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.

straight from the land

For Saturday's lunch I had an omelet covered with mushrooms I'd just picked. Iceland's got all kinds of interesting mushrooms sprouting up this time of year and I figured some of them must be edible but wasn't daring enough to figure it out on my own. So, I recruited a friend and longtime reader S for some help. She's trained in the forests of Germany, a country that seems to have made a national habit of the hunting of the shroom, so I offered a ride anywhere she wanted in exchange for advice. When the weather promised sunny on Saturday, we packed up and headed to her favorite spot which also happens to be the stands of birch near her office on the edge of town.

We parked in the empty lot and within a minute she'd spotted our first mushroom, a small birch bolete. She explained some of the amateur rules of mushroom hunting as we zig-zagged through the trees, such as if no other creature wants to eat it (birds, mice, worms and slugs), you probably don't want to either. The birch boletes were plentiful in the area, but by the time they'd grown large enough to spot easily, were infested with worms. Still, we managed to spot a few near the bases of the birches by looking for the brown cap pushing through the grass, and looking for the telltale black-flecked stem.

She also pointed out a few of another type with bright yellow pore-underside, the suede bolete. These were equally infested with interesting creatures when we found large specimens, but a few smaller untouched ones made it into the box. S explained that the Icelandic climate was not ideal with all the moisture- it seemed to make the worms more enthusiastic. Furthermore, the forested areas aren't like German forests- there tends to still be grass and other undergrowth around which obscures the best small specimens and collects more moisture, thus encouraging worm occupation.

With only a small handful of edibles found, we decided to turn to another late-summer hobby here, the blueberry gathering. Our immediate area proved fruitless so I called my knowledgeable friend J who gave us precise instructions for a berry paradise. A short drive later down a bumpy gravel road, through some seeding lupines, we came to an abandoned dog agility course where the road ended. We jumped out and found ourselves ankle deep in blueberries. Over the hill it was even more prolific, berries tucked between pine and birch, crowberries crawling over the rocks, and everywhere, the lovely herbed smell of a sun-warmed Icelandic hillside.

We scrambled up the steep hill, pausing for the good bushes, talking as we went, until the benevolent sun and the challenge of picking while standing on a near-vertical hillside caused us to fall silent. It was a treacherous picking spot, despite its friendly smells and fruit-laden bushes, so both of us had moments where our footing gave way and we sledded down to the next lava-rock hole or tangled with one of the (extremely prickly) stubby pines. Nevermind, all par for the course when picking berries in the wilds of Iceland. Who cares with such a view, on a sunny day with the knowledge that it might be the last in a long while? The end of August brings about this special kind of urgency to beautiful days- the darkness has returned and with it the memory that winter is fast closing in.

That evening for dessert, we ate the blueberries in large bowls, drizzled with cream and sprinkled with brown sugar. I'd thought of baking something elaborate but this is how we've ended up always eating the berries here. Why mess with perfection?

I'd like to also thank Maria for her generous support of the photo portion of this blog effort. Readers like her are one of the reasons I keep posting.

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.