Every trip ends.
Every beginning must have a conclusion. Open parentheses must have a close. Not for the first time, I wished I was the sort of person who could go to the same place, year after year. Like we did when I was a kid. The beach, all the time. First Myrtle Beach, with such regularity that we reserved the following year as we checked out. Then, as money got tight, vacations became a bit more spontaneous, but usually Panama City Beach, because my mom knew someone with a rental property there. Or camping in the Smokies, for a short trip. In my teens, when my dad entered that "dad" phase of working himself to death (and when overtime is double or triple time, who can blame him), he and I would get in the car and drive to Florida. Those were fun trips because we explored; but not so fun because it was just the two of us, something I never understood and still don't.
Maybe all of that is why, today, I take trips to far flung places. So my son will grow up with at least part of his wanderlust satiated. Probably, though, I go to those places because I can't work when I'm deep in a foreign country or riding my bicycle through tall mountain peaks. My dad had it good in that regard; when he left work, he left. There was nothing to take home. My job... not so lucky. If I don't keep up with emails, I risk the eventual accusation of slacking, though that criticism is very passive-aggressive.
So... the last day in Iceland, or the last portion of a day, dawned as had most of the others. Rainy. Dreary. Like the country was daring us to stay, to tolerate the weather which wasn't extreme yet because it was still August. We met that challenge head on by sleeping as late as we could, cleaning up our Air B&B, and driving early to return the rental car.
Note: if you rent a car from an off-brand rental company, go very, very early to return it. We arrived at the rental company three hours before our flight; we arrived at the airport just over an hour later.
Checking in to Wow Air, I realized I had only paid for a checked bag on the first half of our trip, not the return; it's not that difficult, honestly, to pay for a checked bag. But I had made the assumption that if I paid for it in one direction, it covered the other direction as well. I was wrong. That meant waiting in a line, paying some money, and then finally going through security. Reykjavik airport is a very efficient place, like most things in the country, and even though they had to inspect my bag, and even though we bought some alcohol at the Duty Free shop (which was cheaper than buying in the city... by a long shot), we arrived at the gate in plenty of time.
Our plane to Boston was like our plane over: three seats to a side, small, with no real amenities. I almost paid for food because our snacks ran out. But I didn't, even though the prices were reasonable, because I couldn't get the spirit of Iceland out of my mind.
I wanted to stay on the plane and go back.
Find a way.
Live. No. SURVIVE. That's what you do there. Living is the easy part; humans have been living since the dawn of time. Surviving is the hard part. It's in our blood. It's why people in cities create gardens in the tiniest of spaces: they want to get their hands dirty, to feel the earth, to struggle just a little and satisfy that carnal desire to interact with the world. Because our jobs don't give us that satisfaction. We don't get to see any accomplishment like you do when you grow asparagus or chop wood. No RFP response I've ever written has left me with any satisfaction. I don't complete business requirements and look back and say, "That's a wonderful thing I did." But configure a system, or perform complex data analysis... that's much akin to mowing my yard, in the cro magnon parts of my mind. There is a sense of accomplishment.
And that's why I go to adventurous places.
On my trip I skipped a rock across the North Sea. Well, threw it because the water was too rough to skip. But I did that. I gazed upon glaciers that could very well be gone when my grandchildren are my age. I walked on earth formed from cold lava. I saw the point at which two continents divided in their millennia-long divorce. These things I cannot do at work. No SalesForce case provides that experience. I can query until my heart stops beating and it will never provide the same titillation as standing in the drizzle, looking at a farmstead that has existed since before my ancestors even thought of escaping to the New World.
Back in the US, we drove to our hotel and prepared for the worst-yet-best day of my life: the day I watched my son turn into a Man as he headed off to college. That's another blog post, another chapter of my life, that might not ever get put down on paper. So to speak.
