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.

open curtain policy

on Saturday after a successful holiday shopping trip followed by coffee with a friend near downtown, I walked the long way home via Bræðraborgarstígur. The weather was starting to grow chill after a mild day, and a light drizzle had fallen during my coffee hours, so the dark pavement gleamed under the streetlights. This neighborhood is the postcode of so many parts of my life here, particularly along Öldugata, my first Icelandic address. It's a great street for walking, as is Bræðraborgarstígur, particularly just after dark when everyone's home and cozy, preparing dinner or just hanging out.

It's also a neighborhood that's not much inclined towards curtains, and just like old houses in Vermont, the oldest ones are built closest to the road, so a pedestrian feels almost part of the tableau within. There's that studenty looking kjallaríbúð at knee level, the sink piled with dirty dishes in the 80s-style kitchen. Next, the warmly lit living room lined with books, a bright red toddler-sized dress hanging on a door beam. I glance into one on the corner where my head's level with the bottom of the window, a girl on her laptop behind a lacy paper window decoration.

The views into windows here is a theme I've mentioned a few other times, like when I first moved here and was living in the same neighborhood, and again some months later when I was walking through the area where I live now. Compared to some other nations, like Germany, where curtain-drawing is an essential dusk routine, I wonder why it is that the people I live among don't seem to bother pulling the curtains. Do they like the virtual participation of the passersby? Are they proud of their nice decor, do they simply feel like there's no point in closing the curtains when everyone knows your business anyway? Maybe they're just trying to keep track of what the latest incarnation is of the ever changing weather.

This is my own reason for not wanting to pull the shades, at least. I'm always popping out to the balcony to see if perhaps it's clear enough for northern lights, to admire the moon or the stars, to smell the night air or listen to the clatter of people on the street below. During the dusk and dawn hours, I want to have full sky visibility for maximum cloud and sun-effect enjoyment. It helps to live on the top floor with strategically placed windows so I'm not sharing quite as much as those houses I passed on Saturday, but I have added something in case anyone does glance heavenward and see my tiny window. I've set a millefiori bowl there, illuminated from within on occasional nights, my small contribution to the patchwork of color that is downtown Reykjavik.

downtown love

I'm in my third month of being a downtown girl again, and after this last weekend, I think I'm a fan. My brother was in town for the weekend, one of the best in the whole Reykjavík activity calendar. First on the program, the Reykjavík marathon, a great race that offers distances for all types of runners- 3k for the kids and purely recreational folks, 10k and half marathon for the more ambitious, and the full marathon for the hardcore folks.

After much encouraging from S last year I'd done the half and had enjoyed it enough to decide to go for it again. We convinced my bro to sign up for the 10k on the spur of the moment as we were picking up our race packs on Friday evening, so when Saturday morning dawned, we all were suiting up in our race gear. We drank the special German dissolving mineral tablets for extra energy, and then moseyed down to the starting line (see, bonus feature of living in 101!).

This race is great for the scenery and fresh cool temperatures, because it's almost completely flat, and because the course offers plenty of viewing and cheering spots for spectators. We all start off by running over the bridge across Tjörnin, then out towards the university and down a street that seems to have made a reputation for being the pots-and-pans cheering street. From there it runs along the southern side of the peninsula out to Seltjarnarnes before crossing to the northern bay view. Along the street heading north, an old group of dudes had set up a band on the street and were playing cheerful blues tunes as we ran by (applauding them, of course). The course then turns back to the center of town, passing downtown to follow the edge of the bay to the working harbour area where cruise ships, grain ships, cargo ships are all lined up. Then, there's the one gentle uphill in the course before turning back and running the last painful kilometers to the center of town again.

My friend H had her rollerblades out that day so she popped up a few times to cheer, along with our friend S who cycled along the course to provide much-needed encouragement in the long stretch after the halfway mark. This, combined with a beautifully sunny day and only a smidge of breeze made the race really an amazing experience and I finished with the determination that I will definitely do this race as long as I'm living here.

After the race we all toddled home slowly to grab swim gear and go laze in the rooftop hotpot in our local pool, along with all the other runners- my locker room was full of women bearing the telltale red marks of sports bras rubbing shoulders and ribcages raw over long distances. Next, the traditional post-race hamburger & beer at Vegamót before we hobbled home to rest.

