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.

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.

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.

domestic bliss

So here we are in the middle of this particularly un-American holiday, the Easter break, which is a five-day stretch off work for almost the whole country.  It's a big deal for pretty much everyone all over Europe, and an excuse for much traveling in search of adventure.  Because I have to sing in the middle of the holiday, I'm usually sticking around town, but that doesn't mean a lack of interesting things to do.

When the forecast yesterday called for uninterrupted sun, S and I had to take advantage of it.  First stop, Keilir, the  perfectly shaped child's-drawing of a mountain that punctuates the landscape between Reykjavík and the airport.  I knew where to exit the main road to find it, but after one sign pointing the way, the road descended into the chaos of construction, with spurs heading off towards the power lines, into piles of rubble.  Two other carfuls of people wandered the area, also looking for the road to the mountain. We finally found it and followed the bumpy track to near the mountain's base where a host of other families were suiting up to head across the lava.

This mountain must be approached in a majestic fashion, via a track that winds through a rugged lava field, occasionally hiding the mountain from view.  In some places, the lava tubes snaking below the surface have collapsed, revealing shapes like hump-backed bridges, and cracks from which steam gently issues.  On a sunny spring day, the protected spaces gave off that fresh Icelandic earth scent, moist and rich with the promise of growing things.

And then the mountain.. just before the base, the lava hummocks stopped, leaving just bare loose rubble and gravel in dozens of colors- the pale yellow of sulphur, the richer reds and purples, the deepest black.  There are two approaches to the peak here, both equally steep, both equally exciting since the footing is nothing but this same material- loose and shifty underfoot.

We went up the side that promised maximum sun exposure, and were at the top very soon with only one stop for cake and a few photos.  The view reward was tremendous- to the north, Reykjavík and the suburbs sprawled beneath a cloud-pinned Esja, and the mountains ringing the horizon were dusted in snow.  Facing south- and eastward was an open and empty landscape, devoid of human traces, punctuated only by the steam clouds that rose off the nearby blue lagoon, and then off to the west, an expanse of richly blue ocean, shimmering in the haze of bright, fresh air.

Climbing down we took the more windy approach that went past some excellent sedimentary layers and through yet more loose gravel, and then we quickly were at the car again for phase 2 of the day, the Blue Lagoon.  We stumbled on an Easter special there, a two-for-one deal, and soon were soaking in the mysteriously milky water.

I've only been to the Blue Lagoon twice and previously have been less than enthralled, but somehow yesterday, after the easy hike and in the brilliant sun, the place worked its magic.  With a beer in hand, white silica mud on our faces, and a protected spot (by then the wind had started to rise), it was easy to spend some hours there.  The place was packed- tons of Icelandic families, gaggles of Brits and Russians on Easter break, and in our corner we also met the band Sister Sledge, enchanted by the scenery and enjoying a particularly dangerous-looking blue drink.

When the sun began to descend behind the building, it was time to go.  For the last phase of this explore-locally day, we went to Keflavík the town, a place I've never actually visited.  Most of the place was eerily barren of people, the only signs of life the occasional towel flapping wildly in the strong winds, but we did find one restaurant open.  The spot was called Olsen-Olsen (a connection with the Sigur Rós song of the same name perhaps?) and had a distinctly American feel, with padded-back booths and a collection of American license plates on the wall near the bathrooms.

Hungry from the day's activities, we both chose steaks (one lamb, one beef) which came with salad, corn, fries and sauce for under 2000isk, a fantastic bargain.  Much to my delight, the food was also excellent- the steak cooked perfectly and topped with pepper and mushrooms, the sauces richly laced with herbs, the fries crisp and generously sized.

And then home through the evening sun, following the road that's always been whizzed along with an entirely different intention than yesterday.  This road's the way home or the way to the airport, but with the few Blue Lagoon exceptions, I'd never explored what was on either side of this stretch.  Turns out it's more than enough for a really excellent day of activity.

super sundays

I've written plenty about the crappy, miserable, sorry, soggy weeks we've been having here lately, but what I haven't mentioned is those few Sundays of glorious respite there have been interspersed. I took photos a few weeks ago of one of those days, and last Sunday was another. Just at freezing, perfectly still, and crisply sunny, the perfect day for the 45 minute walk to Laugardalslaug from my house. Although I have sunglasses, I wanted to let the brightness burn my eyes. Must save up the glory of light for the dark times later!

I started off along Snorrabraut where the berries on the trees (anyone know what those trees are?) had mixed with the moss along the wall-tops, and then continued straight out to the wide-open bay. When I was in Boston, I got a cashmere sweater as a Christmas gift, and the teal-blue color was called "Arctic ocean". At the time I thought it was pretty cheesy a name, but it really is the color of the sea on a bright winter day.

