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earlgreytea68The following day we got up early, grabbed breakfast, and set out for the Golden Circle. We were in the car by 8:30, which meant we were able to watch the sun rise over the mountains.
Iceland is a beautiful country, and I'm not much of a nature person, so if I'm saying that, you know it's something. It's amazingly empty, very quickly, and you drive through these wide-open pastures that roll away to meet mountains. Volcanoes, I suppose, whether active or dormant. There was a surprisingly small amount of snow on the ground, especially in comparison to the amount of snow on the ground at home. But the taller mountains were blanketed in smooth, undisturbed whiteness. It was snow so snowy as to seem fake.
The roads were pretty much deserted, which, I admit, made driving really nice and easy, even if everything was in kilometers, so every time I floored it to 120 to pass someone I felt reckless. In reality, I probably never hit the speed that's my default on an American highway.
The GPS pointed me to the left, while the sign for the first attraction suggested I go right. I hesitated, then uncharacteristically trusted the GPS. Except for the moment where she urged me to go the wrong way down a one-way road, she turned out to be right. We were the only car in the parking lot at Þingvellir, because everyone else who followed the sign was crowded together at another parking lot, so, for a little while, our photos make it look like we're the only people in the whole universe, even though a tour bus was parked right around the bend.
Þingvellir, about an hour outside Reykjavik, is the site of Iceland's ancient Parliament, the Alþing. It is a deserted stretch of land, cut through with the fault line that divides the continents of North America and Europe. The continents are pulling away from each other, and the valley between the plates is much wider than it was in the days when it was the seat of Icelandic government, way back in the tenth century.
The place is starkly beautiful and very remote. The government that existed here--with its annual gatherings of booths, with its readings of statutes from the Law Rock--was very long ago, and it is difficult to imagine what what it was, this government of tents on a distant field.
The books said the next stop on the Golden Circle, Geysir, was a short distance away. To a Rhode Islander like me, this was a blatant lie. Geysir took us almost another hour to reach. We stopped quite a bit, though, to take pictures whenever we could. Iceland does not have nearly enough scenic lookouts. I think they are so used to this beauty that they may have forgotten how remarkable it is. They really do need a good marketer, I think. But we stopped, when we could, including one time right in the middle of the road to take photos of Icelandic ponies, which are short and shaggy and adorable. (You could do that in Iceland, just stop in the middle of a highway. You could see for miles behind you, and almost no one was ever coming.)
Geysir smelled like sulfur, and steam rolled off the hot springs. The water temperature was 100 degrees Celsius. The air temperature with wind chill was intensely cold. One hundred degrees Celsius sounded quite nice.
We forced ourselves to walk 200 meters to Strokkur (it was cold. Also, neither of us knew quite how long a meter is. We looked at the map and than at each other. "Is 200 meters far?" "I have no idea how long a meter is." "Neither do I." "We're terrible Americans." "Stupid metric system.") Strokkur is the main attraction at Geysir, a geyser that erupts every five minutes. It went off while we were walking to it, suddenly sending water rocketing into the sky, and we squealed with glee at the sight. Then we got cold and fidgety waiting for it to go off again. We did not squeal the second time it erupted. Plus, we were dealing with annoying hungover guys who were having an inane conversation and wandering around stupidly.
After Strokkur's second eruption, we walked over to Geysir, which is the geyser who gave its name to every subsequent geyser. Geysir, however, has died, which is very sad. It just sits there, condensing steam into the crystal air, remembering past glories, while everyone walks past on the way to Strokkur. I may anthropomorphize too much.
Gullfoss was, as promised, only about a ten-minute drive from Geysir. For some reason, however, the parking lot was so far away from the waterfall. This probably isn't a big thing in the summer but it is a big thing in the winter. The path was a treacherous sheet of choppy ice in places, making it easier to crunch through the frozen snow beside the paths instead. It was quite something, though, and worth the struggle over to it. We took picture after picture.![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
arctacuda even scurried out onto the point overlooking the waterfall, but I refused to go. There were no safety rails to speak of, and the wind had picked up, pushing me to and fro. I was worried it'd blow me right off the edge. So I waited for arctacuda on a tuft of muddy grass until she was done. Then we began to walk back to the car.
