Dansa!

Iceland, Chapter One.

101 Reykjavík

In a trip loaded with highlights, the final evening produced yet another enlightening experience. It started at Björn's apartment, just down the street. Björn is an Icelandic-Alaska, and vice versa, who shares a common connection in Denver. He cordially invited us over to his top-level harbor view flat for a BBQ. We met a couple of Björn's roommates, including Nathan, a gregarious young Frenchman working seasonal employment as a lagoon tour guide. Nathan spoke English through his French accent, with a lisp, and a touch of Icelandic. We feasted on a proper and contemporary Icelandic BBQ: a platter of hot dogs, potato chips, then a platter of pork chops, some bleu cheese stuffed mushrooms, and baked potatoes, with stout coffee and Hraun (Lava) bars for dessert (at 11:00 PM). Dialogue was a cross between humorous and insightful, with Björn and Nathan engaging in a sweeping cross-cultural observation of Iceland. Ground covered included: a heated debate about the merits of abstract artwork, the cult of binge drinking in Iceland, the six declinations of Icelandic nouns along with the proper pronunciation of "ll" (ktllh), the Icelandic rescue squad, the cult of the hamburger, the fleeting nature of late night romantic flings in Reykjavík, the skiing near Akuyeri, the high cost of goods, and a vote on the acceptability of Nathan's lounging/granny pants. Across the bay, the sun continued on a slow shallow arc behind brooding charcoal and slate clouds.

Around midnight, Björn and Nathan took us on a guided tour of the famed runtur, or drunken weekend wanderings of the Icelanders. We started with Hjálmar, a local reggae band playing at a cool club, Faktory. Nathan took us right up front and we soon found ourselves surrounded by a forest of Scandinavian giants, 6'6" clean cut blond guys wearing odd hats and sunglasses. Björn occasionally translated some of the lyrics, but we spent most of the night singing along to the choruses in an ad hoc gibberish: yao, yao, yao..yao, yao! At the intermission, one inebriate stumbled and took a header at our feet. "That was a little early," explained Nathan. "It is only 1:00 AM. About 3:00, many people start tipping over. At 4:00, things peak. That is when people start smashing their glasses in the street!" At the end of the set, the stoic lead Viking of Hjálmar assumed the power stance, pumped his fist in the air, and belted a screeching falsetto, "Taaaakkkkk fyriiirrrr!" (Thank you.) Awesome.

We poured into the street around 2:15 AM, and it was kind of, sort of dark, more so gray. Björn then escorted us to the trendy/art/gay bar Bakkus. We stood in the queue for awhile and Björn introduced us to a Scandinavian giant from the search and rescue squad - he seemed like an affable guy. About 15 minutes later we made it into the club and headed for the packed dance floor, where a drunken mob gyrated to thumping Euro-electronica. There were these tall skinny model types all around wearing these odd, chic clothes that I thought people only wore on the runway. But don't get the wrong impression; these twiggy individuals danced with a fury. In fact, in the mix, I felt like a pebble bouncing down a glacial river, getting pummeled and shoved from all directions. It was quite a blast, like being part of a spasmodic amoeba.

After the long day, Jenean turned in for some sleep and to rest her ankle. In turn, I set out to capture some photos. An awesome cloudscape - like a fantastical painting - took on the colors and shadows of the rising sun (around 3:00 AM). I sat by the Viking ship for awhile and took in the grandeur of the sky and sea.

Now things really started to get strange. For one, random people started asking me things in Icelandic, and when I would reply in English, they would keep talking to me in Icelandic as if I understood. I am still not sure what they were telling me. With the sun on the climb, the streets of the city started to feel the calm and beginning of a new day. At the same time, we ascended toward the apex of the runtur. Long lines queued at the hot dog stands. Pairs of people stumbled around in an interdependent effort to hold each other upright. Others sat in the nooks and crannies of the street, somewhere between passed out and resting. Large oblivious groups seemed to surreptitiously merge together from different pedestrian currents. Coming to realize the happenstance of a group now in their path, high fives and big man hugs were administered with gusto. I am not sure if they were friend or stranger, but I doubt it mattered.

