturday. Go, get the lobster pasta and order extra bread to soak up that ridiculously decadent cream sauce. Don't bother with Metro unless you're going for the I-am-living-modern-history angle.

two ways

Last Saturday I met one of the very few traffic engineers in Iceland, and we spent some time discussing how they're in the process of overhauling the timing of all the lights in town so that certain corridors have the "green wave" where you can hit greens all the way along. This was happy news, since only a few months ago I'd been having a conversation about how the number and timing of the lights in town can make geographically close places seem very far away. I'd actually done a mini-project just after that where I took a camera-phone picture of every red light I waited at over the course of a week's worth of commuting. I missed a few (my cameraphone is slow, I was of course focusing on driving, and sometimes they turned green only a second after I'd stopped), but it still shows the variety and frequency to some extent. You can see how the Búllan left-turn stop is a frequent appearance, but also how the view at some lights make it no hardship to wait. Still, I'm happy to see that these changes the traffic engineer mentioned have started to make a noticeable difference, and I'd be interested to see if a week of red lights in a few months (when there's enough light to repeat this project) would yield the same number of photos over a week.

To contrast with this, I occasionally go for the 40 minute walking commute that I've mentioned before. My most common route passes my local corner bakery, then heads over the pond and down Laugavegur, ending on the rather ordinary office-building street where I work. I've continued the walking commute in spite of the season change, taking another route in the darkness of Icelandic November. In the dark the appeal is different- the route I take goes along a street displaying views to the left of downtown, and passes a number of small houses where I can see people reading the paper and drinking coffee in their kitchens. I've also found other mysterious corners of Reykjavík, like the location of the handicapped association swimming pool, and hidden gardens located in the center of downtown. To follow the whole trip from one morning a month ago, check it here.

So now you see how most of my days start and end, a string of red lights or of uninspired architecture framed by what is still some seriously memorable landscape. Could always be worse.

January shifting

I'm sitting in my new office space, watching the sunrise pink fade over the new huge view I have, encompassing most of Esja, Akrafjall, and the spine of Snæfellsness. In spite of the late sunrise, it's hard to be too unhappy in a place that offers this much sky-space, all trimmed with mountains.

For it's January in Iceland, and time for changes and remembering that the light is indeed returning. For the first time, I'm approaching Reykjavík by car. After my rant about carless living in Reykjavík, which got featured in a public project somehow, I caved. My new office is in a location that would require taking the entire length of what I call the tour-of-obscure-neighborhoods bus line, plus a lengthy and brisk walk to the edge of nowhere, so I had to stop being stubborn and become like everyone else here, solitarily zipping to work in a little car.

In spite of having lived here for over 2 years, I've ended up in the wrong place a few times these past days as I relearn the lay of the landscape from a new perspective. There are really no highways here, so it's a pretty close-to-the-people experience to be driving in Reykjavík, with lots of lights, roundabouts, and ramps. Add textless signs in bright colors while driving almost only in the dark, and it's almost too surreal to describe.

After nearly a year and a half of taking the bus, it's more of a joy than I care to admit to be with car. The wind is something to relish, not consider as an impediment to wearing scarf, the cold can be enjoyed from the proper perspective, shoulder deep in hot water. 15 minutes to get to work versus 1 hour is also a thrill. So many more minutes per day to be swimming and watching the light on the mountains.

In a dim light: neither daylight

December darkness is something that I once feared and that may seem like a terrifying thing to people from brighter places. Most Icelanders I've talked with find it to be something that one simply deals with, or in some cases, embraces.

On still days and nights when not a single branch twitches nor dead leaf rustles, it's a time full of witching hours, these hours that stretch from black to sunup- the blueness of the pre-dawn that makes white blankets look aquatic, the white simplicity of light on cloudy winter days, the rich and magical navy of dusk, the purest black of nighttime. Even a clear full-day sky is deep glacial cobalt, and then the snowed mountains across the bay emanate the most perfect kind of frigidity I can imagine. Whenever I want to think of the coldest temperature imaginable, I am sure my mind will go to the black mountains to the north, etched with glowing snow and edged by Arctic sea waters.