Wednesday, September 19, 2018
Sunday, September 16, 2018
A perfect sunny day
Our last full day dawned bright and sunny. We were up and out by eight, stopping at the bakery again for some croissants. Alas, they somehow forgot to put mine in the bag and we didn't discover that until an hour down the road. Luckily I had eaten a bit at home.
Our destination was the Golden Circle, or as much as we could do without a 4wd vehicle.
I could go on and on about the beauty we encountered. Read the previous posts, imagine I'm saying those things here, and you get the gist.
But damn. English doesn't have enough words to describe it, so go simple: very pretty.
There is a continental divide in Iceland, where the North American and Eurasian tectonic plates slowly spread away from each other:Þingvellir (Thingvellir). It's around 25 miles from Reykjavik. Like most other major tourist areas in Iceland, we had the place largely to ourselves. We found the road closed, which was good thing because that forced us to stop and talk to the person at the tourist information place; our GPS was taking us to someplace that wasn't the main focal point of Thingvellir.
The rift valley is a stark reminder that Iceland is a country constantly at the whims of geology. We did the short hike up the valley. Above us was a clear blue sky, beautiful with thin fingers of clouds here and there. Visibility was perfect; we could see the glaciers far to the east. It was warm, too, and the landscape seemed alive.
Another benefit of the road closure: we were forced to drive along the lake, where you can get cold-water certified in scuba diving as you descend between the continents. I made a note to tell my scuba diving friends of that little adventure, which would be a perfect thing to do on a cold, rainy day.
We headed to Bruarfoss, a waterfall that required a short hike through a field of horses.
It's an easy walk of two and a half miles through a field and a neighborhood of vacation cabins, flat for the most part but occasionally rough. Like pretty much any walk in Iceland, it's well worth the minimal effort to get there. Never have I seen a cascade like Bruarfoss. It's not just that it is pretty. It's so peaceful there. I could feel my stress and anxiety diminish in that steady roar of water making it's long tumble down the gradual set of falls. Water, by the way, that was an amazing color of blue that contrasted wonderfully with the sky. We spent an hour there, my wife and son taking photographs, me helping when asked but mostly sitting beside the water relaxing.
On the way back the horses had decided to come to the walking trail. The sign at the trail entrance that says "don't pet the horses" was clearly not communicated to the horses, who eagerly walked up to everyone. They are beautiful animals, like all horses, sturdily built and friendly.
Near where we parked is Efstidalur, a dairy that has diversified to now have lodging, a restaurant, and an ice cream cafe. While I cannot vouch for the quality of the lodging, it is in a wonderful location and I found myself wishing I'd dug a little deeper into my options. We went for the ice cream. There's nothing in the world quite like ice cream made fresh by the milk of cows you can see just outside the window. Efstidalur didn't disappoint.
From the dairy we drove to the famous Geysir, a few miles up the road.
I want to say it was awesome. But if you've been to Yellowstone, it's hard to get too excited about the smaller Geysir. I walked up the hill above the geysers and surveyed Iceland. I could see for miles. It was breathtaking.
We ate a snack in the visitor's center and continued to our final destination: Gulfoss.
It's like the Niagara Falls of Iceland, so powerful that it's a wonder the rocks can contain all that water. The crowds made it slightly less enjoyable; everyone was crowding around for the perfect selfie, making it difficult for me to do what I like to do: relax and reflect, purge my mind of negative thoughts and refocus on the positive.
We didn't spend long at Gulfoss because of the people. That's not to say it wasn't worth the effort to get there; it definitely was, if or no other reason than it confirmed my feeling that a 4wd vehicle would be a lot more fun in Iceland. From Gulfoss the road becomes a road where only off-road vehicles are allowed, and there were many large Ford Expedition and Mercedes tour vehicles, massive and kitted out for going off road into Iceland's back country. I wouldn't do that sort of tour, but would like to have had something that would make that trip. Next time.
As I drove back to our apartment, I was firmly convinced that there would, in fact, be a next time.