This walk is one of the great features of Reykjavík, allowing a nice stretch of time to appreciate the majesty of Esja all covered in snow at this time of year, and in the summer, it's the path where I rollerbladed. Going to the pool, I turned in at the bus yard, where this listing baby blue car awaits something around the corner from all the slumbering busses. Further down the street is a cluster of oddly vintage businesses- a shoe fix-it place, a shop with every shape of mirrors you'd ever want.

Then to the pool. Sunday swimming in this kind of weather is quite possibly one of the best things to do on a lazy weekend afternoon. The water seems clearer, each intake of breath is fresh and bright, the water smooth against my limbs. Afterwards, tired from laps and lying in the heated salt-water pool, I watch the rhythmic rotation of arms across the pool lanes, listening to the slightly distant echoes of the kids splashing in their pool, and the murmur of old-man gossip in the next hot tub.

Last time I left while the sun was still fully up, at the same time as the Royal Arctic Line steamed out of the harbor. Three weeks at approximately the same time, it was the just-post-sunset witching hour, when Esja looks its most imposing and frigid, and the pink after-glow of sunset fades into deepening blue skies.

Along with the sun's disappearance, the last moments of warmth in the day left as well, so by the time I got home, I was fully frigid. It took some spicy Indian food and the magic of an Icelandic wool blanket to warm up again, but it was worth it for the views and the sense of peace that always comes from the Sunday pool trip.

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.

on the way to rehearsal

Last Saturday, I brought my camera with me on my way to rehearsal in my old neighborhood. There had been snow the night before, and at 10 a.m., Reykjavík was almost completely silent as I stepped through my front gate. I took the long way, passing Hallgrímskirkja just as the sun was cracking through the clouds behind me. From there I turned down the southwestern side of the hill, an area where the tiny houses are crowded together and it's easy to forget what era you're in.

The streets were almost completely empty of others as I descended down the opposite side of the hill and out across Tjörnin. They were finally taking down the spectacularly tacky candle-shaped covers from the streetlights, a sure sign that somewhere, somehow, summer is coming.

Since that morning, the days have hit that time when it's impossible to keep up with the rate of light gain. I'm arriving home in pink sunset dusk, and Snæfellsjökull has been crisply visible at work several times this week. I know I write about weather all the time here but it is truly jaw-droppingly spectacular to see such huge skies radiating pink and purple for hours at a time, while the mountains trimming the edge of the view shimmer cleanly white. It's norðurljós weather too, and last night as it swirled overhead (once again on my way to rehearsal), I thought of how accustomed I've grown to their presence. It's as magical as it was the first time but now it's part of the expected landscape and routine. It's become as common as the freshness of the air, the undernote of sulphur, the topnotes of moss and lava.

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.

we are tougher than you

In the past three days, the balmy weather of Sunday has descended into a special kind of frigid, with temps hovering around -7c for the most part. That in itself is quite tolerable to my New England raised self, but what makes it spectacular is the steady wind that's currently clocking in at 20mph, with gusts at almost 50. After the warm day on Sunday, the snow all disappeared, so the landscape has that peculiar frozen-looking deadness that's enhanced by the ever-sinking sun.

Everyone here keeps going on proudly about how this must be THE COLDEST I have felt EVER, but to be honest, it's about like my high-school years on an exposed hilltop in Vermont. There were even times in Boston that were that cold, so I'm used to it, people. I've got three cashmere sweaters that are in heavy rotation right now, a jaunty hat, a sweeping scarf, and mittens, all serving me nicely. As I was walking downtown last night, I kept checking... cold? Nope, still toasty. It's all about layers, and befriending people who will knit you things.

Wind like this IS rather preposterous to walk in though, and reminded me of a story my mom heard before I moved here. My mom's got a friend who's been in the international diplomatic circle her whole life, and when her friend heard I was moving to Iceland, she said that the only thing she knew about the country was from someone who had been stationed here some time ago. She'd been told that it was necessary to tie the kids together so they didn't blow away in the fierce weather here. At the time, I dismissed the story as anecdotal and rather goofy, but now I'm not so sure. I've had enough plokkfiskur to make me a little more earthbound than a grade-schooler in the wind, but last night I found myself laughing as I sailed sideways across Lækjargata, the wind ripping my cold-stiffened iPod wire from my ear and untwirling my scarf from my neck.

I'll admit that I wouldn't want to have to deal with weather like this all the time, but as I've said before, the weather here's bound to change in a few days. Until then, I put on my best New England face and lean into the wind, and do my best to find the interesting features of weather like this. For example, I discovered cool ice-effects in the waterfall-wall outside the city hall. It's gonna be a long winter if you can't find something worth admiring.