I have never experienced a walk like that in my life. The wind was constant, and every step forward was like pushing through pudding. The air felt tangible. It made you believe in magical, vindictive forces that could pluck you off your feet. Or maybe that was just me. All I know is that I hopedarctacuda was still behind me, because I couldn't stop walking or even turn my head to check. It was every woman for herself out there. If she died, so be it. I just had to keep moving. This is what nature does to you.
I reached the gift shop / cafeteria and decided that I might live after all, by the grace of God. (No wonder our nature-dwelling forebears were so religious.) Luckily,arctacuda was behind me. Together, we got a grilled ham-and-cheese to eat in the car on the way to the Hidden Folk Tour. We struggled through the wind to the car. "Don't open your door!" arctacuda shouted to me, as I opened my door. "What?" I asked. "Why?" "Because now we won't be able to close it!" Indeed, the wind was keeping our doors firmly open. It took a few tries before we could pull them closed, and then we had to pause to re-collect our energy.
Our next stop was Hafnarfjörður, for the Hidden People Tour. Hafnarfjörður is fifteen minutes from Reykjavik. Initially, when I thought Geysir was a "short drive" from Þingvellir, we were going to make the Hidden People Tour easily. It was questionable now, and I had to make the decision whether or not to trust the GPS, who was taking us on a new road. She had tried to make us take a closed road on the way to Geysir, sulking and calling us "off-road" for a while until she suddenly without warning pretended nothing had happened and put us on the purple line of victory. I decided to trust her now, though, in the hope that her way would be a shortcut through the country, and, after a brief adventure involving a bus straddling both lanes of the road, a thwarted attempt to pass said bus, and said bus then abruptly stopping right in front of me on the wide open highway, we got on the recommended new road.
The new road seemed even more remote than the one that led to the Golden Circle, because at least there were tourist attractions on that road. At one point, though, someone on the other side flashed their high beams at me as they passed. "There's a policeman out here?" I said, disbelieving, as I slowed down. We eventually figured out, as it happened to me several times, that they were telling me to put my lights on. You're required to always have your lights on in Iceland.
The road began to climb very quickly, taxing the poor little car, and our side of the road developed two lanes to account for this. (Iceland doesn't use yellow lines ever, or even double lines. I found it almost impossible to know if the lane on my left was a passing lane or oncoming traffic without another driver demonstrating first.) Eventually, the road evened out, and we found ourselves driving through lumps. That is the best way I can describe it: the ground all around us was curved into lumps, almost like a challenging miniature golf course, only more edgy. I don't know if this was caused by lava or glaciers or what. It was both green with grass and white with snow and I've never seen anything like it before.
We eventually arrived in Hafnarfjörður, making our way to the Tourist Information Office. We were about thirty minutes late for the Hidden People Tour but the lady at the Tourist Information Office said the tour guide might agree to take us around separately. She asked if we could come back in twenty minutes so we walked to the coffee shop across the street. I had tea and chocolate cake whilearctacuda had a hazelnut latte and a piece of some kind of apricot cake. The tea was fabulous again, the same way it was at the hotel. I decided it had to be the fantastic Icelandic water. If I were rich, I would fly in Icelandic water just to make myself tea.
In twenty minutes, we went back to the Tourist Information Office, where the guide said we could finish the last half of the tour with her current guests and then she'd take us on the first half. This was wonderful of her, and we readily agreed.
The guide was clearly a gnome. She was small and cheerful and even had a gnome hat (irrefutable proof). Her other guests were a couple from northern Virginia, and they embarrassedarctacuda and me as Americans, although we have both blocked out why.
The guide took us all around, pointing out sights (like 2005's Tree of the Year, an Icelandic oddity designed to promote the maintenance of trees in the severely deforested country). And she told us lots about the Hidden Folk, which is what Icelanders call elves and trolls and such. Hafnarfjörður is said to have the highest concentration in all of Iceland. Most Icelanders will tell you they no longer believe in Hidden Folk. Most Icelanders still will not dare disturb an elf-rock, which is a rock where elves live. An elf-rock is difficult to get rid of, and if you upset the elf inside, woe befalls you. The king and queen of the elves live in the hill overlooking Hafnarfjörður. It is said their palace is full of gilding and red velvet. A variety of other elves live in rocks and heaps of ground scattered throughout the countryside.