Our destination was the Golden Circle, or as much as we could do without a 4wd vehicle.
I could go on and on about the beauty we encountered. Read the previous posts, imagine I'm saying those things here, and you get the gist.
But damn. English doesn't have enough words to describe it, so go simple: very pretty.
There is a continental divide in Iceland, where the North American and Eurasian tectonic plates slowly spread away from each other:Þingvellir (Thingvellir). It's around 25 miles from Reykjavik. Like most other major tourist areas in Iceland, we had the place largely to ourselves. We found the road closed, which was good thing because that forced us to stop and talk to the person at the tourist information place; our GPS was taking us to someplace that wasn't the main focal point of Thingvellir.
The rift valley is a stark reminder that Iceland is a country constantly at the whims of geology. We did the short hike up the valley. Above us was a clear blue sky, beautiful with thin fingers of clouds here and there. Visibility was perfect; we could see the glaciers far to the east. It was warm, too, and the landscape seemed alive.
Another benefit of the road closure: we were forced to drive along the lake, where you can get cold-water certified in scuba diving as you descend between the continents. I made a note to tell my scuba diving friends of that little adventure, which would be a perfect thing to do on a cold, rainy day.
We headed to Bruarfoss, a waterfall that required a short hike through a field of horses.
It's an easy walk of two and a half miles through a field and a neighborhood of vacation cabins, flat for the most part but occasionally rough. Like pretty much any walk in Iceland, it's well worth the minimal effort to get there. Never have I seen a cascade like Bruarfoss. It's not just that it is pretty. It's so peaceful there. I could feel my stress and anxiety diminish in that steady roar of water making it's long tumble down the gradual set of falls. Water, by the way, that was an amazing color of blue that contrasted wonderfully with the sky. We spent an hour there, my wife and son taking photographs, me helping when asked but mostly sitting beside the water relaxing.
On the way back the horses had decided to come to the walking trail. The sign at the trail entrance that says "don't pet the horses" was clearly not communicated to the horses, who eagerly walked up to everyone. They are beautiful animals, like all horses, sturdily built and friendly.
Near where we parked is Efstidalur, a dairy that has diversified to now have lodging, a restaurant, and an ice cream cafe. While I cannot vouch for the quality of the lodging, it is in a wonderful location and I found myself wishing I'd dug a little deeper into my options. We went for the ice cream. There's nothing in the world quite like ice cream made fresh by the milk of cows you can see just outside the window. Efstidalur didn't disappoint.
From the dairy we drove to the famous Geysir, a few miles up the road.
I want to say it was awesome. But if you've been to Yellowstone, it's hard to get too excited about the smaller Geysir. I walked up the hill above the geysers and surveyed Iceland. I could see for miles. It was breathtaking.
We ate a snack in the visitor's center and continued to our final destination: Gulfoss.
It's like the Niagara Falls of Iceland, so powerful that it's a wonder the rocks can contain all that water. The crowds made it slightly less enjoyable; everyone was crowding around for the perfect selfie, making it difficult for me to do what I like to do: relax and reflect, purge my mind of negative thoughts and refocus on the positive.
We didn't spend long at Gulfoss because of the people. That's not to say it wasn't worth the effort to get there; it definitely was, if or no other reason than it confirmed my feeling that a 4wd vehicle would be a lot more fun in Iceland. From Gulfoss the road becomes a road where only off-road vehicles are allowed, and there were many large Ford Expedition and Mercedes tour vehicles, massive and kitted out for going off road into Iceland's back country. I wouldn't do that sort of tour, but would like to have had something that would make that trip. Next time.
As I drove back to our apartment, I was firmly convinced that there would, in fact, be a next time.
Friday, September 14, 2018
Did I mention the rain?
On Tuesday we piled in the car around eight and drove to the bakery up the street for a couple of croissants. It was cloudy and the weather forecast said it would be partly cloudy with a chance of rain and possible clearing, hedging their bets so that, technically, they'd be right no matter what the weather.