With a short night of sleep ahead, I wandered back to the hostel, content to be part of such a strange wonderful world. 

3 AM Sunrise 

Outside the club, 4 AM 

Journeys, new and old

A large portion of our airfare to Iceland was funded by the inheritance my parents passed onto us after the sale of my grandma and grandpa's house in Sauk Rapids. Since my grandparents enjoyed to travel so much, I know that they would appreciate us doing the same.

Yvette was very expressive and carried a lot of energy. Arnold was content to sit back, be silly, and smile. My grandma would say, "Iceland!?! Geesh! Is it buggy?" My grandpa would be content to listen to my descriptions of the birds and the fishing and the music. My grandma would be keen to know about the prices of things and the measures we took to "get a good deal." My grandpa would raise his eyebrows in a silly way to express his approval at my descriptions of playing air guitar on a volcano rim. Both would love to hear about the loon calls we heard echoing across the vast blue lake, Frostastaðavatn. I would tell them how the ethereal chuckle of the loon immediately brought me back to early mornings at the cabin at Long Lake, where they would take my cousins and me for adventurous weeks during the summer. I would recall how my fledgling wonder with travel and exploration and freedom found fertile ground in those long and roaming days chasing frogs, mapping the woods, and taking solo paddle boat rides to - what seemed like - the far end of the world.

My grandma and grandpa sit back, and they smile.

Strange, but in all my readings and research about Iceland, I never came across any mention of loons. How nice, then, that this pair of loons decided to leave its winter home on the Atlantic and not - per usual - head to Minnesota for the summer but instead visit us here in Iceland!

All my love...

Frostastaðavatn

Kristínartindur

I emerged into the cool overcast morning around 6 AM. After a spot of air guitar overlooking the curving form of the glacier, I started a forthright climb up into the low ceiling of gray clouds. Shortly, with greatly diminished sight, I attempted to follow a faint trail across the loose quadrilaterals and polygons of shale, the sage-colored tundra grasses. The tread would come and go, but with a little intuition and forward progress, I managed to regain the trail after each departure. At first melancholy about the shrouded vistas, I came to appreciate the more immediate experience of the climb, and took to having a closer look at all the wonderful dimensions immediate. And though I could not see whatsoever the majestic peaks and vast ice fields all around, I could sense that there was something powerful nearby, somewhere in the cloud.

After some time, I started to notice more light filtering into the cloud I was in. The pale gray started to meld into warmer tones. Not long after, I noticed that I could see the sun - dimly - through the overcast sky. I continued up the flank of the mountain, now steeper. I took in the green upslope to my left, suddenly realizing the vague but brooding outline of a jagged ridgeline towering overhead. I felt like a field mouse who suddenly realizes the fixed gaze of a hawk. And then, I noted, abruptly, a line of towering spires unveiling to the north. And then - my goodness! -  hovering angelically to the east, the massively-glaciated Hvannadalshnúkur, sitting atop an ether of clouds. Where there was nothing but white a minute ago, now the highest point in Iceland brooded, glinting in a buttery sunlight. A bout of vertigo overwhelmed my sense of things; I took a seat and marveled at the new dimensions. It was as if I was seeing the world anew.

After regaining my senses, I took a lot of pictures and offered video monologues at length, speaking of the "dawn of creation" and the "birthing of the earth from the ethereal fog." These are soaring statements indeed but they still fall short to describe the inner experience bedazzled by mountains taking form before my eyes.

I made the rest of the climb up to my high point near the summit of Kristínartindur. The clouds continued to unveil more and more. The long flowing lines of Skaftafellsjökull. The thundering ice cap of morsárdalur. Vatnajökull himself spanning off into the northern horizon.

Before I left, I took one final view into each of the directions, pausing a moment to offer gratitude to all before me. It was the least I could do, given all that was shared with me on this wonderful morning in Iceland. 

Hvannadalshnúkur

 Morsárdalur