Offsetting this chill is the delirium of lights that cover the city- every tree that can hold a bulb is draped, stores staple entire illuminated evergreens over the doors, and windows are festooned with candles. A Saturday stroll becomes a festivity of greetings, street caroling, pepper cookies and cocoa. It's a tiny glowing oasis in the midst of the miles of darkness beyond, where one single car light over on Kjalarnes can be followed on its entire outbound journey around Esja, a dot of bright in deepest black.

On the fringes of Airwaves

I did not go to any of the acts here over the weekend as part of the well-publicized Airwaves festival, but I did go to a few of the many hanger-on events that were scheduled for the same weekend, hoping to capitalize on the higher concentration of hipper-than-thou folk in town.

On Friday I went to the opening reception of the home and design show. Held in Laugardalshöllin, it was supposed to showcase the best and brightest of Icelandic design. In some respects it succeeded wonderfully, with a corner crammed with small objects- textiles, sculpture, tableware, and lights. The rest of the show was a little jumbled though, with exhibits ranging from hot tubs for the summerhouse, to Kaupþing (the bank), various big n splashy TV displays, an exhibit on new materials and construction techniques, and a toy shop for kids. As always with trade shows like this, there was plenty of champagne, chocolate, cookies, and sandwich-y nibbles, just like the fishing tech showcase, and the high tech expo I went to before. No fishing nets at this one though.

On Saturday it was all about architecture for the presentation of the first Icelandic building award. It was held in the Reykjavik Art Museum's Kjarvalsstaðir branch, an apt locale for the audience whose overall wardrobe vibe was blacker than Iceland in December. After a lot of rambling presentation-talk, the Prime Minister handed over the award to the people who built the Blue Lagoon's skin therapy spa, and the thing was over after some slightly thin applause. Since it was the first time for the event, it seemed a bit tentative on the whole, in spite of the champagne, but I could not disagree with the splendid venue, the great style-watching, and the licorice-topped chocolate squares.

Then off to swank lounge b5 where the whole place had been graffittoed out for the official launch party of the hot book of the season, Icepick. The author's a friend of a friend, and is one of those people who is way cooler than you will ever be, but is super nice about it. Her clothing store just down the street, Ósoma, has the kind of design that makes for a worthwhile souvenir- truly Icelandic, obscure yet not too much, and supporting the local folks.

The event had been very publicized to the Airwaves Press Pass crowd, who all showed up for the free lady-cocktails (pink or purple, an odd choice for the launch of so fierce a book) and the porcupine styled fruit kebab trays that were ringed with prosciutto-wrapped figs and various other not-from-these-parts delicacies. As with every event that weekend, there were plenty of people I knew there, but the high percentage of camerafolks made it seem like we were at something Really Huge.

I'm not sure now if it was Airwaves that made for the art-laden weekend or if it's just that fall is when it Happens Here. After the summertime of long and empty weekends stretching ahead, it's back-to-back Things To Do, and I don't want to miss any of it. This is why blogging has been a bit of a back seat of late. That and this ennnnndless rain that's making me gloomy in spite of myself. Hopefully no more will need to be said on that subject!

urban renewal

Laugavegur is a street of constant change. There's a whole building halfway down that's in the process of disappearing. Chunk after chunk is being carted away to who-knows-where, making way for something that's probably the usual barren New Building they do so well here, with the same generic doorhandles, and same generic metal balconies.

Things in other parts are better off though, with all kinds of new and interesting shops constantly opening in the cute old buildings along the street, leaving an empty space repopulated almost instantly. Iceland's gone so spiffy that Reykjavík was even featured on a page the New York Times magazine. We've assembled enough Designers with Long Foreign Names to make note with the style crowd, apparently. We've even got stores where you can buy very very expensive soaps in whimsical boxes. Movin' on up, we are.