You have to have the second sight to see the Hidden Folk, except during Christmas season and the first day of summer. On those days, regular people can see Hidden Folk, especially during Christmas, which is the time of year when Hidden Folk prefer to move house. Hidden Folk are friendly and tempting and you must resist going with them. Sometimes, on other days of the year, Hidden Folk choose to let themselves be seen. Other times, the sounds of the hidden world seem to leak over to our world, and you may hear a baby crying from within a rock, or a horse and carriage clattering down an empty street. Sometimes, the elf will come to you in a dream and apologize for disturbing you.
The relationship between Hidden Folk and humans is complicated. There are stories of the elves in the royal hill saving children who tumbled from the cliff. When threatened, however, elves can be vengeful. The guide recommended proposing to the elves on your land that you co-exist in peace. Apparently, you can hire an elf negotiator to establish this. Every house has what the guide called a home or domestic elf. He will steal things from you but always return them, and he is happiest when your house is clean.
The guide also told us an amazing fact that had nothing to do with Hidden Folk: It was illegal to have a pet dog in Iceland until about twenty years ago.
At the conclusion of the tour, I asked the guide about the Hvalfjord story. This is the story she told:
There once lived five men. Every summmer, they would sail to an island together to gather eggs. One summer, one of the men fell from the cliff. They could not find his body but they knew he was dead and so they sailed away without him. The following summer the men returned to the island and found the other man waiting for them. Amazed, they asked him how he had survived, but he did not have an answer. They took him home, and about a year later the priest summoned the entire parish. There was a baby in a cradle in the church. "We must christen this baby," announced the priest. "Does anyone know anything about this child?" No one in the parish knew anything. The priest looked at the man who had returned from the island. "Do you know nothing about this child?" The man said he knew nothing. Just then, the door to the church flew open. An irate woman marched in, grabbed the baby, and put a curse on the man. The man immediately ran down to the ocean and leaped in, turning into a whale. The whale attacked ships and killed men, until the day a wise man arrived. He tapped his walking stick and chanted words of magic, and the whale leaped out of the ocean. The man walked along, tapping his walking stick, and the whale followed, until the whale leaped up a waterfall and into a lake, where the whale promptly exploded. To this day, that lake is known as Whale Lake.
After the Hidden Folk Tour,arctacuda and I shopped a little in Hafnarfjörður, buying some jewelry. I bought some clothes, but I did not buy this adorable ruffly coat because they didn't have it in my size. Like I need another coat anyway.
When we were finished shopping, it was time to go to the Blue Lagoon. Of course, the GPS could not find the Blue Lagoon. It's only the most popular tourist attraction in Iceland. Whatever, GPS. We finally tricked her into getting us to the Blue Lagoon but putting in the address of the Northern Lights Inn located next to the Blue Lagoon.
The Blue Lagoon is in the middle of more of the weird lava landscape, and it's kind of eerie, sitting out there in the middle of nowhere. It's expensive to get into the Blue Lagoon but we'd heard it was worth it so we paid our fee and got huge bracelets apparently made to fit giants. The Blue Lagoon is ultra-modern, and the bracelets function as the key to your locker. The locker room was crowded with lots of naked Europeans. Here's the thing: I know I'm a prudish American, but I don't want to have all these random naked bodies in my space, okay? Luckily, they had changing rooms for us prudish Americans, and private showers before the Lagoon experience.
To get to the Blue Lagoon, you first have to walk a few steps outside in your bathing suit. This is freezing, but I suppose it serves the purpose of getting you into the water quickly. And the water is heavenly: wonderfully warm. The water is a milky blue color, totally opaque, so you can't see the sand and rocks at the bottom. It's not deep, and it has hot spots and cold spots, and swimming in it is kind of amazing, like an overgrown hot tub. It has a massaging waterfall you can stand under, and there are boxes of silica mud sprinkled periodically along the side of the pool, in which you could dip a long spoon to scoop up some white, slimy gunk to spread over your face. Very attractive, I'm sure. Which is why, of course, it was while I was doing this that two hot British guys swam over to chat us up.
Let me be perfectly clear: Hot British guys never chat me up in Boston. In fact, I don't think hot British guys ever even go to Boston. Iceland is a magical place. These guys were young-ish, although out of school, and they were charming. We had a long and interesting conversation, about television and restaurants and how I am a mean, letter-writing attorney. They were funny and clever and they liked "The Social Network." Sadly, I didn't marry one of them.