Our apartment's location made getting out of town very easy, and within minutes we were passing the commuters on their way to work as we headed north towards Snaefellsjoekull National Park on the Snæfellsnes peninsula.
Don't ask me how to pronounce that. This language... man, it's a bear to get my hands around.
The roads in Iceland have been mostly uncrowded, even around major tourist areas. Maybe it's because there are so many places to visit per-capita. Maybe people are on tours on the notorious F roads, where only off-road vehicles are allowed. Maybe we were there at the tail end of the season.
Either way, we had the roads mostly to ourselves, which was good because I was busy ogling the landscape. From sea level the landscape swept up dramatically, more green than Ireland. It is a landscape out of Tolkien. When the vikings came upon that island, no wonder they fell in love with it's juxtaposed hard lines with soft colors. It took me less than a day to reach the conclusion that I could live there, if not permanently, then at least for awhile, just to prove I could stand in front of such beauty and survive.
North we went, following route 54 as it turned to the west. We stopped at budakirkja, the black church. It is an improbably place to build such a building. Set in the middle of a vast lava field, in the shadow of the glacier-capped Snæfellsjökull volcano. It wasn't a popular church, and maybe only exists so we tourists can imagine the harsh life that might drive parishioners to such a church, when in reality none ever came because nobody lives nearby. Still, it is beautiful, and regardless of why or when it was built, everyone should stop and see this church and walk among the lava field, imagining the trolls and demons that lie within the nooks and crannies.
On we went on a road Google Maps calls "Útnesvegur" (not surprising, Google has no problems pronouncing road names in Iceland, though the pronunciations don't always jibe with the spelling, from my American perspective; I have a strong desire, now, to learn Icelandic). Rain never achieved anything more ambitious than a heavy drizzle, but it was persistent, just enough to require the wipers. I had no destination; this was my son's trip, my wife's, not mine. All I wanted was to not be at work, to relax and simplify my life ever so slightly through an escape to a foreign country.
Around the peninsula, nibbling on snacks because there weren't many places to stop and get food. But there were so many places to stop. So many things to see in that landscape equally meant for sun and rain. Gradually the rain ceased as we turned back to the east along the north shore of that finger of land. Not that the sun came out, not truly. We gradually entered civilization again and got a hotdog in Hellisandur. It was as good as anything in Reykjiavik, maybe a bit more so because we were starving.
One thing that's interesting about Iceland: on that drive we encountered very few cars. Yet every place we stopped there were people. Not a lot, not always. And some came by tour bus. How could the roads be so lonely, so empty, yet the destinations so populated?
Our final official destination is just east of the town of Ólafsvík. The town is fairly large and we were tempted to stop, but we were tired; had we planned things differently, a stay in that town would have been a good idea.
Bæjarfoss waterfall is a few miles east of Olafsvik. It is billed as a major destination. A legend about the waterfall is that long ago some boys drowned there while fishing, and their mother put a curse on the river that nobody else would ever drown there and no fish would live. Or something like that. More impressive than the waterfall is nearby Kirkjufell (or Church) mountain. It is accessible from the same area as the waterfall. It's called the most photographed mountain in Iceland, which might be because it's right there and is beautiful.
That's Iceland, though. That one stop is all you need to know about Iceland. Pretty waterfall, that pales in any other country would be the prettiest around, but in Iceland is only par. Across the road, a dramatic, scantily-clad hill that belongs in a fairy tale. Beyond... the ocean, wild and harsh, where the human body would quickly shut down in waters barely warmer than the freezing point. It's all so much that it can really be too much, yet still not enough at the same time. That's something difficult to grasp until you see it.
As with pretty much any calm body of water we've come across, my son and I skipped rocks. It's gentle competition between us, but there are no lack of compliments.
We drive on towards home and run across another waterfall.
