Due to the randomness and unpredictability of Iceland Air’s
“Lucky Fare” program (Motto: “You’ll be lucky
if our call center agents know what the hell they’re talking about”),
I did not stop in Reykjavik as planned. This was especially painful as I had
an exhilarating itinerary planned for Iceland that included, eating puffin
(“Tastes like ostrich!”), visiting the arousing Icelandic
Phallological Museum and thorough exploration of the rumor that Icelandic
women are super easy. With there being only about two hours of dusk this time
of year (notice, I didn’t say “night,” as it is never truly
dark in Reykjavik during the peak of the summer solstice), accomplishing all
of this and more in a two day layover on my way to Norway seemed perfectly
realistic to me. Alas, I was forced to fly straight into Stavanger and I am
being reduced to writing a piece on Iceland from the dim, spotty memories
of my prior visits.
I have been to Reykjavik twice before. My first stay was a sad,
semi-conscious flash of a visit. I had just finished nine days of staggering
around London, during which time there was a wicked transit strike that inconvenienced
me greatly. After walking further in nine days than I had in the two prior
years, my dogs were barking and the cumulative cider hangover that I was sporting
was making even basic motor skills a challenge. Nevertheless, I managed to
do what every tourist should do in Iceland and take a dip in the Blue Lagoon.
The
Blue Lagoon is a geothermal pool/health spa/kick ass photo op about 45 minutes
outside of Reykjavik. If you’ve missed out on the Iceland tourism promotional
blitzkrieg that has ensued in the past five years, you might not know that
pretty much everything in the country runs on the steam power produced from
the numerous underground lava pools and semi-dormant volcanoes. One of the
bennies of sitting on top of all that natural steam is that sometimes an opening
forms under a body of water, the steam rushes through and subsequently makes
that body of water hotter than cheese curd lard. Needless to say, you have
to be careful where you step when you are wading around in the Blue Lagoon.
There are several unpleasant hot spots that can sneak up on you suddenly and
inflict serious injury on a guy or, as one Englishman so eloquently put it,
“Aiiiiigg! I almost cooked me M&Ms!!!”
In
addition to being really, really hot, the lava based goo that coats the bottom
of the Blue Lagoon boasts “a unique combination of natural minerals,
blue green algae and white silica mud” that can purportedly rejuvenate
and revitalize your skin and provide numerous other intangible benefits. The
Blue Lagoon ad team has parlayed these elements into a Disney-esque theme
park. While the geothermal pool is far and away the main attraction, the Blue
Lagoon also offers spa services, massages, UVA+B light skin therapy treatment
programs, a conference center that boasts a “fine dining” experience
with fresh Icelandic ingredients and a gift shop that features bath, face
and skin products manufactured from the Blue Lagoon mud.
While I have a few reservations about the limitless uses for
Blue Lagoon mud (Mix it in chocolate pudding and you have a gritty, but effective
aphrodisiac!), I have to say that four hours of floating around in the pools
erased the lingering, torturous leg strain and foot cramps that I suffered
during the nine previous days of hoofing it around London. I was relaxed,
warm (despite the 40-something Fahrenheit air temperature at the time) and
feeling comfortably numb. If you manage to get to the lagoon during the day
time, you get the added treat of the jaw-dropping view from the edge of the
pool. There are paths and viewing platforms provided all around the Blue Lagoon
for people to admire the endless lava fields that stretch into the horizon
in every direction, giving one the feeling of having just crawled out of one’s
Mars rover. Turn around and you are staring down into the steam belching,
blue crater that is the Blue Lagoon.
In addition to not having the energy to pour my own cocktails,
my first trip to Reykjavik was hindered by the fact that my hotel was not
actually in the city. Whatever you do, DO NOT let them trick you
into staying at the Loftleidir Hotel! This place, although it looks large
and comfortable in the pictures on the web site, is actually located on the
outskirts of Reykjavik, next to a small airport! This huge geographic mistake
makes it difficult to nearly impossible to get into the city where the real
action is located. If you get stuck at the Loftleidir, you either have to
cough up the bling for a not-so-cheap cab ride or stand around for half the
afternoon at the bus stop that is conveniently located right in the Loftleidir
parking lot, but is not-so-conveniently serviced by actual buses only twice
an hour during peak times. Off-peak you see a bus every other week, or so
it seemed at the time. For all intents and purposes, you are trapped at the
Loftleidir and you miss out on most of the fundamental fun of being in Reykjavik.