With only a small shopping/café area, Reykjavík is a town that keeps pretty busy. Shops will close, only to be replaced weeks or even days later by a new place. Some expand to the next storefront, others will move across the street and have their old location snapped up and immediately transformed. Weekly evaluations are required to keep track of what changes are brewing on Laugavegur, and any little modification anywhere is the stuff of note.

In the midst of all this riotous change though, there is one place that remains comfortingly, mysteriously the same. Just past where Skólavörðustígur breaks off and marches up the hill, there's a little storefront on Laugavegur. Two or three steps rise to a door opening into a shop that's only slightly wider than it, adorned with a red sign. The Reykjavik Bagel House. It's been shuttered and dusty since I arrived, seemingly impervious to the flurry that goes on at all sides around it.

Is it just because Iceland has not taken to bagels? What has caused this one storefront to be so forgotten by the maelstrom of urban renewal? They tried bagels down the street a few blocks, which closed for a bit and then refashioned itself as a pizza place, one food Icelanders never seem to tire of. Whatever the reason, I now watch this lonely bagel place every time I pass, wondering when it too will cave in and become something new and trendy. I'm still hoping for bagels again, because now after all this bageltalk, I'm really yearning for one, all properly done up with the tomato slices, the sprouts, the salmon. Make it a garlic one please!

the creepy chat-up

I'm reporting live from swank downtown café that has a tendency to be frequented by Locally Famous Shiny People, that also happens to have a great internet connection. Perfect for polishing off that work report along with a dish of excellent lobster pasta and a glass of white. Makes the work go down easier.

However, I am finding myself far too distracted by the tableau to my right. Two blonde girls, the kind that create the famous reputation of Icelandic women- platinum blonde and not dressed like Americans. They're so perfectly groomed it's hard to tell if they're pretty or just glossy- intentional eyebrows, perfect matching smooth bobs, thin stiletto boots. This guy sitting with them is probably 30 years older, with shaggy artiste hair, calculated nerd-glasses, and oo, my favorite- jewelry! He's sporting an earring and a loong silver chain over his purple shirt and casual-man blazer.

They're speaking English- he's got some Brit-posh-foreignman accent and he's telling them how he's a producer and they should be doing a talk show together with their shiny matching hairdos. He's full of earnest stories of relationships, his sensitivity, and his amazing travels. He's taken a photo of them all squeezed together, and next I'm waiting for the business-card handout. I can't believe I'm seeing the producer-pickup at work. I didn't think it actually happened anymore, that people fell for it!

Maybe it's because I'm a foreigner, or maybe it's due to all the people that seem to be passing through this town, but I often find myself on the opposite end of this kind of conversation- the earnest somebody or other who's trying to impress with travels, titles, and touching feelings. Some are depressingly unshakeable, like the American guy who was so proud of living in Japan and how unique he was, some turn out to be interesting, most are just part of the texture of living in this little town with its island mentality, its fascination with people who are Not From Here.

*half-hour-later update* Turns out they are both hairdressers, and now he's pulled out the psychology testing about wandering in a field and finding strawberries. Somebody's read The Game!

busy city

Now that the daylight has gone into overdrive, Reykjavík blooms with activities, people, and energy. I returned to Iceland just in time to experience the thrill of enormous French puppets traipsing through the streets of the city in a multi-day extravaganza that sprinkled itself all over the city. There are still pieces remaining, in the form of a city bus sliced half open with a knife, a car with a tree through it up near Hallgrímskirkja, another car impaled by a huge fork down by the sea, and various other cars that sustained peculiar damage from very large objects.

On Friday night, one puppet slept down by the harbor in an enormous bed. On my way to rehearsal on Saturday, I came across the other puppet asleep near the national museum, its chest heaving gently as it slept, fingers undulating slightly. On the way back from rehearsal, I joined the procession after it woke up, winding through the streets back to the harbor. These things were a marvel of engineering and human power- breathing, blinking, and walking, thanks to the airborne exertions of the dozens of puppeteers.