Actually, we came across a large open valley where a tour bus had stopped, and one thing you learn as a traveler is that tour buses often mean a place is worth seeing. Not always; and they certainly don't stop in all the cool places. But it generally holds true, and we stopped to find the Sheep's Waterfall.
Something about that cascade made a firm impression on me. It was not the waterfall or the resultant stream, except perhaps that such a small amount of water made such a powerful torrent that had eroded the landscape so harshly; that's life, if you want to think of it that way. No matter how weak we might seem, there is a power in us that just needs the proper landscape to bring it out.
It was everything else that fascinated me. The verdant landscape. The lake. The fog shrouding the distant hills. To say it was like a painting seems a bit trite, but it's accurate not for the beauty but the composition of all that was on the tapestry.
More than maybe any place that day, we wandered around and explored. Then we got in the car and drove home, stopping at a grocery store to get some salmon to cook for supper, some milk, and other snacks. It was a longer drive home because I didn't want to go back to civilization. I hadn't worked on my vacation at all; checked email a time or two, but that was all. The city, though, was an ever-so-subtle reminder that I was a person inexorably tied to the modern world, completely unable to escape the drudgery of a job that sees me as a means to an end I have no control over.
At home we ate the salmon and enjoyed each other's company.
Our apartment's location made getting out of town very easy, and within minutes we were passing the commuters on their way to work as we headed north towards Snaefellsjoekull National Park on the Snæfellsnes peninsula.
Don't ask me how to pronounce that. This language... man, it's a bear to get my hands around.
The roads in Iceland have been mostly uncrowded, even around major tourist areas. Maybe it's because there are so many places to visit per-capita. Maybe people are on tours on the notorious F roads, where only off-road vehicles are allowed. Maybe we were there at the tail end of the season.
Either way, we had the roads mostly to ourselves, which was good because I was busy ogling the landscape. From sea level the landscape swept up dramatically, more green than Ireland. It is a landscape out of Tolkien. When the vikings came upon that island, no wonder they fell in love with it's juxtaposed hard lines with soft colors. It took me less than a day to reach the conclusion that I could live there, if not permanently, then at least for awhile, just to prove I could stand in front of such beauty and survive.
North we went, following route 54 as it turned to the west. We stopped at budakirkja, the black church. It is an improbably place to build such a building. Set in the middle of a vast lava field, in the shadow of the glacier-capped Snæfellsjökull volcano. It wasn't a popular church, and maybe only exists so we tourists can imagine the harsh life that might drive parishioners to such a church, when in reality none ever came because nobody lives nearby. Still, it is beautiful, and regardless of why or when it was built, everyone should stop and see this church and walk among the lava field, imagining the trolls and demons that lie within the nooks and crannies.
On we went on a road Google Maps calls "Útnesvegur" (not surprising, Google has no problems pronouncing road names in Iceland, though the pronunciations don't always jibe with the spelling, from my American perspective; I have a strong desire, now, to learn Icelandic). Rain never achieved anything more ambitious than a heavy drizzle, but it was persistent, just enough to require the wipers. I had no destination; this was my son's trip, my wife's, not mine. All I wanted was to not be at work, to relax and simplify my life ever so slightly through an escape to a foreign country.
Around the peninsula, nibbling on snacks because there weren't many places to stop and get food. But there were so many places to stop. So many things to see in that landscape equally meant for sun and rain. Gradually the rain ceased as we turned back to the east along the north shore of that finger of land. Not that the sun came out, not truly. We gradually entered civilization again and got a hotdog in Hellisandur. It was as good as anything in Reykjiavik, maybe a bit more so because we were starving.
One thing that's interesting about Iceland: on that drive we encountered very few cars. Yet every place we stopped there were people. Not a lot, not always. And some came by tour bus. How could the roads be so lonely, so empty, yet the destinations so populated?
Our final official destination is just east of the town of Ólafsvík. The town is fairly large and we were tempted to stop, but we were tired; had we planned things differently, a stay in that town would have been a good idea.