One of the few unfortunate things about this marathon is that it's on the same day as the most thrilling day in Reykjavík, a full program of cultural events of every sort imaginable- music to suit any ear, food, art exhibits, theater, historical walks, and street markets of all flavours. My brother and I lazed in the sunny living room for a few hours, listening to the thrum of activity outside before we worked up the energy to climb the hill to Hallgrímskirkja where a massive choral festival was in progress. Choirs from countries ringing the Baltic sea were in attendance, and we arrived just in time to hear an incredibly skilled Danish choir perform. Sitting in a late-arriving shaft of sunlight, tired from the race and in cozy family companionship while perfectly executed music washed over the audience was exactly the right way to spend the hours approaching evening.

We listened to a few more acts until a shy Greenlandic choir took the stage in their traditional costume, embroidered leggings and all. They seemed new to the traveling performance experience, a directorless choir with a minimal repertoire, so we stayed for a few songs in encouragement, then departed for other venues. My brother had mentioned wanting to take home some local music so we stopped at 12 tónar on our way down the hill where he dove into the experience of this great shop with enthusiasm. Sipping on red wine while tucked into their snug basement listening corner, we swapped discs back and forth until we'd found just the right CDs for him to take home.

Then, we wandered down the street a bit further, past the discarded trousers and shoes that were apparently installed to test our preconceived notions (of what, I can't say), through the crowd listening to a typical girl-with-a-guitar sound, down to where 2 extremely young DJ types were mixing some infectious rhythms. Some kind of performance was happening on a balcony so we paused before returning up the street via one of the noodle soup shops there. I'd heard this place was good and the crowd inside seemed to support it so we ordered 2 bowls of the beef and weren't disappointed. The meat is tender, the broth rich, the sprouts nice and crunchy, and the hotness the right temperature to warm you up on an August evening as darkness descends over town.

And then, home. We passed the streets full of illegally parked cars that were getting thoroughly covered with parking tickets, just like they'd threatened to do in the news. It was good to be able to walk home, and also avoid what was probably the biggest traffic jam of the year as everyone tried to leave after the fireworks were over. At that time we were all sitting in a row on the couch with wine and specially imported Reese's Pieces (note: do not go well with wine but are still deeeelicious when not having had them for a year). Yes, life downtown has its great days.

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.

not getting the hype

The local English-language tourists-and-foreigners paper, the Grapevine, recently came out with its best-of-Reykjavík edition, ranking the best of everything from swimming pools to lobster soup. While most of them are places I totally agree with or have always meant to try, there are a few things I just must disagree with.

For example, I don't get the hype over Sægrefinn's lobster soup. The kebabs there are great, and I know that all the toursits feel like they're getting in on the authentic due to the straight-from-the-sea venue and the slightly crusty looking proprietor, but come on! That place has been advertised so heavily as the "best kept secret" that it's not a secret anymore. He has an advert in every single tourist paper and free guide and I'm sure every Lonely Planetish guidebook points out exactly where it is.

On to the soup though. I like a perfumed and creamy lobster soup and this one is frankly neither. The broth is thin, the chunks of lobster are meager, and it contains the bane of all vegetables, the green pepper. If I want lobster soup, I go to one of two places, either Fjöruborðið down in Stokkseyri (which is also hyped but in my opinion deserves it), or I'll go to B5. The latter is known as the boozin' place for all the pretty young things and the erstwhile bankers who love them but serves food in the earlier hours. Over the years the quality has gone from amazing to mediocre to confused but the lobster bisque has remained delicious. So that is where I go when I want my lobster fix.

Up next, the ice cream category. As a resident of the west side of Reykjavík, I have already spent time singing the praises of the 'hood, although I tend to forget one of the reasons many people venture my direction- the ice cream. Since Saturday ended up being unIcelandically warm, S and I decided to find out what the Big Exciting Deal was, so we beelined for ísbúðinn and its usual snaking line. He went for the large with caramel-chocolate and licorice bits, while I had the medium with caramel chocolate and Snickers. As I believe I've pointed out before, ice cream here tends to come only in vanilla, with the fancy being added to the top.