The second time I stopped in Iceland, I stayed at the Hotel
Skjaldbreid. Great location, right in the heart of the main shopping and social
area of the city, with a decent pub conveniently attached to the hotel for
lazy lunches and random cocktail urges. The rooms each have a camouflaged
mini-fridge (I stumbled upon it on the second day, while I was rooting though
the room for any kind of distraction from the writer’s block I was having),
tolerable beds, very clean Munchkin bathrooms and they serve an extravagant
breakfast by Scandinavian standards. The only issue I had was that the ice
machine was melting the ice almost as fast as it was making it. Don’t
get me wrong, I was thrilled that they even tried. Finding an ice machine
in a European hotel is about as likely as finding a sober Green Bay super
fan. Then you have to factor in that I was in Iceland… It’s
probably safe to assume that these people have to deal with enough cold as
it is without chilling their beverages on purpose. Then again, I’m from
Minnesota and even in the dead of winter, I can go through about two pounds
of ice a day, so perhaps I shouldn’t assume anything.
With their minimal need for fossil fuels, the air pollution
in Reykjavik is pretty much non-existent, except in the immediate vicinity
of the night clubs where the internationally familiar stench of tinkle is
ever-present. In fact, every surface in Reykjavik, like most of Scandinavia,
is squeaky clean. Dropping your 3AM, post-club hotdog on the ground isn’t
nearly as fatal in Reykjavik as say, New York City where even at the best
of times, anything that touches the ground is a total loss, including money.
While this pacifies my numerous germ phobias, one has to remember that this
characteristic is simply the direct result of the unfortunate amount of moisture
(rain, sleet, snow and oh yeah, ice) that these countries have to deal with
for three quarters of the year. Like my beloved Minneapolis, much of Scandinavia
is the greatest place on Earth for about two months a year. Beyond that, I’ll
take the Mediterranean, thanks.
I was oblivious to the fact that anyone anywhere considered
puffin food, much less a delicacy, until my neighbor on the bus to the Blue
Lagoon enlightened me with her dinner menu from the prior evening. The conversation
went something like..
Neighbor: “… then they brought out the plates of
puffin…”
Me: “The what?”
N: “Puffin.”
M: “Puffin?”
N: “Yes, puffin.”
M “PUFFIN???”
N: “Uh, yeeeeah…”
M: “Eeeww!”
I went through my usual new exotic food phases.
1. Completely grossed out
2. Consideration
3. Grossed out confirmation
4. Secondary consideration
5. Cocktail
6. Random raving to strangers (i.e. “Puffin! Can you believe that shit???”)
7. More cocktails
8. Summoning of false, drunken courage
9. Decision to give it a try
10. Sleep off hangover
11. Chicken out for two months and then decide to give it a try after it’s
far too late
Ultimately, my gastronomic squeamishness didn’t pickle my dining experience
in Iceland. I was pleasantly surprised by the quality of the food that Iceland’s
restaurants offer. Having been to Norway numerous times and being naïve
enough to repeatedly try such ordinarily worry-free culinary adventures as
“Chinese,” “French,” and “pizza” with
zero success, I was convinced that Scandinavians couldn’t or possibly
didn’t want to recreate these dishes the way they were meant to be served.
If you walk into a Chinese restaurant in Norway and are greeted by an actual
Chinese person, don’t get too excited. It doesn’t mean squat.
While at one point these natives probably could have whipped up a Kung Pow
chicken that could raise the dead, due the delicate Norwegian palettes that
they need to cater to, they are forced to serve a plate of stuff that neither
resembles, smells nor, God help me, tastes anything like what you
might expect. After scooping in a few mouthfuls of your dish, desperately
grasping for some taste, any taste, you might be tempted to request some hot
sauce. Don’t. It’s hopeless. No amount of “super mild, potato-extract,
luke-warm sauce” will save your ass. Which is why when I was served
actual “Italian” food in Reykjavik and it tasted really “good,”
I was so thrilled that I yelped with “glee” and did a little happy
dance that cleared a 10 foot circle around me in the otherwise cramped restaurant.
Now, the real reason I was in Iceland. Babes. Tall,
blond, curvy babes. And if you believe what you read, which you should if
you are reading this, the rumors are true. There is very little subtlety in
the motives of the average Icelandic woman when she is attracted to you. Especially
at 1:00 AM on the street in front of my hotel on the first night.
