Iceland: Lessons Learned, Vol. I
So! Iceland! My procrastination has effectively scrubbed any sort of narrative through-line of the trip from my brain, so I'm going to try something different, i.e. a Lessons Learned sort of affair, presented in multiple parts because holy gravy boats is this going to be long. Here goes:
Overnight flights are cheaper! You do, however, pay with your soul.
Our flight on WOW Airlines (yes, it's the actual no-frills Icelandic carrier, and no, we didn't die, even though our plane was named Freyja) was leaving in the evening, and arriving at 4 a.m. local time five hours later. No problem, thought we! We can nap on the flight and be only somewhat sleep-deprived for our first day! Yeahhh, about that: sleep on the flight was not so much, thanks to adrenaline and the fact that our flight skirted far enough above the Arctic Circle that night didn't actually happen. This meant that Narcolepto Boy and Vague Unfocused Stare Girl arrived at the hotel before our room was ready and the complimentary breakfast was even fully served, so out we went to stagger around the streets and hills of Reykjavik, which we only experienced subliminally. We finally ended up flopping on a bench near the hotel front desk and leaned against each other slipping in and out of consciousness, being told that our room wouldn't be ready for another 3 hours. I finally went up to ask if in the name of the gods there was some way we could hurry things along.
"I'm sorry," I was told, "I know you're tired, but because you're only staying for one night we can't really move anyone else around."
I blinked at her. "We're here for a week."
She blinked back. "Oh. What's your name again?"
I told her.
"OH! Yes, your room's been ready for a while now. Here's your keys! Sorry about that!"
The subsequent shared coma proceeded according to plan.
Location, location, location.
We stayed in the annex of the Hotel Leifur Eiríksson on Skólavörðustígur (that's easy for you to say) in the heart of Reykjavik. The room was smaller than my college dorm room, the shower was just a shower with a curtain and a drain in the floor of the bathroom (more on the shower situation later), but man, did we love our hotel-partly because of the daily free breakfast, but mostly because when we walked out the main entrance, this was the view:
That massive hunk of Freudian symbolism is Hallgrímskirkja, Reykjavik's one big recognizable Statue of Liberty-level landmark, and we could have thrown Frisbees at it from where we were staying. We were also two blocks from the nearest coffeehouse, five from the bars, and an easy stroll to just about everywhere we wanted to go. We couldn't have picked it any better, so a solid high-five to you, Travelocity folks, and we even forgive you for originally trying to corral us next to Keflavik Airport for the week. (The one problem with the room: no blackout curtains, which is an issue when dusk isn't until the late-night talk shows would be kicking in back home. A sleep mask will be your best friend.)
They know you're coming.
You may have noticed that Iceland has crossed over the Hip Tourist Destination tipping point, and for better or worse they are fully aware of that fact. By gods, they want your tourist dollar, especially in the aftermath of the economic collapse of a few years ago, so here, enjoy this decorative object emblazoned with a puffin, fine sir or madam! As I mentioned, Skólavörðustígur is a street that cuts through the center of everything, and it's loaded with shops and cafés and other groovy places to stop in, but they're definitely angling for the out-of-towners, with mostly-English signage and self-consciously local offerings. Expensive, of course, but we went to the regular Saturday flea market down by the harbor, where the volcanic stone necklaces are $15 a pop and not $150.
Everything you've heard about the showers is true, and for that, I'm sorry.
So about those showers: yes, they really are nasty. If you haven't heard this bit, Iceland is structured around geothermal everything, which is why heating is the only thing on the island that isn't wincingly expensive. Unfortunately, while the drinking water is exquisite and pure, their hot water is taken from the ground fully heated and passed on directly to you, heavy sulfur content and all, which means you're basically showering in what smells like a bowl of leftover hard-boiled eggs just farted on you. You do get used to it in time, but there's still that moment of hesitation when you try to decide if maybe you can just live with your own flop sweat for another day or two. (On the other hand? My hair has never felt more luxurious and my face cleared up for the first time in 35 years. We picked up some sulfur soap when we got back. It smells like adventure!)
There's some amazing Icelandic music out there, but you have to look for it.
The first song I heard in public once we'd landed in Keflavik was "Fisherman's Blues" by the Waterboys. That's what the incidental soundtrack for the rest of the trip was like: Roxy Music, Guns and Roses (I heard "Sweet Child o' Mine in two different bars ten minutes apart), loads of 80's pop in both American and British flavors. All that said, Iceland has an amazing music scene if you're willing to go hunting for it. My advice: run, don't walk, to 12 Tónar, a record shop with an associated record label on the oft-aforementioned Skólavörðustígur, with listening stations, comfy couches, and a generous selection of Icelandic bands to test-drive:
That's me (photo by rain_herself), listening to Mammut's CD Komdu Til Min Svarta Systir, which I ended up taking home. Give it a listen if you have the means.
(Incidentally, we also took in some Icelandic TV during a bit of downtime, which was much the same: subtitled American sitcoms from the '90's and British sporting events, with the occasional Serious Icelandic Political Talk Show. Also, they don't believe in organizing their cable channels coherently, which is the only reason I can figure why Hustler TV was sandwiched between Nick Jr. and the Disney Channel on the dial.)
