outdoor essentials

One of the things that really surprised me about housing in Iceland when I first arrived was that balconies are considered a nearly essential feature of home life. In Boston, I never lived in an apartment with a balcony, and none of my friends had balconies either. What's the point when winter is so long and tedious, when you only get a few months of use out of it? And yet, when I first arrived, the balcony-free apartment was looked upon with a bit of pity despite being in a very charming old house.

The next apartment had a balcony but turned out to not be as useful as one might hope due to its northfacing seafront location. It was possible to do the occasional barbecue, well anchored with heavy stones, but wasn't really a comfortable place to sit and enjoy the day due to brisk breezes off the sea. Furthermore, it only received direct sunlight late on summer evenings when the rays were no longer particularly warming.

I've been through several other apartments since then, some with outdoor space, some frustratingly without, and I have to say that life in Iceland is definitely much better when viewed from a balcony. Where I live now, it may be a rather tiny space, a bit more than a meter square, but the southern exposure and genteel neighborhood views means it's actually almost useable. On sunny days when the breeze isn't too persistent, I tie open the door and let that marvelous Iceland air pour through the house, and on rainy days I press my nose to the windowpane and imagine the days when it'll be possible to sit out there again.

Plus, if you want to do one of the essential Scandinavian weekend chores when housecleaning, a balcony is a must. On dry days, the neighborhood blooms with duvets tossed over railings, and now I can do it too. For a while there was no railing on my tiny outdoor space, which resulted in a few mishaps where my duvet and drying rack ended up in the garden below, but I've mastered the technique now with a few well-placed clothespins. After a few hours in the sun and wind, the duvets take on the most marvelous lava-air scent that puts me to sleep instantly.

And on those winter nights when the darkness pins itself tight to the window, it's a ritual to step out into the frigid air while I brush my teeth, just to scan the sky in hopes of seeing northern lights. Somehow this is far nicer than looking through a window. Iceland's weather is always more interesting when you interact with it, and my tiny balcony is the perfect way to do that, in any season.

Icelandic new year flavor

A few months ago one of the members of my choir announced that she had a plan to make a disc of musical favorites related to New Year celebrations, and she wanted us to be part of the effort. The director whipped up a new arrangement of one of the Icelandic classics, and during our annual weekend retreat rehearsal, we performed it along with several other favorites to an attentive recording crew.

She was recently interviewed on the national radio program, and it included a snippet of the best one as the intro. This song's tune and lyrics make me think of Vikings stamping around a bonfire in the deepest dark of an Icelandic winter night, and even though this is only a clip, I hope you can feel it too.

The rest of the program is an interview with my choir member for anyone who wants to exercise their listening skills, and it closes out with another recording of another New Year favorite, as performed by a very enthusiastic choir comprised of several generations of Icelanders. I can't wait to get the CD and hear the rest of our contributions, and hear what else is included.

lay low in the snow

The snow is just warm enough to slide down the window in lazy ribbons, accumulating in fractals along the lower sill, and my trustily unreliable streetlamp winks and flickers as always. The air is unusually still, so the snow billows beneath the illumination in ways remembered from childhood. Across the street one tiny tree on a doorstep still twinkles with ice-blue fairy lights, left from Christmas a little longer than the rest, and inside, my feet steaming gently on the radiator, the solitude of a single song repeated.

The weather's shifting now, clattering in occasional ice pellets on the panes, and the houses across the street go dark as night falls deeper. Time for sleep, just once this song finishes one more time. My secret so small, I forget it's there.

localized memory loss

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

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

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

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

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

marshmallow lessons

I was one of the fortunate invitees to a rather spectacular dinner on Saturday night, at the now famous blue house. One of the temporary house residents A, a restaurant owner from Germany, had been in Iceland for the autumn lamb slaughter season, learning about where exactly the food's coming from. He'd also started producing a new lamb sausage, a perfect marriage between the texture and seasoning of the best dried German sausages and the smoky Icelandic lamb flavor. He' flew back to his restaurant a few days ago, so Saturday was his final hurrah of sorts.

On Saturday evening I walked to the Blue House in the velvety darkness, and as I neared the house the smell of delicious roasted things wafted down the street, carried by the snappy breeze pouring off the sea. Inside the house it was steamy and warm and full chatter as A put together the final touches on the appetizers. We sat down soon later, the sixteen of us crowded into the living room, friends and new additions alike.

