It's one of those days, where the sun drapes over Iceland, full of the golden promise of brighter days. It's six thirty in the evening and the sky is that just-setting cerulean blue color, striped in peach and pink. I came home this afternoon to a living room bursting with sun, rainbows bouncing off walls and turning my couch to a lazy, dozy place for an afternoon read with tea and biscuits. The difference of a week has brought out the summercolor of the light, and it's choked with yellow now.
One of the grand things about living here is discovering new things to love madly that you would never have known about if it weren't for living in this new place. This week it's the white bean and garlic veggie burgers from Grímur Kokkur, a company from Vestmannaeyjar that's lacking in website skills but makes a mean hvítlauks- og hvítbaunabuff. These little nuggets o' tasty are splendid chopped up, grilled with mushrooms, and tossed over pasta. I discovered these back in the J days, but forgot about them until I moved. Hurrah for rediscovery!
The other how'd-I-miss-it is Finnish music. Thanks to faithful commenter and now in-real-life friend DTW, I'm tuning into RinneRadio, Kaksio, and Giant Robot. Back in the pre-Iceland days, I was always looking for the foreign tunes as a cheap way to feel like I was traveling, so this is a continuation on an old theme. This time though, I'm getting it directly from the source. Hurrah for new tunes, and weekends that in typical Icelandic last-minute fashion, yawn empty on Thursday but then are suddenly populated with activity by Friday afternoon.
*Monday modification: This isn't enough to warrant a whole new post, but I have to say that another "where HAVE you been" recently is Ragnheiður Gröndal's album After The Rain. Although her website's all in Icelandic, she sings in English on this one, her voice is lovely, and plus, she's absolutely adorable. Probably impossible to find her albums elsewhere in the world, but for those of you who travel here, I highly recommend having a listen, particularly the second-to-last track, In Its Place. Makes Monday morning come in a little easier.
23 February 2007
21 February 2007
so, do you like bruises?
While in Italy, I discovered the BEST way to get them, and it also happens to be a ton of fun. Here’s how to do it: Start in Ortisei, and head to the hills where a vintage chairlift from the 50’s creaks its way up a mountainside. A venerable gentleman there will rent you a one-person wooden toboggan with smooth metal runners. Climb aboard this single-chair lift after the thick plaid woolen blanket has been tucked on the seat, following your sled that’s been put on the previous chair.
Admire the view from the lift as it chugs the way up the hill. Meditate in the solitary silence as you progress majestically up the hill in your little individual seat and the mountains reveal themselves through the pines. Note the odd items traveling on the chairs going down the hill- stacks of blankets returning to the bottom, crates of bottles, bunches of trekking poles, sleds. At the top of the hill, clamber out and grab your sled. If desired, have a beer at the top and feast on the incredible view, the Alpensun, the fresh flavors of pine and moss. When you’re ready, head to the top of the groomed sledding track and settle into the sled.
Now, for maximum bruise potential, swollen ankles, and snow-up-the-trousers, this must be done with a largeish group, and everyone has to start down the hill at once, jockeying for positions. It’s even better if one person goes on a little ahead to the first turn to take action shots of the inevitable pileups and tip-overs.
This activity probably sounds totally idiotic but it was so hilariously fun that on the first trip when I hit a snowbank hard enough to shoot off the sled and end up on the far side, I was laughing so hard I couldn’t answer when asked if all my limbs were still in place. It’s a ridiculously dangerous idea to attempt to pull off hairpin downhill turns in a barely steerable sled with no safety features, but zipping down the straight parts with the mountains and sparkly sky above is glorious. With a total groomed sled-run of 4 miles, It’s the on-steroids version of sledding as a kid, without the work of hauling the sled back up the hill. We spent an entire day on the hillside.
I did this a week ago and am still bearing the wounds of having my ankle driven over, running into someone else so hard they ended up on the opposite side of snowbank, and various other spills that have resulted in bruises so florid that one looks like I’ve gotten a large tattoo of a purple cabbage on a certain body part. My right shin was so ravaged by the activity that I was even unable to downhill ski the last two days of the trip. In spite of the war wounds that have caused much amusement to those who were on the trip and those who only have seen the aftermath, I definitely would do it again!
Admire the view from the lift as it chugs the way up the hill. Meditate in the solitary silence as you progress majestically up the hill in your little individual seat and the mountains reveal themselves through the pines. Note the odd items traveling on the chairs going down the hill- stacks of blankets returning to the bottom, crates of bottles, bunches of trekking poles, sleds. At the top of the hill, clamber out and grab your sled. If desired, have a beer at the top and feast on the incredible view, the Alpensun, the fresh flavors of pine and moss. When you’re ready, head to the top of the groomed sledding track and settle into the sled.
Now, for maximum bruise potential, swollen ankles, and snow-up-the-trousers, this must be done with a largeish group, and everyone has to start down the hill at once, jockeying for positions. It’s even better if one person goes on a little ahead to the first turn to take action shots of the inevitable pileups and tip-overs.
This activity probably sounds totally idiotic but it was so hilariously fun that on the first trip when I hit a snowbank hard enough to shoot off the sled and end up on the far side, I was laughing so hard I couldn’t answer when asked if all my limbs were still in place. It’s a ridiculously dangerous idea to attempt to pull off hairpin downhill turns in a barely steerable sled with no safety features, but zipping down the straight parts with the mountains and sparkly sky above is glorious. With a total groomed sled-run of 4 miles, It’s the on-steroids version of sledding as a kid, without the work of hauling the sled back up the hill. We spent an entire day on the hillside.