We stayed in the pool chatting with them until 8:45, when we literally got kicked out because the Blue Lagoon was closing. Partly this was because they were fun, partly this was because we didn't want to walk through the cold to the locker room, and partly this was because the Northern Lights came out, and they were amazing. They danced across the sky in a lithe, sinuous river of paleness, and I floated on my back in geothermal water and thought of how far away from home I was. Usually, no matter where you are, the sky over your head is a sky you recognize. It is a sun and a moon that belong to you. Waching the Northern Lights made me realize how much this sky was not my sky.
Night skies, velvet black and scattered with stars, make me uncomfortable. I feel the press of their vastness, the insignificance of my me-ness underneath them. This could be why I prefer cities, where the night sky is mostly a glittering skyline that I can comprehend, a comforting stamp of we-were-here-ness that keeps everything else at bay. A sky with Northern Lights is like a wide countryside sky blown out of the water. What sense can possibly be made of this phenomenon? You have to see them to believe them. Maybe there is a science to them, but it is the poetry of them I prefer. And there I was, a Bostonian, in Iceland, watching Northern Lights. Most of the time I am weary of the squabbles of modernity, but sometimes I think, We live in amazing times.
Eventually, we parted ways with the British guys and scurried back to the locker room. I drenched my hair with conditioner, as recommended, but it had no effect. Once, twice, three, four times. After the fifth, I gave up. My hair felt like I'd coated it with mousse. I already have it on good authority that I have enough hair on my head for three people. The water in the Blue Lagoon seemed to make it multiply even more.
My plan had been to eat dinner at the Blue Lagoon restaurant. It was closed, however, which was silly, so we munched on the last of my Kit-Kat from Logan while contemplating our dinner dilemma. We were concerned that most places would be closed. And, while the snack at the coffee shop at Hafnarfjörður had carried us over some, we needed to have dinner. "The first place we see that looks open we have to eat at," I toldarctacuda.
Lo and behold, the first place we saw was Taco Bell, the only one in Iceland. They apparently don't have Taco Bell in England. One of the British guys had been keen to try it. We considered this a sign, and ate there. The benevolence of Nacho Man,arctacuda proclaimed. That benevolence carried over to the first song we heard when we got back in the car: an awesome dance mix of "Don't Stop Believin'."
When we got home, the day ended with random fireworks visible from our hotel room. A good omen. So we thought.
Iceland is a beautiful country, and I'm not much of a nature person, so if I'm saying that, you know it's something. It's amazingly empty, very quickly, and you drive through these wide-open pastures that roll away to meet mountains. Volcanoes, I suppose, whether active or dormant. There was a surprisingly small amount of snow on the ground, especially in comparison to the amount of snow on the ground at home. But the taller mountains were blanketed in smooth, undisturbed whiteness. It was snow so snowy as to seem fake.
The roads were pretty much deserted, which, I admit, made driving really nice and easy, even if everything was in kilometers, so every time I floored it to 120 to pass someone I felt reckless. In reality, I probably never hit the speed that's my default on an American highway.
The GPS pointed me to the left, while the sign for the first attraction suggested I go right. I hesitated, then uncharacteristically trusted the GPS. Except for the moment where she urged me to go the wrong way down a one-way road, she turned out to be right. We were the only car in the parking lot at Þingvellir, because everyone else who followed the sign was crowded together at another parking lot, so, for a little while, our photos make it look like we're the only people in the whole universe, even though a tour bus was parked right around the bend.
Þingvellir, about an hour outside Reykjavik, is the site of Iceland's ancient Parliament, the Alþing. It is a deserted stretch of land, cut through with the fault line that divides the continents of North America and Europe. The continents are pulling away from each other, and the valley between the plates is much wider than it was in the days when it was the seat of Icelandic government, way back in the tenth century.
The place is starkly beautiful and very remote. The government that existed here--with its annual gatherings of booths, with its readings of statutes from the Law Rock--was very long ago, and it is difficult to imagine what what it was, this government of tents on a distant field.
The books said the next stop on the Golden Circle, Geysir, was a short distance away. To a Rhode Islander like me, this was a blatant lie. Geysir took us almost another hour to reach. We stopped quite a bit, though, to take pictures whenever we could. Iceland does not have nearly enough scenic lookouts. I think they are so used to this beauty that they may have forgotten how remarkable it is. They really do need a good marketer, I think. But we stopped, when we could, including one time right in the middle of the road to take photos of Icelandic ponies, which are short and shaggy and adorable. (You could do that in Iceland, just stop in the middle of a highway. You could see for miles behind you, and almost no one was ever coming.)