The troupe staging this performance, Royal de Luxe, has been putting on these large-scale theatrics for almost 30 years, but rarely abroad (says their French Wiki page), so we were particularly fortunate to witness it here. Reykjavík is a good scale for this kind of thing, since all the other elements were within easy walking distance. I hope they travel further to the west so the US can experience it, because it was one of the coolest public art performances I have seen. I loved the unexpected previews of all the mutilated cars, the enormous silverware, and the thoroughness of the younger puppet's movements (she showered! She licked lollipops!).

The weather has been agreeable of late as well. Perhaps not the warmest temperatures, but clear and golden. The cafes are at full hum, and the bike paths that interlace the city are clustered with people. This is Reykjavík at its most glorious, the time we all suffer through the gray days of January to be able to enjoy. And on that note, I'm heading out for yet another rollerblade along the topaz sea.

EIR*

On Monday evening I went for a rollerblade by the sea, one of my favoritest things to do. I've been doing it since those summers in college out on Martha's Vineyard but it's a rare day here when the weather looks like it'll hold long enough to let me take a round-trip. Although it was cloudyish on Monday, it was the "right" kind of cloudy that didn't look too soggy, so I headed out at about 9:15 to the sea path that runs along the southern side of the bay here. The water had that magical springtime silverblue sheen, and the mountains hulked behind a veil of moisture opposite as I headed along the curve towards the outskirts of town.

I'd bladed a few times on the Seltjarnarnes side of things, but that's a different story with its direct ocean exposure. The full force of the sea and ripping Atlantic winds often sends the waves leaping meters over the sea wall where they happily take sections of pavement away and leave gravel and necklaces of kelp behind. On the bay side, the only evidence of sea-fury is the polished stones on one inlet, but everywhere else the path was perfect- smooth, kelp-free, and uncrowded.

Past Höfði, past the Strætó breeding grounds (the bus yard), past the weird seaward cluster of houses at Laugarnes, I found a new piece of Reykjavík. First I went the familiar route up past the Why-Kings graffiti wall, and when it became video-store gas-station land, I turned around, and followed the other fork in the path that went snaking through the lava.

I scared a gaggle of geese there who'd left behind a turd-slalom, and sailed down the dipping path and round the corner. This little area was silent enough to hear the tiny lapping waves and instead of city I was surrounded by the stuff of the wilds here- lava, moss, and sea, with all the islands of the harbor lying under their greening mist of spring. The stretch was short though, and I soon came out in the midst of Industrial Quarter Reykjavík, where the shipping companies have their offices, and stacks of building materials compete with parking lots.

Still, there's another dock down there that even has a tiny yellow sand beach next to it (this is rare and interesting here in this place of black lava sand) sheltered by an impressively craggy rock. I think this is where many of the larger cruise ships end up depositing their merry-makers, and in spite of the lovely view of Viðey opposite, I bet they're a bit disappointed when they step off into office-park superland, edged by parking lots and construction fences.

At that time of evening the parking lot was barren, so I sailed around it, doing double-pole stretches and sinuous swirls in the huge open space, and then headed home, back towards Hallgrímskirkja that dominates the short skyline here. The experience was enchanting enough that I went again yesterday in spite of the sure-to-dump-rain clouds. The wind had picked up since the day before, but I thanked my previous Atlantic seashore training and considered it an added cardio boost as I inhaled the leafy smells of springtime it brought. Thankfully, the wind was to my back as I went homewards, so the final stretch in the smattered rain was quick and I was soon home, tired, exhilarated, and loving the landscape here.

*Experiments in International Rollerblading

the small views

In the same spirit as my post last year, I've taken some photos of how things look around me today. Now you can see the lace curtained wooden door I open every evening, the curved wooden stair rail that runs smooth beneath my hands, and the little rusty front gate with the clusters of daffodils around it.

