Getting There
On Saturday morning, we wake at zero dark thirty to head to the airport for our first flight of the day. Uncertain of how much our bags weigh, and without a scale in the apartment, we develop a method of picking up the 14lb container of cat litter in one hand, and a suitcase in the other to compare. Not overly scientific perhaps, but it gets the job done.
We arrive at the airport before 5am, and it is a ghost town. We sit down to consume some caffeine in front of an empty shoe shine stand with a sign that reads, “Do not sit in chairs when Dr. Shine is away.” That is how early it is. Even Dr. Shine is not awake yet.
Later, as we are going through security, a pushy woman with scraggly hair shoves Kristen’s bag while reaching into the machine to pull her own out (which you are totally not supposed to do). We scowl at her retreating back all the way down the concourse. It is never too early in the morning to make a new enemy, that is what we like to say.
We get from Columbus to Charlotte (where we try to exchange some money, but are told that Icelandic krona is sold out) and then onto Boston without incident.
The Boston airport is very pretty to land in, as you circle out over the water, but is otherwise kind of a cluster. There are, for example, terminals A, B, C, and E - but no D. Where is Terminal D? What has happened to it? Is that where the flights to Hogwarts depart?
While we are waiting at the gate, I try to subtly guess which of our fellow passengers might actually be Icelandic. “That guy over there,” I whisper, nodding towards a gigantic red haired man with a wild and unkempt beard, “he looks totally like a Viking!” Kristen points out that when in Iceland, people might not like being compared to Vikings. It might be rude. This seems true, so I revert to playing the game quietly in my head.
We see two flight attendants approach, wearing adorable fashion hats. As they get closer, we hear one of them say “Yow,” which makes us feel like we are totally almost there.
As an aside, every single Iceland Air flight attendant that we saw was preternaturally gorgeous. I say this as a feminist, not mentioning it in a way that is meant to objectify women, but in the way that it seems worth chronicling that every single woman who works for this airline appears to have just walked off stage after competing for Miss Universe.
We board the plane that will take us to Iceland, which is named the “Eyjafjallajökull”, after the unpronounceable volcano that disrupted all air traffic between America and Europe in 2011. I guess it is one of the most famous things about Iceland. And the seats are very nice, and not covered in ash or anything.
The sun sets so fast when you are on a plane. We have watched the sun rise and set from airplane windows today.
When we finally land at Keflavik, the airport is a thing of beauty. It is all blond wood floors, and elegant blends of glass and metal all around. It is like how you walk through IKEA and they have all those well designed living rooms staged? Imagine if you were walking through IKEA, and they had staged an airport. That is what this looks like.
.
Even the public toilets - snyrtings - are incredible. Spotlessly clean with efficient plastic toilets and privacy walls and doors from floor to ceiling. Afterwards, we agree that our first experience with a snyrting may have ruined us for American public restrooms forever. It seems a little weird to be this excited about a bathroom, so we agree that maybe we are just in love with everything about Iceland so far.
[This is kind of true, but still - their bathrooms are fucking fantastic.]
We take the shuttle from the airport into Reykjavik, but it is too dark to see much out the windows. We notice that there are very few recognizable American chains, except we do see a Subway, and a lone KFC/Taco Bell hybrid.
As the shuttle drives through town dropping off passengers (one of whom is staying at a hotel with an unpronounceable name, and has to show the driver her confirmation so that he will know where to go), we get to see a little bit of what Reykjavik is like. The streets are still hopping, even though it is almost 1am. It’s all very colorful buildings and charming shops and cute little restaurants and teeming bars. It reminds me a bit of a college town, the cutest parts of Athens or Ann Arbor, but with a European flair. Kristen will later say that it reminds her of a beach town, right on the water and with tons of unique little stores.
The driver drops us on the street where The House of the Spirits is located, and we have a bit of a muddle trying to figure out where to go. Our guesthouse has two different addresses, but I studied the picture of it carefully and told Kristen we would just have to find the yellow house next to the blue house. This was before I understood that all of the houses are painted different colors here, and there are at least three of that combination on this street.