They've got excellent selection there, and when you come out with an ice cream the height of your forearm (that's just the medium), you definitely feel like you've got a good deal, but that's where the fun ends. S and I both went for the creamier of the two options available there but frankly the ice cream was not creamy, and its fast melt-rate was another indication that it just wasn't up there on the butterfat scale. The toppings were just fine and they offer amazing variety but if the base ice cream isn't bringing it to the table, what's the point? After two consecutive weekends sampling the stuff, I'm voting for the campsite service spot and tourist center in Þingvellir as my favorite ice cream. It's creamy and delicious enough to stand on its own- no frills required there.

Finally, in the hamburger category, Búllan always wins on almost everyone's fave-burger list. It's got the cute location and the charming American burgerjoint campiness but I just don't love their burgers enough to make a special effort to get them there. When I get my meat 'n bun craving I go to the burger wagon outside my local pool down the street. Less hype, more delicious. That's how it should be.

107.107

I'd like to take a moment to mention how stupendously great my neighborhood is, since I have been enjoying the experience a lot lately. Here's why:

• Walkably close to a good cinema and the home of the Icelandic Symphony.
• A great grocery store, that while expensive, doesn't suffer from the same expiration date tragedy as my other store and contains all sorts of hidden delights in its tiny aisles. Good for running into people you know as well as the Famous Locals. Also has ridiculously friendly checkout people- even when it was the only store open for kilometers on new years eve and was completely jammed, they still greeted everyone and maintained good humor in the chaos. I'll pay for that.
• The best hamburgers in Iceland. I don't care what you Búllan fans say- I was there one day last year and Tommi himself was patronizing my favorite place. If HE's getting in on the action, there's definitely something there.
  
• The best steam room in Reykjavík, by all accounts. It's a circle, it's got a whole wall of window, and the best acoustics in town. Yes, I sing in the steam when solitary.
• A whole stretch of good seafront, that doesn't suffer from having a near-highway zipping along right next to it. I go there for my peace-n-quiet runs, particularly nice at sunset in the winter.
  
• Close enough that downtown is a pleasant stroll through various cute parts of town.
• Old enough for there to be plenty of tall trees all around the houses.
• Not fabulous enough to suffer from the noisy weekend crowds that I heard frequently when living in 101.
• Plenty of parking for you and for your visitors, on a carefully orchestrated network of one-way streets so that there is almost no street traffic at night going past my house.
  
• Close to where I sing- early morning practices are not so uncomfortable when I have such a short walk to get there.
• Reverse commute! After spending about 15 minutes trying to get from my office to Kringlan at 5:15 the other day, a stretch of road that would normally take a minute, I appreciate this. If I were a Garðabær dweller that would be a daily experience. Misery! Instead I get to sail along the bay with Esja beside me.
• oh, and I'm told that the Select mini-mart at the gas station nearby has some secretly excellent coffee. Do I really need anything else in my 'hood?
  

And that, my friends, is why 107 is where it's AT.

cat town

France has its dogs, Iceland has its cats. People aren't dressing them up in little jackets and bringing them to cafés here, but walk down any side street and you'll see them shadowing into cracked-open windows, crouching under cars, curled on windowsills inside, and skulking through the gardens on nearly every street. At night the yowls of their battles drift through the windows.

On sunny days like the past week, their expansive mood can make for slow going, since I always have to stop and greet them all, and like Icelandic people, they get foolish and slightly sun-drunk when the weather's benevolent. In some of the older neighborhoods, they will lie in wait on the wide concrete walls, and follow your progress down the street, Give them one scratch on the cheek and they will follow you along the wall for blocks, hopping between fences and yards, looking hopeful.

Some are more aloof and will only watch warily from beneath cars or up in trees, but there's always one somewhere. Each stretch of sidewalk I have lived along in the past 2 years has had its own particular cat staking out the territory- the sprightly orange tabby that did the midnight rounds last year, the enormous black and white one that hefted its bulk through the fence to inspect your ankles this spring, and now my new place is loaded with them. There's the small white one that suns on the stump in the back yard, the tuxedo cat that lurks in the grass in the front yard, and all of them seem to be more than willing to twine around my legs and welcome me to their little corner of summertime Iceland.