I did this a week ago and am still bearing the wounds of having my ankle driven over, running into someone else so hard they ended up on the opposite side of snowbank, and various other spills that have resulted in bruises so florid that one looks like I’ve gotten a large tattoo of a purple cabbage on a certain body part. My right shin was so ravaged by the activity that I was even unable to downhill ski the last two days of the trip. In spite of the war wounds that have caused much amusement to those who were on the trip and those who only have seen the aftermath, I definitely would do it again!
20 February 2007
lather, rinse, repeat
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it's that time of year once again, except this time, I ate the salad, rebel foreigner that I am. It's given me a weird fake I'm-so-local feeling to be seeing these routines and traditions again for the second time. This time I know how to cut everything up, I know that one ladleful of soup is the right amount to give you space for everything, and the smoky thick flavor reminds me of things a year ago. Soup for rememberance!
Meanwhile, outside things have become rather un-wintry during my time away. It's balmy and springlike, with bright skies late into the evening and the fresh smell of things growing on the breezes that sneak in my open window at night. Iceland's doing all it can to woo me away from the charms and memories of other lands!
Meanwhile, outside things have become rather un-wintry during my time away. It's balmy and springlike, with bright skies late into the evening and the fresh smell of things growing on the breezes that sneak in my open window at night. Iceland's doing all it can to woo me away from the charms and memories of other lands!
19 February 2007
Alpengiggle
I spent the last week in South Tirol, the bit that’s in Italy amid the Dolomites. The day after my last post, we woke early to drive out of Innsbruck and up through the Brenner Pass to Bolzano, Italy. Stuffed with the excellent Tyrolean breakfast, the mountains scraping to the crystalline blue sky, and the towers and turrets of the city had me gurgling with glee from the back seat of our minivan. Í commented gravely from further forward in the car that I had apparently come down with a case of the Alp Giggles, for which there was not much of a cure. The view continued that way for the whole trip through Austria and down into Italy, and then we turned off to the left to follow a narrow, winding road through a string of Tyrolean villages, all painted houses, beautiful sculptures, and skiers everywhere.
Our destination was the village of Selva-Wolkenstein, about a two-hour drive from Innsbruck. Although technically Italy, the place was a mishmash of languages and influences. Some signs were in three languages- Tyrolean, German, and Italian, and in most places the greetings were in German in shops and restaurants. For the most part though, it was all Tirol- leather trousers, frilly blouses, lots of silver buttons, and houses with long overhangs, gently sloping roofs, and plenty of deep balconies to enjoy the blazing Alpine sun.
The mountains there were even more astounding than the Alps in Innsbruck were, with sheer vertical cliffs stretching improbably high, topped with scalloped peaks, and everywhere the surface leveled off even slightly, pines had taken root. It’s all been formed into a skiing paradise, so ribbons of trails and chairlifts streamed down the hill, zig-zagged by skiers plunging back to the narrow valleys. Interestingly though, in spite of the vast skiiable area (500 km of downhill trails, plus x-c skiing and toboggan runs), the lift tickets were about half the price of one in the US, and due to the challenges in getting there, I met not a single other American. It was all Germans, Italians, some English, other Icelanders, and a smattering of people from other European locations.
We’d rented an apartment for the week in the center of the town, a spacious and airy full- floor of a chalet, complete with views of the ski slopes and blanketing morning sun on the balcony. We bought our own breakfast at the grocery around the corner- fresh bread, thinly sliced Italian ham and salami, chunks of cheese, and Tirolean yogurt. From the house we could walk to one of the large chairlifts in our ski boots, and then ski all day, exploring the mountains and valleys, stopping at one of the little huts for a sit in the sun, a sip of mulled wine, or lunch, your choice of Italian, Tyrolean, or German food.
More later... I also have photos but I have apparently hit the limit on my free flickr account and cannot currently upload! You’ll be stuck imagining for now.
Our destination was the village of Selva-Wolkenstein, about a two-hour drive from Innsbruck. Although technically Italy, the place was a mishmash of languages and influences. Some signs were in three languages- Tyrolean, German, and Italian, and in most places the greetings were in German in shops and restaurants. For the most part though, it was all Tirol- leather trousers, frilly blouses, lots of silver buttons, and houses with long overhangs, gently sloping roofs, and plenty of deep balconies to enjoy the blazing Alpine sun.
The mountains there were even more astounding than the Alps in Innsbruck were, with sheer vertical cliffs stretching improbably high, topped with scalloped peaks, and everywhere the surface leveled off even slightly, pines had taken root. It’s all been formed into a skiing paradise, so ribbons of trails and chairlifts streamed down the hill, zig-zagged by skiers plunging back to the narrow valleys. Interestingly though, in spite of the vast skiiable area (500 km of downhill trails, plus x-c skiing and toboggan runs), the lift tickets were about half the price of one in the US, and due to the challenges in getting there, I met not a single other American. It was all Germans, Italians, some English, other Icelanders, and a smattering of people from other European locations.
We’d rented an apartment for the week in the center of the town, a spacious and airy full- floor of a chalet, complete with views of the ski slopes and blanketing morning sun on the balcony. We bought our own breakfast at the grocery around the corner- fresh bread, thinly sliced Italian ham and salami, chunks of cheese, and Tirolean yogurt. From the house we could walk to one of the large chairlifts in our ski boots, and then ski all day, exploring the mountains and valleys, stopping at one of the little huts for a sit in the sun, a sip of mulled wine, or lunch, your choice of Italian, Tyrolean, or German food.
More later... I also have photos but I have apparently hit the limit on my free flickr account and cannot currently upload! You’ll be stuck imagining for now.
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