Geysir smelled like sulfur, and steam rolled off the hot springs. The water temperature was 100 degrees Celsius. The air temperature with wind chill was intensely cold. One hundred degrees Celsius sounded quite nice.
We forced ourselves to walk 200 meters to Strokkur (it was cold. Also, neither of us knew quite how long a meter is. We looked at the map and than at each other. "Is 200 meters far?" "I have no idea how long a meter is." "Neither do I." "We're terrible Americans." "Stupid metric system.") Strokkur is the main attraction at Geysir, a geyser that erupts every five minutes. It went off while we were walking to it, suddenly sending water rocketing into the sky, and we squealed with glee at the sight. Then we got cold and fidgety waiting for it to go off again. We did not squeal the second time it erupted. Plus, we were dealing with annoying hungover guys who were having an inane conversation and wandering around stupidly.
After Strokkur's second eruption, we walked over to Geysir, which is the geyser who gave its name to every subsequent geyser. Geysir, however, has died, which is very sad. It just sits there, condensing steam into the crystal air, remembering past glories, while everyone walks past on the way to Strokkur. I may anthropomorphize too much.
Gullfoss was, as promised, only about a ten-minute drive from Geysir. For some reason, however, the parking lot was so far away from the waterfall. This probably isn't a big thing in the summer but it is a big thing in the winter. The path was a treacherous sheet of choppy ice in places, making it easier to crunch through the frozen snow beside the paths instead. It was quite something, though, and worth the struggle over to it. We took picture after picture.
arctacuda even scurried out onto the point overlooking the waterfall, but I refused to go. There were no safety rails to speak of, and the wind had picked up, pushing me to and fro. I was worried it'd blow me right off the edge. So I waited for arctacuda on a tuft of muddy grass until she was done. Then we began to walk back to the car. I have never experienced a walk like that in my life. The wind was constant, and every step forward was like pushing through pudding. The air felt tangible. It made you believe in magical, vindictive forces that could pluck you off your feet. Or maybe that was just me. All I know is that I hoped
arctacuda was still behind me, because I couldn't stop walking or even turn my head to check. It was every woman for herself out there. If she died, so be it. I just had to keep moving. This is what nature does to you. I reached the gift shop / cafeteria and decided that I might live after all, by the grace of God. (No wonder our nature-dwelling forebears were so religious.) Luckily,
arctacuda was behind me. Together, we got a grilled ham-and-cheese to eat in the car on the way to the Hidden Folk Tour. We struggled through the wind to the car. "Don't open your door!" arctacuda shouted to me, as I opened my door. "What?" I asked. "Why?" "Because now we won't be able to close it!" Indeed, the wind was keeping our doors firmly open. It took a few tries before we could pull them closed, and then we had to pause to re-collect our energy. Our next stop was Hafnarfjörður, for the Hidden People Tour. Hafnarfjörður is fifteen minutes from Reykjavik. Initially, when I thought Geysir was a "short drive" from Þingvellir, we were going to make the Hidden People Tour easily. It was questionable now, and I had to make the decision whether or not to trust the GPS, who was taking us on a new road. She had tried to make us take a closed road on the way to Geysir, sulking and calling us "off-road" for a while until she suddenly without warning pretended nothing had happened and put us on the purple line of victory. I decided to trust her now, though, in the hope that her way would be a shortcut through the country, and, after a brief adventure involving a bus straddling both lanes of the road, a thwarted attempt to pass said bus, and said bus then abruptly stopping right in front of me on the wide open highway, we got on the recommended new road.
The new road seemed even more remote than the one that led to the Golden Circle, because at least there were tourist attractions on that road. At one point, though, someone on the other side flashed their high beams at me as they passed. "There's a policeman out here?" I said, disbelieving, as I slowed down. We eventually figured out, as it happened to me several times, that they were telling me to put my lights on. You're required to always have your lights on in Iceland.
The road began to climb very quickly, taxing the poor little car, and our side of the road developed two lanes to account for this. (Iceland doesn't use yellow lines ever, or even double lines. I found it almost impossible to know if the lane on my left was a passing lane or oncoming traffic without another driver demonstrating first.) Eventually, the road evened out, and we found ourselves driving through lumps. That is the best way I can describe it: the ground all around us was curved into lumps, almost like a challenging miniature golf course, only more edgy. I don't know if this was caused by lava or glaciers or what. It was both green with grass and white with snow and I've never seen anything like it before.