And of course, the back yard like the dozens of them in this town, one of the great things about living in Reykjavík. It may be a capitol city but it still has the heart of a village with all the clotheslines, the barbecues and sandboxes, the garages and sheds. It's the secret Reykjavík that is never on the tours but is part of why I like it here so much. There's nothing quite like sleeping in sheets that have blown fresh in the sea air here.

hypersensitive

My iPod was stolen a few weeks ago, so on my walks to rehearsal I've had to rely on what I can extract from the scene around me for entertainment for the 20 minutes. On my way past the hospital, I noted that the resounding *ping* from the left railing was not the same as the right one on a staircase. I played remember-the-lightpost-tone game that my brother used to do in college, and listened to the geese that lay like decoys on the lawns, gossiping there on the far side of Tjörnin.

There are also so many nestled secrets of crocus and snowdrop now to see- Iceland's own Easter Egg hunt. The light at seven in the evening was just right to spot them- blue sprinkled delicately across black lava sand, the palest of purple nestled on the sheltered side of some tree roots, the mist of green on the soggy lawns. There's still snow lacing Esja opposite but there will be for months still.

The smell of spring is there too- rich, sea-filled, and unexpectedly wild in the middle of town. Last night though, there was another odor- charred wet wood, a lot of it. I thought I must be confusing the scent, that it was some as-yet unknown seaborne flavor, but it persisted the whole stretch of the southern side of Tjörnin until the buildings started up near the university.

Turns out it was a fire, a large one, that destroyed a section of the most downtown part of Reykjavík. The club Pravda is totally gone, and there was severe damage to several adjacent buildings. The fire was probably just barely out when I walked by, although a later inspection still revealed a haze of smoke and char. I don't know what will happen to the section of town, but I'm sure it will not be the same at all.

incremental

Summer creeps up on Iceland in tiny steps that are almost un-noticeable unless you're feeling particularly sharp-eyed. This past few days have been almost-so, allowing for open coats at mid-day but keep the tights on, and the branches of the bushes starting to get barely fuzzy with green. Everything's still so tightly folded though that sometimes it seems like a trick of the eyes- a green halo that's but a trick of light.

The sun has also ratcheted high enough in the sky to fill the northeastern windows in my apartment with morning light, so I awoke this morning to a sunsplashed bedroom and drank orange juice in a glowing kitchen. The evenings are starting to get that endless glow that I associate more with summer now than hot weather, since temperatures are almost equally tempestuous year-round. Soon the shrinking darkness will be gone altogether

Little changes are happening elsewhere, like the new hot tub that just opened at Laugardalslaug, filled with heated seawater pumped from a borehole nearby. Of course it's the hot new activity so we were all stuffed in there like a bunch of simmering lobsters, but it was still worth the sit. The frothed seawater is a different look and feel from the regular tubs- foamy and fizzy, softer feeling, and definitely salty on the lips. They never make the new tubs big enough or with enough massage jets, but when it's a sunny blue-arc-of-sky day and I'm sitting in heated salt water, I'm not complaining, even if I have to negotiate with flowered-bathing-cap lady on my exit.

After the sample-sit, I did my usual swim, where once again I appreciated the individual flavors of every pool. The personalities are as distinct as with people- each locker room has a slightly different smell of soap and sulphur and the materials of the lockers and floors. The water in each pool looks and feels different too, and the people you see there are as distinct and individual by pool as they are by time of day. Mornings are usually the aquatic aerobics time at my local pool, so I can find myself with an entire lap pool all to myself while the bathing caps bob to light pop in the kiddie pool at the end. Afternoons are all about foreigners and seal-pup kids that flop across the lane markers, and the evenings are for the weight-lifting hnakki guys and the old men that like to chat in pairs and trios.

The pool fixes everything like a good friend does- when you're stressed, the visit re-balances. Sick? The steamroom makes your breathing easier. Have a problem to work out? A few laps of sensory isolation and it doesn't seem so difficult after all. It's all about taking it down incrementally. Make the sounds you hear only rushing water and the hum of pool machinery, the things you see only blue tiles and water with snippets of sky, the only motion the smooth pulling through water and everything outside the water will rebalance itself. The Reykjavík Spa City propaganda sounded kind of silly to me at first but when I walk home glowing with warm-water evening peace, I absolutely agree with all of it.