Bæjarfoss waterfall is a few miles east of Olafsvik. It is billed as a major destination. A legend about the waterfall is that long ago some boys drowned there while fishing, and their mother put a curse on the river that nobody else would ever drown there and no fish would live. Or something like that. More impressive than the waterfall is nearby Kirkjufell (or Church) mountain. It is accessible from the same area as the waterfall. It's called the most photographed mountain in Iceland, which might be because it's right there and is beautiful.
That's Iceland, though. That one stop is all you need to know about Iceland. Pretty waterfall, that pales in any other country would be the prettiest around, but in Iceland is only par. Across the road, a dramatic, scantily-clad hill that belongs in a fairy tale. Beyond... the ocean, wild and harsh, where the human body would quickly shut down in waters barely warmer than the freezing point. It's all so much that it can really be too much, yet still not enough at the same time. That's something difficult to grasp until you see it.
As with pretty much any calm body of water we've come across, my son and I skipped rocks. It's gentle competition between us, but there are no lack of compliments.
We drive on towards home and run across another waterfall.
Actually, we came across a large open valley where a tour bus had stopped, and one thing you learn as a traveler is that tour buses often mean a place is worth seeing. Not always; and they certainly don't stop in all the cool places. But it generally holds true, and we stopped to find the Sheep's Waterfall.
Something about that cascade made a firm impression on me. It was not the waterfall or the resultant stream, except perhaps that such a small amount of water made such a powerful torrent that had eroded the landscape so harshly; that's life, if you want to think of it that way. No matter how weak we might seem, there is a power in us that just needs the proper landscape to bring it out.
It was everything else that fascinated me. The verdant landscape. The lake. The fog shrouding the distant hills. To say it was like a painting seems a bit trite, but it's accurate not for the beauty but the composition of all that was on the tapestry.
More than maybe any place that day, we wandered around and explored. Then we got in the car and drove home, stopping at a grocery store to get some salmon to cook for supper, some milk, and other snacks. It was a longer drive home because I didn't want to go back to civilization. I hadn't worked on my vacation at all; checked email a time or two, but that was all. The city, though, was an ever-so-subtle reminder that I was a person inexorably tied to the modern world, completely unable to escape the drudgery of a job that sees me as a means to an end I have no control over.
At home we ate the salmon and enjoyed each other's company.
Monday, September 3, 2018
So it's raining.
Reykjavik is, in terms of population and land area, about the same as the city of Knoxville in East Tennessee, close to where I grew up. Our third day in Iceland found us wandering the city, taking things a bit more slowly; we were all tired, me more than others, perhaps, because of the long driving of the previous two days.
First a note on our Air B and B that we chose. About ten minutes by foot from downtown, it was a small, one-bedroom flat on the lower floor. The sofa became a comfortable second bed. There was free wi-fi, a stocked kitchen, and everything we needed to be cozy.
The rain didn't keep us from heading downtown on Sunday night. It's not accurate to call it rain, at least what we had that day. It was like a really heavy mist that every so often coalesced into a light drizzle.
I got the feeling there are two sides to Reykjavik. One is that which is shown to the tourists; the bars with happy hours, hot dog stands, souvenir shops, stores with overpriced coats and rain gear. Somewhere, though, there is that other side, where the locals go. Every city that has a heavy tourism element knows these two faces, the sometimes opposing market forces of foreigners flush with cash alongside locals whose average income is barely $50K - not bad, on the surface, but only when you consider a hot dog costs five dollars and a beer over ten.
We went to get a hot dog, because that's what tourists do, and also because my son and I wanted a hot dog; in Iceland it's called Pylsur (initial cap because #respect). They make them slightly differently in Iceland. The wiener is very similar to an American hot dog, but is more like a true sausage in both taste and texture; the difference is that the Icelandic hot dog has lamb in it. The bun is a basic white bread bun. It's really the toppings that makes it unique. First the onions: we opted for one with everything, and one without the raw onions (because I hate raw onions). The deep-fried onion bits added a nice flavor. There are three sauces on the typical Icelandic hot dog: ketchup, pylsusinnep (a sweet brown mustard; I hate mustard, but this has a very nice flavor), and a type of mayonnaise that has capers and a few other ingredients. It all combines for an amazing taste experience.
