What follows is an account of my trip to Iceland, broken up into a few different parts. Before we jump in, however, I would point out that this was my first trip outside the country of my birth, so please allow for some perhaps extensive wide-eyed wonder and naiveté from your narrator. Also, travelling through Iceland is much akin to seeing the scenery described in a great many fantastical books, so there may well be some diction along that flowery line. Consider yourselves warned, friends and neighbors.
Also, I’m going to skip the part where we get on a plane and fly for seven hours, except to just point out that sleeping on planes is impossible, everyone who says they can is a liar, and anyone you see on a plane who looks asleep is only deceiving themselves. That said, my Flying Companion and I touched down in Iceland thoroughly exhausted, at what for us was considerably earlier than the local time of 9:30 AM. Thankfully, getting through customs in Iceland is fairly easy and efficiently planned. We found ourselves in a constant state of surprise as the snaking line moved forward, almost sure that time, like the currency, worked differently in Iceland, as what was surely a forty five minute American line took no more than ten. When we reached the front, an attentive but unemotional woman gave my passport its very first stamp.
This was, for me, one of those small moments in life one never forgets. One of those moments when somewhere far off a high note of joy is sung by a rich, reverential voice, and a warm glow courses through the veins while a soft golden light shines down from the heavens. A first stamp, a mark of passage, proof that life contains moments of progress made, a visible sign of one’s attempts to grow and become more.
For the woman in the glass booth with the stamp, it was likely ten seconds on a Friday morning wherein an American stared at her with the grin of a simpleton.
From there, my Flying Companion and I went onwards to the trial of customs, which after all the warning and worry sent my way by others, turned out to be two lines painted upon the floor, one red on the left that led to a small room for those with burdens to claim, and one green on the right, leading those with no burdens in hand to the duty-free store. Here we obtained for ourselves beer, a bottle of Scotch Whiskey, and an Icelandic blueberry liquor which had been recommended to us previously.
Our bags now were decidedly heavier, and thus we decided it was time to get ourselves some transportation, and subsequently seek our lodgings. I led my companion to the line which would take us to the appropriate counter, but alas! After a line wherein time worked in a more tediously American fashion, I was told that the company had changed counters, but their internet portal had as yet failed to change along with it. Another walk would be required, and so, good humor failing fast and bodies not far behind, we began yet another walk.
Thankfully, mercifully, this walk was not only short, but out of doors, and here we were treated to our first true experience of Iceland beyond the airport. It was still largely parking lot for us at this point, but I did my get first breath of unbelievably clean and fresh air, as well as my first hint that in Iceland, the ocean is never far away. Yes, I’m aware that it’s an island and a revelation concerning the close proximity of the ocean is hardly genius, but like I said in the beginning, wide eyed wonder.
After arriving at our true transportation obtainment destination, we were rewarded with a small, red, four doored vehicle, which would eventually be named Radio Flyer and be accepted as the third member of our party. We were warned not to take Radio Flyer onto any gravel roads, as it was not fit for such travels, despite the parking lot in which it was kept being entirely gravel. In our exhaustion, we found this thoroughly amusing, and laughed about it extensively as we made our way to Reykjavik and what we hoped would be comfortable beds.
The countryside of Iceland and the city itself are worthy of more space than I have left in this entry, and will get their due in due time. For now, however, and considering the state we were in, your narrator will give it a blurry pass by and merely say that the country is beautiful, and the city is lovely. We arrived at our lodging, a small studio apartment equipped with a tiny bathroom, an old but adorable oven with a range, a small refrigerator that never quite got cold, and thankfully, a very comfortable bed. We unloaded our burdens, but decided we needed sustenance before we could rest. We voyaged perhaps an entire block before we stopped at a fish and chips restaurant, ordered said dish from a wonderfully polite young English lady, also purchased a beer apiece, and sat down to wait for our food.
Here I had my first moment of true concern and doubt over my decision to visit this country. You see, both of the beers we ordered, according to the young English lady, were local and the most popular around. My Flying Companion ordered the lighter of the two, myself the darker, as is my fashion. After being awake for roughly a day and a half, living on little in the way of food and drink, I’m sure you can imagine my anticipation as I raised the glass to my lips, and the quiet disappointment I felt when, to my tongue, the beer tasted decidedly like a pilsner.
Now, I’m not one to judge others for their taste in beer. If others enjoy a pilsner on a warm afternoon or whenever, more power to them, I say. To me though, a pilsner is basically what pastel yellow would taste like if it was food. Or perhaps if butter tasted far too much like itself. Unfortunately my Flying Companion’s choice was little better. I began to worry that this might be a ubiquitous unpleasantness.
The food arrived soon after, and here I found joy again.The fish was a beautifully battered and fried cod, perfectly crunchy on the outside, and juicy and flaky on the inside. We spoke little as we feasted, truly tired beyond words and hungry beyond thought. I also managed to drain my glass, not only because I hate to leave a drink unfinished, but also because everything in Iceland is expensive, and not to be wasted. This meal, according to the calculations made by our brains and confirmed by our currency conversion application, set us back upwards of $50, and we would soon discover that this was more the rule than the exception.
After we finished, now truly overcome by exhaustion, we returned to our room and promptly passed out for many hours, awakening once more for a short walk and some ice cream (more on Iceland’s love of ice cream will come later), and then a few more times due to noises from passersby outside, and snoring of both party members inside. Thus our first day in Iceland came to an end.
The journey itself continued onward, however, and more tales will be forthcoming throughout the week. Up next: Puffins, black sanded beaches, and an unexpected detour.
-John
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