There are some things here that aren't about sneaky-slow changes though. In the matter of less than an hour, that sunny day has become a swirling thick snowsquall. Winter does not give up easily here but slowly, slowly things will grow again.

that girl he knows

I decided to take an evening stroll tonight to connect with The Town after the nice fat 5-day Easter weekend we all enjoyed up here. With my forgot-it-behind-the-flour-jar slices of stale bread, I headed down to Tjörnin for a bit of bread-flinging for the birds. On the way home I took the Laugavegur route to enjoy the full effect of sprintime mid-week evenings in Reykjavík. Ladies and gentlemen, it's rúntur time. This special Iceland-and-other-small-towns experience was once mis-defined in some guidebook as a pub-crawl, but really it's just driving around town so you can see who else is driving around town. I've watched the procession in Ísafjörður with all the kids that were suspended from school driving around on a Friday morning, the Akureyri Easter rúntur last year, and so very many trips here in my hometown.

This evening was a decent showing, offering up the following tasty sightings:

• 2 girls with emo hair in a minivan, the passenger trailing a cigarette out the open windows, cruising to Britney Spears "baby one more time". Don't you adore all the irony? So clever.
• Crappy 80s sedan with a flashing multicolor neon display on the front bumper. Don't run into anything, boys!
• 4x4 with a loudspeaker broadcasting sound effects of farting and barn animals. I bet the ladies go hottt for this one.
• Someone who missed their turn down towards Hverfisgata and ended up backing up an entire block. Main Street Reykjavík is that unpopulated on a Tuesday that you can just change your mind mid-cruise.
  
• And finally, someone in a car I didn't recognize who gave me the honk-n-wave. I didn't recognize the driver but counted on a possible second pass to give me another chance to figure out the deal. A few blocks of walking later, the car went by again and this time I waved them down (see previous entry... this is acceptable behavior during the rúntur on Laugavegur. Nobody is in a hurry). The guy was all "hey, weren't you at Dubliners last weekend?". I assured him I hadn't been and he said that I must have an Icelandic twin out there, so identical was this Dubliners attender. He then said, "well, you're pretty all the same. Want to join us?" I'm happy my Icelandic is at a level that I can have bizarre conversations like this but I had to refuse the offer, tempting though it was.
  

And so goes romance in Reykjavík on a Tuesday evening.

bare knees

Today was the first day I dared venture forward in a skirt without my wool tights on. It's a special feeling when the weather hits a temperature that also makes it possible to leave the gloves at home. Of course here at this time of year, a spring skirt still has to be paired with a sensible top like a cashmere turtleneck and high boots, but the frisky feeling of wind on those millimeters of knee-skin makes it finally feel like spring. The lawn outside the door has put on the palest of green hues in spots, and in the gardens all along the street, clusters of crocuses and tiny blue star-shaped flowers are making their way forth among the mossy rocks in the gardens. It's always like this- I forget that growing things ever existed and then all at once they're everywhere- fattening buds on trees, grass growing in the sidewalk cracks, and green shoots everywhere.

The season's still very tentative though- I was the only one baring knees on Laugavegur, and the visitors are all still be-hatted and hooded (of course, they often are in July too). It's not so cold though, really. I think almost 50 degrees f is splendid skirt weather, even if there is no sun. It's really almost as good as it gets here. Today the temperature was moderated by a zippy wind, keeping it from being too tropically balmyy. 35mph doesn't seem like much but it's enough to make wearing a gauzy skirt a bit thrilling. It was worth it though for that
feeling that maybe, just maybe there will be a few moments of bare-arm weather sometime in a few months.