To start, tender shrimp on bread with a homemade cocktail sauce that disappeared quickly from in front of this enthusiastic crowd, and then came the flavors I'd been smelling down the street. Roast pork, roasted cauliflower all toasted on the ends, herbed Bavarian-style dumplings poured over with sauce from the roasted meat, and a creamy thin-slice cucumber salad to offset the richness of the other flavors. Absolutely divine- decadent and infinitely edible, reminiscent of so many good times in Germany but done in a way that managed to be strangely light on the stomach. Of course we all ate too much but still managed space for the skyr tart that hid a treasure trove of booze-soaked cookies in the bottom. Even the Argentinian priest had to try some of that one.

And then, time for the after party even though we were all slightly comatose from the deliciousness. We pushed the tables aside and on came the SingStar, heavy on the German tunes since so large a proportion of the attendees were German. Nothing starts a party quite like disco-era Eurovision. Once everyone was warmed up enough we went outside to the grill-pit where a snappy fire had gotten started, over which we toasted marshmallows. The bag of marshmallows I'd bought were made by Haribo, and since apparently Europeans didn't grow up toasting marshmallows, the bag had printed a series of drawings to show how to do it. I had to explain to the assembled multitude how close to the fire to hold it, the proper brown-and-bubbly look to be going for, that a bit of steam is a good thing, that it's best when the thing starts to get misshapen, but beware of that hot sugar.

As we crowded around the fire, the massive darkness above us lit up with northern lights. They've been a rare sight this year so everyone marveled appropriately before turning back to the cozy light of the fire, the hiss of toasting sugar, and the friendliness that comes from a group of people from all over the world, somehow brought together on a gorgeous night on this strange rock of an island.

it's not what you think

So yes, I have not been writing much lately, and here's why:

• When every trip to the store is a reminder of the kreppa as the prices of everything have gone up here by 40isk, there by 200isk, I don't really want to spend more time writing about the experience here.
• I listen to it on the radio in the car, at work when my coworkers argue about who should do what next over lunch. Again, do I really want to spend more time thinking about it here?
  
• The significant themes which are occupying my head lately aren't the sort of thing I share with partially unknown audiences on the internet.
  
• There are many others who're covering the governmental and economic details far better than I could ever aspire to.
• And also partly because from the daily-basis perspective, it's not like a "collapsing" government creates some kind of visible effect. There were no citywide riots, no mass walkouts of offices, no burning cars.

I've been listening to reports from the US regularly, reading the American news, and talking with my family there, and it doesn't really seem like it's a whole lot better there either. I know people who're being downsized in both places, I know people who're uncertain about what the future will bring in both places, people who've lost breathtaking amounts of money from pension funds and 401k's. So, why not stay here where at least the air is clear, where the northern lights finally made an appearance after so many months of black skies? As long as I'm fortunate enough to be employed, warmly housed, and fed, Iceland seems as good as any other place.
So there it is. I like to write about the things here that still make me happy, in spite of the cold weather we've had lately. It's the time of year when the sun's finally high enough to stream into my top-floor home, a time when the sunrises are heartbreakingly beautiful every morning, when my sunset run around Seltjarnarnes takes my breath away, so incandescent is the sea with turquoise glory.
November to January this far north can feel like the worst punishment ever, but the reward is that when the sun comes back and the days are finally long enough to use the light, it's one of the most uplifting experiences I can imagine. It's been rather brutally cold (for Iceland, which means -10c) lately, but the advantage is that it comes with clear air that feels extra-saturated with oxygen. Every day I am lost in the wonder of light as the fuschia clouds mark the sunrise, then Snæfellsnes glows pinkly from my office, then Esja catches that afternoon gold, and then as evening falls the sky goes lavender. I know I talk about it ALL the time here, but for me it's what makes this place so unforgettable, that the magical glow can be yours to witness so frequently, rather than the occasional exceptional moment as a 10 minute treat for only the earliest of risers.
And so in conclusion, despite all the emails I have been getting recently wanting the juicy details on just how collapsed it is here, I am going to write about light or how great it is that I can find a muffin tin to borrow in under 4 hours, lent to me by someone I've only met once in my life. There are still plenty of things to be happy about, even if they don't seem like really significant parts of your day. I still think that if you can't find any joy in those free delights all around you, you're looking in the wrong places for happiness.