After eating the Pylsur, we walked around the town a bit, and headed to the apartment.
The next morning, my wife and I woke up early and, while our son slept, walked to a local coffee shop: Kaffihús Vesturbæjar. It was surprising to find such a place in a residential area. Inside we found a cool vibe, with minimal decoration and good seating space. The breakfast looked incredible, but we only had espresso drinks and a croissant. The barista knew what she was doing, and the coffee was superb; the croissant lived up to the expectations you should have when getting a croissant anywhere outside of America. Next door is a bakery: Braud & Co. It wasn't as surprising to find the bakery there; what was surprising, though, was the quality of the bread. We got our son a croissant for breakfast, and would visit the bakery twice more before we left, choosing a variety of other breads. All were excellent.
Our son drug himself out of bed and we drove to a large church: Hallgrimskirkja. Initially we planned to walk there; but the rain became actual rain, fairly heavy, and it made no sense to walk. It was started in the post-war 1940's, but not completed until the mid 1980's. It's stunning on the outside, simple with hard lines like you'd expect in a Lutheran church. Inside is a massive pipe organ, but little decoration.
We headed down the street from the church to Sandholt, a restaurant known for excellent pastries. Even though it was early, I had a beer, because that's how I roll. My wife got a sandwich, my son a cinnamon bun. Our conversation was lively, full of the expectation you should have early in a trip.
From Sandholt we walked in the general direction of the Penis Museum, going to stores for some shopping, but really just as a way to get out of the persistent rain.
The official name is the Icelandic Phallological Museum. Everyone calls it the Penis Museum, because that's what it has on display. Lots and lots of male members from a variety of animals.
It was bit uncomfortable going to a penis museum with my son. He's 18 (almost 19), and we have a very friendly relationship. Still, he's my child, and the museum had examples of sex toys and statues from both modern and historical times. There is a picture of the man with the largest penis measured, which hangs down to near his knee.
Yeah. It was a bit odd.
The museum is compact, and most of the male organs on display are from whales. They are quite impressive, either because they are very large or very pointed.
From the museum we got another hot dog from a smaller place; it was just as good as the hot dog from the day before, if not better. Then we walked back up to the car and went home.
Home wasn't very fun, and we decided after a couple of hours to go to a local brewery, the first brewpub in Reykjavik: Bryggjan Brugghús. I didn't want to drive, since I'd have a couple of beers. But it was raining. That meant we had to make a decision, and in the end we made up our minds to walk. My son being the only family member smart enough to bring a proper rain coat, it was pretty miserable. I had a small umbrella, and my wife had one slightly larger, and they did absolutely nothing to stop the brutal wind that drove rain almost horizontal and turned the umbrellas into sails.
The beer was excellent, but we were too tired to fully appreciate it. We went next door to Kaffivagninn for supper, which was minimal. All of us were exhausted and needed sleep more than food, so we hoofed it back up the hill to our apartment and, drained, fell asleep.
First a note on our Air B and B that we chose. About ten minutes by foot from downtown, it was a small, one-bedroom flat on the lower floor. The sofa became a comfortable second bed. There was free wi-fi, a stocked kitchen, and everything we needed to be cozy.
The rain didn't keep us from heading downtown on Sunday night. It's not accurate to call it rain, at least what we had that day. It was like a really heavy mist that every so often coalesced into a light drizzle.
I got the feeling there are two sides to Reykjavik. One is that which is shown to the tourists; the bars with happy hours, hot dog stands, souvenir shops, stores with overpriced coats and rain gear. Somewhere, though, there is that other side, where the locals go. Every city that has a heavy tourism element knows these two faces, the sometimes opposing market forces of foreigners flush with cash alongside locals whose average income is barely $50K - not bad, on the surface, but only when you consider a hot dog costs five dollars and a beer over ten.