hot tub vignettes

So last night I was at my New Local Pool, where the lockers never cease to delight with their personal-changing-room ingenuity, the stylin wooden doors and shiny metal hardware, the white tiling, and the sassy rounded corners. They're so retro they're modern. Anyway, after another satisfyingly uncrowded swim (tip: 8pm or later is the best time to avoid crowds at Sundhöllin), I headed for the roof, where the hot tub crowd was all guys and me. Opposite me were two men in their forties, one with the neckless build of a former weightlifter who'd gone a little soft, the other scruffy and long-haired. Weighlifter man was talking about music- Joan Baez and the like, an unlikely pairing that had me listening in more carefully than usual, while the other guy performed his já-man functionalities (this guy in such a hot tub conversation just says "yes" and nods gravely). Then, weightlifter guy decided describing music was not quite enough, so he started singing softly, melancholy Irish tunes, while everyone else in the hot tub looked on in bemusement. He was obviously not disturbed by the onlookers, as he sang a few more tunes before the pair of them headed to the steam room. It's the first time I've had live performances while in a bathing suit.

This pool is a different flavor from where I used to go. This one's all about the individual bather, although the old guy pairs and trios are always a constant in any Icelandic pool. I've started to know some of the regulars, who even seem to be more conversational than the Vesturbær lot. There's the Ice-Pavarotti guy whom I had a nice chat with in the steam room, my former Icelandic teacher who was also a good 15 minutes of conversational practice, the bathing-cap lady who does her majestic laps in bright red lipstick. This is also the pool of tourists and foreigners. More than once when a conversation has started tub-wide, it's been one Icelander, an American (me), and a smattering of eastern Europeans and Thai. The foreigners are taking over Reykjavík, one hot tub at a time.

If there are other Americans, it's often because they're tourists, since this is the closest pool to most of the hotels and guesthouses, and thanks to its proximity to a can't-miss landmark, is easy to find. It seems that in the last week or two Tourist Season has begun, so I'm experiencing a dramatic increase in the number of people who don't realize that a pool is divided into lanes for a reason here, and all those people going backwards and forwards would like to keep going backwards and forwards. So here is my message to those who are coming to visit Iceland this year: If you're swimming and are participating in the clockwise lane-arrangement, we love you, especially if you're giving way to the faster people at the end of laps. You are the best kind of lane-companion. However, if you wanna do your deep-sea diving practice along the bottom of the pool, your water-pirouettes or express how hot you are for your girlfriend thanks to the trip to Iceland, do it in the open part where everyone else is messin' about and let me and bathing-cap lipstick lady have our lap lane. Otherwise, enjoy Iceland, try out lots of hot tubs, and don't forget to sing in a few of them. I've often had the urge but never been brave enough.

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.

so you want to live in Reykjavík?

I know there are a few people who read this blog with serious intentions to move here, and since I have had emails about this a bunch of times, this is the summary of what I know about renting in Reykjavík after working on this for several months. First of all, I should explain that unlike in Boston, the cost of owning a place is equal or less to the cost of renting, so anyone who possibly can own, does. As an immigrant still on a temporary visa, I can not yet, so I'm stuck with what is often the dregs of the housing market.

If you're looking for your own place (as opposed to renting a room in a shared place), they generally fall into two categories. First, there's the perennially for-rent places, usually owned by an Icelander abroad, or as some kind of second property for income. I saw one of these that was in a fantastic location, but was tiny, on the ground floor (people walking by directly outside your window feels not-so-safe, even in small-town Iceland), and contained dingy carpeting that looked like leftovers from a seventies-era warehouse (burnt orange! More awakening than coffee). There was also no way to to do laundry, which in Boston was not an issue with all the laundromats usually available in neighborhoods. Here, everyone's got laundry in the house or in the building, so laundromats pretty much do not exist. When I asked about it, the owner said, "well, the last guy just went to his mom's to do it". Not so easy when my mom's laundry room is a day's trip by plane from here. This place was also 75000isk/month, pretty expensive, even if you did get a back yard. I've since heard of another place almost exactly the same a few streets over.