We eventually arrived in Hafnarfjörður, making our way to the Tourist Information Office. We were about thirty minutes late for the Hidden People Tour but the lady at the Tourist Information Office said the tour guide might agree to take us around separately. She asked if we could come back in twenty minutes so we walked to the coffee shop across the street. I had tea and chocolate cake while
arctacuda had a hazelnut latte and a piece of some kind of apricot cake. The tea was fabulous again, the same way it was at the hotel. I decided it had to be the fantastic Icelandic water. If I were rich, I would fly in Icelandic water just to make myself tea. In twenty minutes, we went back to the Tourist Information Office, where the guide said we could finish the last half of the tour with her current guests and then she'd take us on the first half. This was wonderful of her, and we readily agreed.
The guide was clearly a gnome. She was small and cheerful and even had a gnome hat (irrefutable proof). Her other guests were a couple from northern Virginia, and they embarrassed
arctacuda and me as Americans, although we have both blocked out why. The guide took us all around, pointing out sights (like 2005's Tree of the Year, an Icelandic oddity designed to promote the maintenance of trees in the severely deforested country). And she told us lots about the Hidden Folk, which is what Icelanders call elves and trolls and such. Hafnarfjörður is said to have the highest concentration in all of Iceland. Most Icelanders will tell you they no longer believe in Hidden Folk. Most Icelanders still will not dare disturb an elf-rock, which is a rock where elves live. An elf-rock is difficult to get rid of, and if you upset the elf inside, woe befalls you. The king and queen of the elves live in the hill overlooking Hafnarfjörður. It is said their palace is full of gilding and red velvet. A variety of other elves live in rocks and heaps of ground scattered throughout the countryside.
You have to have the second sight to see the Hidden Folk, except during Christmas season and the first day of summer. On those days, regular people can see Hidden Folk, especially during Christmas, which is the time of year when Hidden Folk prefer to move house. Hidden Folk are friendly and tempting and you must resist going with them. Sometimes, on other days of the year, Hidden Folk choose to let themselves be seen. Other times, the sounds of the hidden world seem to leak over to our world, and you may hear a baby crying from within a rock, or a horse and carriage clattering down an empty street. Sometimes, the elf will come to you in a dream and apologize for disturbing you.
The relationship between Hidden Folk and humans is complicated. There are stories of the elves in the royal hill saving children who tumbled from the cliff. When threatened, however, elves can be vengeful. The guide recommended proposing to the elves on your land that you co-exist in peace. Apparently, you can hire an elf negotiator to establish this. Every house has what the guide called a home or domestic elf. He will steal things from you but always return them, and he is happiest when your house is clean.
The guide also told us an amazing fact that had nothing to do with Hidden Folk: It was illegal to have a pet dog in Iceland until about twenty years ago.
At the conclusion of the tour, I asked the guide about the Hvalfjord story. This is the story she told:
There once lived five men. Every summmer, they would sail to an island together to gather eggs. One summer, one of the men fell from the cliff. They could not find his body but they knew he was dead and so they sailed away without him. The following summer the men returned to the island and found the other man waiting for them. Amazed, they asked him how he had survived, but he did not have an answer. They took him home, and about a year later the priest summoned the entire parish. There was a baby in a cradle in the church. "We must christen this baby," announced the priest. "Does anyone know anything about this child?" No one in the parish knew anything. The priest looked at the man who had returned from the island. "Do you know nothing about this child?" The man said he knew nothing. Just then, the door to the church flew open. An irate woman marched in, grabbed the baby, and put a curse on the man. The man immediately ran down to the ocean and leaped in, turning into a whale. The whale attacked ships and killed men, until the day a wise man arrived. He tapped his walking stick and chanted words of magic, and the whale leaped out of the ocean. The man walked along, tapping his walking stick, and the whale followed, until the whale leaped up a waterfall and into a lake, where the whale promptly exploded. To this day, that lake is known as Whale Lake.