We went to get a hot dog, because that's what tourists do, and also because my son and I wanted a hot dog; in Iceland it's called Pylsur (initial cap because #respect). They make them slightly differently in Iceland. The wiener is very similar to an American hot dog, but is more like a true sausage in both taste and texture; the difference is that the Icelandic hot dog has lamb in it. The bun is a basic white bread bun. It's really the toppings that makes it unique. First the onions: we opted for one with everything, and one without the raw onions (because I hate raw onions). The deep-fried onion bits added a nice flavor. There are three sauces on the typical Icelandic hot dog: ketchup, pylsusinnep (a sweet brown mustard; I hate mustard, but this has a very nice flavor), and a type of mayonnaise that has capers and a few other ingredients. It all combines for an amazing taste experience.
After eating the Pylsur, we walked around the town a bit, and headed to the apartment.
The next morning, my wife and I woke up early and, while our son slept, walked to a local coffee shop: Kaffihús Vesturbæjar. It was surprising to find such a place in a residential area. Inside we found a cool vibe, with minimal decoration and good seating space. The breakfast looked incredible, but we only had espresso drinks and a croissant. The barista knew what she was doing, and the coffee was superb; the croissant lived up to the expectations you should have when getting a croissant anywhere outside of America. Next door is a bakery: Braud & Co. It wasn't as surprising to find the bakery there; what was surprising, though, was the quality of the bread. We got our son a croissant for breakfast, and would visit the bakery twice more before we left, choosing a variety of other breads. All were excellent.
Our son drug himself out of bed and we drove to a large church: Hallgrimskirkja. Initially we planned to walk there; but the rain became actual rain, fairly heavy, and it made no sense to walk. It was started in the post-war 1940's, but not completed until the mid 1980's. It's stunning on the outside, simple with hard lines like you'd expect in a Lutheran church. Inside is a massive pipe organ, but little decoration.
We headed down the street from the church to Sandholt, a restaurant known for excellent pastries. Even though it was early, I had a beer, because that's how I roll. My wife got a sandwich, my son a cinnamon bun. Our conversation was lively, full of the expectation you should have early in a trip.
From Sandholt we walked in the general direction of the Penis Museum, going to stores for some shopping, but really just as a way to get out of the persistent rain.
The official name is the Icelandic Phallological Museum. Everyone calls it the Penis Museum, because that's what it has on display. Lots and lots of male members from a variety of animals.
It was bit uncomfortable going to a penis museum with my son. He's 18 (almost 19), and we have a very friendly relationship. Still, he's my child, and the museum had examples of sex toys and statues from both modern and historical times. There is a picture of the man with the largest penis measured, which hangs down to near his knee.
Yeah. It was a bit odd.
The museum is compact, and most of the male organs on display are from whales. They are quite impressive, either because they are very large or very pointed.
From the museum we got another hot dog from a smaller place; it was just as good as the hot dog from the day before, if not better. Then we walked back up to the car and went home.
Home wasn't very fun, and we decided after a couple of hours to go to a local brewery, the first brewpub in Reykjavik: Bryggjan Brugghús. I didn't want to drive, since I'd have a couple of beers. But it was raining. That meant we had to make a decision, and in the end we made up our minds to walk. My son being the only family member smart enough to bring a proper rain coat, it was pretty miserable. I had a small umbrella, and my wife had one slightly larger, and they did absolutely nothing to stop the brutal wind that drove rain almost horizontal and turned the umbrellas into sails.
The beer was excellent, but we were too tired to fully appreciate it. We went next door to Kaffivagninn for supper, which was minimal. All of us were exhausted and needed sleep more than food, so we hoofed it back up the hill to our apartment and, drained, fell asleep.
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