Coming up in Vol II: The food.
Overnight flights are cheaper! You do, however, pay with your soul.
Our flight on WOW Airlines (yes, it's the actual no-frills Icelandic carrier, and no, we didn't die, even though our plane was named Freyja) was leaving in the evening, and arriving at 4 a.m. local time five hours later. No problem, thought we! We can nap on the flight and be only somewhat sleep-deprived for our first day! Yeahhh, about that: sleep on the flight was not so much, thanks to adrenaline and the fact that our flight skirted far enough above the Arctic Circle that night didn't actually happen. This meant that Narcolepto Boy and Vague Unfocused Stare Girl arrived at the hotel before our room was ready and the complimentary breakfast was even fully served, so out we went to stagger around the streets and hills of Reykjavik, which we only experienced subliminally. We finally ended up flopping on a bench near the hotel front desk and leaned against each other slipping in and out of consciousness, being told that our room wouldn't be ready for another 3 hours. I finally went up to ask if in the name of the gods there was some way we could hurry things along.
"I'm sorry," I was told, "I know you're tired, but because you're only staying for one night we can't really move anyone else around."
I blinked at her. "We're here for a week."
She blinked back. "Oh. What's your name again?"
I told her.
"OH! Yes, your room's been ready for a while now. Here's your keys! Sorry about that!"
The subsequent shared coma proceeded according to plan.
Location, location, location.
We stayed in the annex of the Hotel Leifur Eiríksson on Skólavörðustígur (that's easy for you to say) in the heart of Reykjavik. The room was smaller than my college dorm room, the shower was just a shower with a curtain and a drain in the floor of the bathroom (more on the shower situation later), but man, did we love our hotel-partly because of the daily free breakfast, but mostly because when we walked out the main entrance, this was the view:
That massive hunk of Freudian symbolism is Hallgrímskirkja, Reykjavik's one big recognizable Statue of Liberty-level landmark, and we could have thrown Frisbees at it from where we were staying. We were also two blocks from the nearest coffeehouse, five from the bars, and an easy stroll to just about everywhere we wanted to go. We couldn't have picked it any better, so a solid high-five to you, Travelocity folks, and we even forgive you for originally trying to corral us next to Keflavik Airport for the week. (The one problem with the room: no blackout curtains, which is an issue when dusk isn't until the late-night talk shows would be kicking in back home. A sleep mask will be your best friend.)
They know you're coming.
You may have noticed that Iceland has crossed over the Hip Tourist Destination tipping point, and for better or worse they are fully aware of that fact. By gods, they want your tourist dollar, especially in the aftermath of the economic collapse of a few years ago, so here, enjoy this decorative object emblazoned with a puffin, fine sir or madam! As I mentioned, Skólavörðustígur is a street that cuts through the center of everything, and it's loaded with shops and cafés and other groovy places to stop in, but they're definitely angling for the out-of-towners, with mostly-English signage and self-consciously local offerings. Expensive, of course, but we went to the regular Saturday flea market down by the harbor, where the volcanic stone necklaces are $15 a pop and not $150.
Everything you've heard about the showers is true, and for that, I'm sorry.
So about those showers: yes, they really are nasty. If you haven't heard this bit, Iceland is structured around geothermal everything, which is why heating is the only thing on the island that isn't wincingly expensive. Unfortunately, while the drinking water is exquisite and pure, their hot water is taken from the ground fully heated and passed on directly to you, heavy sulfur content and all, which means you're basically showering in what smells like a bowl of leftover hard-boiled eggs just farted on you. You do get used to it in time, but there's still that moment of hesitation when you try to decide if maybe you can just live with your own flop sweat for another day or two. (On the other hand? My hair has never felt more luxurious and my face cleared up for the first time in 35 years. We picked up some sulfur soap when we got back. It smells like adventure!)
There's some amazing Icelandic music out there, but you have to look for it.
The first song I heard in public once we'd landed in Keflavik was "Fisherman's Blues" by the Waterboys. That's what the incidental soundtrack for the rest of the trip was like: Roxy Music, Guns and Roses (I heard "Sweet Child o' Mine in two different bars ten minutes apart), loads of 80's pop in both American and British flavors. All that said, Iceland has an amazing music scene if you're willing to go hunting for it. My advice: run, don't walk, to 12 Tónar, a record shop with an associated record label on the oft-aforementioned Skólavörðustígur, with listening stations, comfy couches, and a generous selection of Icelandic bands to test-drive:
That's me (photo by rain_herself), listening to Mammut's CD Komdu Til Min Svarta Systir, which I ended up taking home. Give it a listen if you have the means.
(Incidentally, we also took in some Icelandic TV during a bit of downtime, which was much the same: subtitled American sitcoms from the '90's and British sporting events, with the occasional Serious Icelandic Political Talk Show. Also, they don't believe in organizing their cable channels coherently, which is the only reason I can figure why Hustler TV was sandwiched between Nick Jr. and the Disney Channel on the dial.)
Coming up in Vol II: The food.