We find it after only a bit more wandering, and make our way up the spiral staircase (with quite a bit of bag bumping at the turns) to a the quaint little studio that will be our Icelandic home for the next week. It is lovely and charming, and we barely have time to take it in before we fall heavily to sleep. In Iceland.
We arrive at the airport before 5am, and it is a ghost town. We sit down to consume some caffeine in front of an empty shoe shine stand with a sign that reads, “Do not sit in chairs when Dr. Shine is away.” That is how early it is. Even Dr. Shine is not awake yet.
Later, as we are going through security, a pushy woman with scraggly hair shoves Kristen’s bag while reaching into the machine to pull her own out (which you are totally not supposed to do). We scowl at her retreating back all the way down the concourse. It is never too early in the morning to make a new enemy, that is what we like to say.
We get from Columbus to Charlotte (where we try to exchange some money, but are told that Icelandic krona is sold out) and then onto Boston without incident.
The Boston airport is very pretty to land in, as you circle out over the water, but is otherwise kind of a cluster. There are, for example, terminals A, B, C, and E - but no D. Where is Terminal D? What has happened to it? Is that where the flights to Hogwarts depart?
While we are waiting at the gate, I try to subtly guess which of our fellow passengers might actually be Icelandic. “That guy over there,” I whisper, nodding towards a gigantic red haired man with a wild and unkempt beard, “he looks totally like a Viking!” Kristen points out that when in Iceland, people might not like being compared to Vikings. It might be rude. This seems true, so I revert to playing the game quietly in my head.
We see two flight attendants approach, wearing adorable fashion hats. As they get closer, we hear one of them say “Yow,” which makes us feel like we are totally almost there.
As an aside, every single Iceland Air flight attendant that we saw was preternaturally gorgeous. I say this as a feminist, not mentioning it in a way that is meant to objectify women, but in the way that it seems worth chronicling that every single woman who works for this airline appears to have just walked off stage after competing for Miss Universe.
We board the plane that will take us to Iceland, which is named the “Eyjafjallajökull”, after the unpronounceable volcano that disrupted all air traffic between America and Europe in 2011. I guess it is one of the most famous things about Iceland. And the seats are very nice, and not covered in ash or anything.
The sun sets so fast when you are on a plane. We have watched the sun rise and set from airplane windows today.
When we finally land at Keflavik, the airport is a thing of beauty. It is all blond wood floors, and elegant blends of glass and metal all around. It is like how you walk through IKEA and they have all those well designed living rooms staged? Imagine if you were walking through IKEA, and they had staged an airport. That is what this looks like.
.
Even the public toilets - snyrtings - are incredible. Spotlessly clean with efficient plastic toilets and privacy walls and doors from floor to ceiling. Afterwards, we agree that our first experience with a snyrting may have ruined us for American public restrooms forever. It seems a little weird to be this excited about a bathroom, so we agree that maybe we are just in love with everything about Iceland so far.
[This is kind of true, but still - their bathrooms are fucking fantastic.]
We take the shuttle from the airport into Reykjavik, but it is too dark to see much out the windows. We notice that there are very few recognizable American chains, except we do see a Subway, and a lone KFC/Taco Bell hybrid.
As the shuttle drives through town dropping off passengers (one of whom is staying at a hotel with an unpronounceable name, and has to show the driver her confirmation so that he will know where to go), we get to see a little bit of what Reykjavik is like. The streets are still hopping, even though it is almost 1am. It’s all very colorful buildings and charming shops and cute little restaurants and teeming bars. It reminds me a bit of a college town, the cutest parts of Athens or Ann Arbor, but with a European flair. Kristen will later say that it reminds her of a beach town, right on the water and with tons of unique little stores.
The driver drops us on the street where The House of the Spirits is located, and we have a bit of a muddle trying to figure out where to go. Our guesthouse has two different addresses, but I studied the picture of it carefully and told Kristen we would just have to find the yellow house next to the blue house. This was before I understood that all of the houses are painted different colors here, and there are at least three of that combination on this street.
We find it after only a bit more wandering, and make our way up the spiral staircase (with quite a bit of bag bumping at the turns) to a the quaint little studio that will be our Icelandic home for the next week. It is lovely and charming, and we barely have time to take it in before we fall heavily to sleep. In Iceland.