The second category is the going-abroad-to-study category. These are nice places but only available for a limited duration of anywhere from six months to two years. They're also a person renting their home directly to you, so in many cases it comes down to a sort of popularity contest, or a who-knows-whom issue. Large management companies with a plethora of almost-identical apartments available (as my last place in Boston was) do not exist here.

There are exceptions to this, like the last place I lived, which was owned by a fisherman who was never in town but bought it since it was a great location and newly built. I know a few other people who have gotten lucky with this kind of thing- a family that moved to New Zealand thinking they would come back in a year or two and then just decided to not come back, leaving their house with all furnishings behind.

So, how to find these places? There are a few websites, like Morgunblaðið's classifieds, where the apartments for rent in Reykjavík are intermixed with summer rentals in Spain, houses in Húsavík, and flats in Akureyri. There is also leigulistinn, which you must pay 3500 krónur a month to have access to, and the places go fast there. After being in Craigslist-land the thought of having to pay so much makes me cringe, but they do have the most comprehensive listings there. A few other sites have tried to get into the business but remain kind of paltry on the rentable places, unless you want a two-floor penthouse or a basement in Árbær (=really far from downtown). Then, the better way (and where I found mine) is internal distribution lists and friends-of-friends. Since most of the places for rent are owned by individuals, they want to know they're having someone trustworthy in their home while they're away, so personal recommendations count for a lot.

And finally, what do you get with an apartment here? In addition to the living space, you'll get laundry room space in the basement if it's not in the apartment already. This is a fairly common arrangement, particularly in buildings from the fifties or earlier. Each resident has a designated hookup for their own washing machine in a shared space in the basement. In the larger buildings, there might even a separate drying room near the steam pipes. Dryers are not so common here as in the US in these places. You'll also often get a storage cupboard or room somewhere, the much desired geymsla, for your boxes and suitcases. In cases where someone's going abroad for a few years, they might be using this entirely for themselves or you'll be sharing with them. Appliances are not a given (except the stove), which is part of why renting from the second category is often easier, since the people going abroad don't usually take their fridge along.

The prices are high here, but after being in Boston I definitely don't feel like I'm getting a bad deal. I'm paying less for a bigger place with more accessories, in about the same type of neighborhood. I could have chosen to live further out of town, where the prices are usually able to get a larger place, but the difference is not significant, and I personally prefer the old details and the immediate by-foot access to all manner of downtown experiences.

So there you have it. You now know everything I do.

time warp

This morning I woke up in my new place for the first time, and since I hadn't seen the view yet (all my previous visits had been after dark), I lingered over my strong coffee to watch the sun illuminate what lay outside the kitchen window. With the window open, I could hear the bells chiming the hour and the half up the hill at Hallgrímskirkja, and the flurry of Reykjavík starting the day. The town surrounds me where I live, and although I'm close to a busy street, the buildings in the area create a cocoon of quiet. The contour of the hill has also been kind to me, allowing a glimpse of Esja's spine and a spread of buildings off to the northeast.

Outside, Fréttablaðið tucked under my arm, I took the shortcut through the back yard and out onto the street, where I discovered that the new 'hood is full of little artisan studios and shops. I passed a window with pulled shades, the sill cluttered with paintbrushes, rags, and some slightly forgotten lemons that must have once been a still life. On the next corner, walls of yarn made the backdrop for a knitting and seamstress shop.

Later in the day, I went to what is now My Local Pool, where the vintage 30's styling charmed me the first time I saw it when I had newly arrived. I was thinking it was going to be a sad swim since the pool is uniquely indoors, but the high windows, the frightening deep end, and two empty lanes for the picking were perfect conditions for a rousing swim, and I do so love the rooftop hot-tubs with panoramic city views. On the way back to my new home along an empty street, I marveled at how I could hear the activity of the city but it all seemed to be happening somewhere else. In the midst of these 1930s-era short apartments, behind the vintage curvature of Hallgrímskirkja's apse, and in the rain-gleaming fresh darkness, it was Iceland 70 years ago, and I live in the middle of it.