economic stimulus

Earlier this week was the conclusion of the annual bike to work not-month-but-more-than-a-week, and as a bikeless person I contributed by walking to work on a few of the more sunny days. When yesterday turned out to have a promising forecast I set to again, even though my walk would no longer count towards the the tally for my company (during the bike-to-work event, the companies are grouped according to number of employees, with rankings based on the total number of kilometers logged).

Much of my route is the same as the one I described a few years ago, and yesterday morning had much of the same feeling. I stopped by the same bakery for the same cinnamon-peppered scone and a cup of coffee, then made my way across Tjörnin and up Laugavegur. Morning Laugavegur might be one of my favorite experiences of the street, when the Tíu Dropar girl is setting up the outside chairs in anticipation of the afternoon sun that would make it the perfect people watching spot, the sun already warm but the breeze off the snow covered mountaintops to the north is still fresh and cool.

I paused to read some of the love letter exhibition that's now lining shop windows, wondered about the number of curled blue ribbons tied on empty flagpoles and doorhandles, admired the string of skirts that the Red Cross clothing shop had hung from their store high across the street, and of course paused to scratch the tigerstripe cat that was already drunk on sun down by Hlemmur.

On my way home these past few weeks I've remembered that I need a spatula, or would like some noodles from the Asian grocery store by Hlemmur, or stopped to get some fancy chocolates as a barbecue treat from the shop known by its ugly plastic awning and excellent selection. It's hard to resist a scone from the numerous bakeries along the street in the morning, and more than once I've also grabbed lunch fixings from one of the early-opener shops. It's my own way of contributing to the economy here, and I have a feeling that more walking would continue this trend of patronizing the local businesses.

Plus, it's one way that I really relish this most glorious season here, being able to see how the purple flowers that spill over a fence just around the corner from the office have gone from green buds to nearly open in just a week and a half, and witness the pattern of snowfall that still drapes atop Esja and its neighbors. There's also that smell of growing here, now familiar from the past four years and yet still otherworldly, this blend of black cottonwood, arctic birch, and lava-moss.

The news here continues to be depressing at times, the exchange rates continue to go in unfavorable ways, but life still goes on. People still laugh, have parties and concerts, do barbecues and explorations, and at least the arrival of summer makes things feel a little less distressing. Volleyball in the yard, fresh rhubarb growing behind the garage ready to be made into cake, and the opportunity for picnics on the beach in the evening all provide excellent reminders that life still is pretty great. I live in a gorgeous place and am surrounded by wonderful people with whom I can enjoy these fleeting moments of summer sun.

southern climes

I've spent the last week visiting my friend T in Toulouse, a grand vacation from the turbulence of Iceland. We've done all the right girls-in-France things- shopping in the street market near her house for seasonal produce to make dinner, eating plenty of cheese in plenty of varieties, and drinking plenty of local wine that never seems to cost more than 4 euros for something extra delicious. We've sat in cafés, had ice cream and marons in crazy flavors (the violet ones seemed like a better idea than they are in practice), taken day trips, and pored over French fashion magazines.

And now it's time for lunch and then train to Paris to return to what by all reports is a rather soggy Iceland. More on the grandiosity of this area later!

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.

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.