After the Hidden Folk Tour,
arctacuda and I shopped a little in Hafnarfjörður, buying some jewelry. I bought some clothes, but I did not buy this adorable ruffly coat because they didn't have it in my size. Like I need another coat anyway. When we were finished shopping, it was time to go to the Blue Lagoon. Of course, the GPS could not find the Blue Lagoon. It's only the most popular tourist attraction in Iceland. Whatever, GPS. We finally tricked her into getting us to the Blue Lagoon but putting in the address of the Northern Lights Inn located next to the Blue Lagoon.
The Blue Lagoon is in the middle of more of the weird lava landscape, and it's kind of eerie, sitting out there in the middle of nowhere. It's expensive to get into the Blue Lagoon but we'd heard it was worth it so we paid our fee and got huge bracelets apparently made to fit giants. The Blue Lagoon is ultra-modern, and the bracelets function as the key to your locker. The locker room was crowded with lots of naked Europeans. Here's the thing: I know I'm a prudish American, but I don't want to have all these random naked bodies in my space, okay? Luckily, they had changing rooms for us prudish Americans, and private showers before the Lagoon experience.
To get to the Blue Lagoon, you first have to walk a few steps outside in your bathing suit. This is freezing, but I suppose it serves the purpose of getting you into the water quickly. And the water is heavenly: wonderfully warm. The water is a milky blue color, totally opaque, so you can't see the sand and rocks at the bottom. It's not deep, and it has hot spots and cold spots, and swimming in it is kind of amazing, like an overgrown hot tub. It has a massaging waterfall you can stand under, and there are boxes of silica mud sprinkled periodically along the side of the pool, in which you could dip a long spoon to scoop up some white, slimy gunk to spread over your face. Very attractive, I'm sure. Which is why, of course, it was while I was doing this that two hot British guys swam over to chat us up.
Let me be perfectly clear: Hot British guys never chat me up in Boston. In fact, I don't think hot British guys ever even go to Boston. Iceland is a magical place. These guys were young-ish, although out of school, and they were charming. We had a long and interesting conversation, about television and restaurants and how I am a mean, letter-writing attorney. They were funny and clever and they liked "The Social Network." Sadly, I didn't marry one of them.
We stayed in the pool chatting with them until 8:45, when we literally got kicked out because the Blue Lagoon was closing. Partly this was because they were fun, partly this was because we didn't want to walk through the cold to the locker room, and partly this was because the Northern Lights came out, and they were amazing. They danced across the sky in a lithe, sinuous river of paleness, and I floated on my back in geothermal water and thought of how far away from home I was. Usually, no matter where you are, the sky over your head is a sky you recognize. It is a sun and a moon that belong to you. Waching the Northern Lights made me realize how much this sky was not my sky.
Night skies, velvet black and scattered with stars, make me uncomfortable. I feel the press of their vastness, the insignificance of my me-ness underneath them. This could be why I prefer cities, where the night sky is mostly a glittering skyline that I can comprehend, a comforting stamp of we-were-here-ness that keeps everything else at bay. A sky with Northern Lights is like a wide countryside sky blown out of the water. What sense can possibly be made of this phenomenon? You have to see them to believe them. Maybe there is a science to them, but it is the poetry of them I prefer. And there I was, a Bostonian, in Iceland, watching Northern Lights. Most of the time I am weary of the squabbles of modernity, but sometimes I think, We live in amazing times.
Eventually, we parted ways with the British guys and scurried back to the locker room. I drenched my hair with conditioner, as recommended, but it had no effect. Once, twice, three, four times. After the fifth, I gave up. My hair felt like I'd coated it with mousse. I already have it on good authority that I have enough hair on my head for three people. The water in the Blue Lagoon seemed to make it multiply even more.
My plan had been to eat dinner at the Blue Lagoon restaurant. It was closed, however, which was silly, so we munched on the last of my Kit-Kat from Logan while contemplating our dinner dilemma. We were concerned that most places would be closed. And, while the snack at the coffee shop at Hafnarfjörður had carried us over some, we needed to have dinner. "The first place we see that looks open we have to eat at," I told
arctacuda. Lo and behold, the first place we saw was Taco Bell, the only one in Iceland. They apparently don't have Taco Bell in England. One of the British guys had been keen to try it. We considered this a sign, and ate there. The benevolence of Nacho Man,
arctacuda proclaimed. That benevolence carried over to the first song we heard when we got back in the car: an awesome dance mix of "Don't Stop Believin'."When we got home, the day ended with random fireworks visible from our hotel room. A good omen. So we thought.