The Icelanders party like screaming Canadian, spring breakers
in Cancun every goddamn weekend. Right about the time that people
in Minneapolis are usually being shooed home the Icelanders are just getting
warmed up. If you show up at any night club in Reykjavik before 1:00 AM, you
better be able to entertain yourself, because you will be sitting there alone
with one bartender and a bored bouncer who is likely to ask you curtly, “Why
are you here so early?” After 1:00 AM however, watch the hell out! Icelanders
pile into the bars and clubs by the bus, taxi, and car-load, already ripped
to the tits. Alcohol is taxed like a bastard in most of Scandinavia and in
Iceland the drinks get more expensive as the night wears on, hence a couple
rounds of drinks after 1:00 AM could almost make your car payment. I had learned
these drinking tips during my first stay in Iceland, so I came prepared with
two bottles of duty-free vodka which I dipped into at about 11:00, after finishing
up the bulk of the productive writing for the day. A few cocktails later,
I sauntered out the front door of my hotel, with yet another drink in my hand
and was almost immediately knocked down by two women. After a couple slurred
words, they hooked my arms and lead me to the their favorite club. At this
point I was mentally reviewing the rumors about the Icelandic women and I
was unsure of what to expect, but my curiosity quickly wilted away after we
sat down at our table. The blonder of the two immediately grabbed my hand
and with a beautiful shit-eating grin on her face placed it firmly in her
crotch and then crossed her legs for good measure. The night just got more
depraved from there. If you’d like to hear about it, buy the book.
The basic Icelandic night-out schedule goes as follows:
9:30PM: Get ready.
10:00PM: Begin consuming anywhere from three to 12 cocktails.
12:30AM: Get on the bus
1:00AM: Arrive at the club
1:05AM Find the recipient of your affection
1:06AM – 3:00AM Dance like idiots in between performing minor, public
sex acts over in the corner
3:02AM Take a whiz. If you’re feeling generous, buy a couple $15 cocktails
for you and your partner
4:30AM Start thinking about leaving
5:17AM: Find your jacket
5:30AM: Go to the hotdog wagon, stand in line behind 342 other drunks to get
your requisite post-club hotdog with the works
6:15AM: Find a taxi. Decide where you’re going to spend the night
6:45AM: #### (Sorry this part has been edited down for content, length and
because my parents are probably going to read it.)
If you have the strength to actually leave your room the morning
after, you will see Reykjavik’s main drag in a rare state of complete
filth. Cigarette butts, food and even clothes everywhere you look and the
stunning spot down on the corner where it appears several dozen people competed
in the World Glass Breaking Championships. Otherwise life in Reykjavik has
returned to normal for six more days until they kick out the jams all over
again.
The isolation of Iceland has given these people a special bond,
like they are all part of a huge, but exclusive club. They have their own
language, their own power source, their own government (the oldest in all
of Europe) and they have a weird, quiet, pride as a result. Too quiet. In
fact sometime you have to pull teeth just to get them to cough up a complete
answer about anything.
The Icelanders working in the service industry are not prone
to volunteering information or even good vibes for that matter. This makes
for very stunted customer service skills that you should be prepared for.
If you walk up to the desk guy at your hotel and greet him with a smile and
a friendly “hello,” you are likely to only receive a blank stare
and silence in response. He’s not being rude, he just doesn’t
feel the need to return the sentiment and apparently this is perfectly normal
behavior.
Information is given out dutifully, if not sparingly. I learned
the hard way, you need to ask about every, little detail
when you are questioning an Icelander or you are going to end up muttering
to yourself like I did on a surprise 45 minute bus ride in the opposite direction
of where I needed to go. After waiting for the bi-weekly bus in the parking
lot of the Loftleidir in pouring rain, I was so thrilled to see the bus that
I became momentarily lax in my usual interrogation of Icelanders when seeking
information. When I asked the bus driver, if he was going downtown, he quietly
replied that he was. Relived, I slogged onto the bus and blissfully collapsed
into a seat. The bliss cloud quickly cleared however when instead turning
toward the city, the bus driver swung around to head out to locations unknown.
After a brief wait to give him the benefit of the doubt, hoping that he was
simply taking a bizarre shortcut, I clamored to the front and said, “I
thought you said you were going downtown?” to which he replied, “I
am.” I was more than a little beside myself as I made my way back to
my seat while he pulled onto a busy thoroughfare heading even further out
of town. It finally occurred to me that I had forgotten to ask him when
he was going to go downtown. Of course he was going downtown! But since I
failed to ask when he was going downtown, he didn’t feel obliged to
add the part “… after I take you on a lengthy tour of the southern
suburbs.” So, technically it was my fault for not asking a complete
question.
These gripes aside, I really do enjoy Iceland and I was crushed
when I realized that I was not going to be able to make it last week, not
only for more exhaustive, fact finding and research on the female thing, but
I dearly wanted to see the place in the summer. With my self-diagnosed Seasonal
Affected Disorder giving me so much trouble in the winter, I think I would
have really dug all of that sunlight. If anything, it would have really improved
that effing bus ride.
Nevermind that, I’m going to get my Arctic Summer Solstice
dose of day light next week here in Norway when I resist all urges to head
straight for Ibiza and instead go north to Bodoe to rendezvous with a pack
of unicyclers with even less sense than I have as they unicycle up the skinny,
northern part of Norway for “fun.”
