First, we woke up and ate the breakfast that was in the fridge as specified. A big part of enjoying this trip has been revising my expectations (severely downward) to defray disappointment. Breakfast was a yogurt, bananas, a loaf of white bread, some gnarly cold cuts and cheese, jam, and some odd semi-circular bread-looking products stacked four in a plastic packet. Oh, and some naff juice (have I yet mentioned that the juice in Iceland is totally tasteless and, um, naff). Now, I'm not a fancy breakfast person (every morning at work I eat a bowl of shredded wheat n' bran with skim milk; weekends at home I eat oatmeal—with blueberries if I'm feeling special). However. I have stayed at many a bed and breakfast in my day, and I expect the following: eggs (lots of 'em, freshly cooked up to order), pancakes and/or waffles and/or french toast (or, as replaced that in Edinburgh, at the best breakfast from a bed and breakfast ever, a baked tomato and baked mushrooms), and ham or bacon or sausage. Lots of hot coffee, lots of good, preferably fresh-squeezed juice (preferably grapefruit in addition to just orange), and piles of toast in case I'm still hungry, as well as cold and hot cereals on the side for picky eaters unlike myself. So, yes, disappointment.
It was Sunday, therefore everything was closed (except the church, which was, well, having church). We had all day to spend wandering the town because we weren't picking up the rental car until the next day. We went a-walkin. A lot. Oh, god, so, so, so much. Here's our route:
What might be difficult to suss out from the image (or what might be clearly apparent; I don't know; I'm not you) is that we went around and around in circles, over the river, and through the woods (okay, Iceland has no woods, but still, you know—we did traipse up a hill through a grassy and shrubby park to get to the Perlan, which, believe it or not, is a water treatment plant, an Icelandic Saga museum, a cafe with viewing deck, and a restaurant (the fanciest and most expensive restaurant in the city—probably in the country—all in one building, circular, topped by a silvery dome that can be seen from most parts of the city, and which building has a man-made (i.e. fake) geyser in the lobby. Note that we had to cross a highway, stop at a petrol station to urinate, walk by the local (mini) airport and bus terminal, and then do it all again to get back.) It was during this walk that I noticed Iceland was nowhere near as clean as I expected it to be (with regard to litter). We saw trash on the street in a lot of places, particularly in the park around the Perlan (including an entire phone book that either the wind or a person or both had torn up and scattered all around the lupine-covered hillside). There was also a lot of graffiti around the city streets.
The local inhabitants, from their looks at least, are very white, in an almost bordering on white trash kind of way. More Canadian-looking than American-looking. A bit overweight, but never obese, and wearing fashions 10-20 years out of date (mixed, of course, with a lot of Euro-style Patagonia/Northface/REI, which, given the weather, is understandable; the local shop here seems to be 66˚ North. Almost all men have shaven heads (goatee optional) with either piercings or tattoos or both. I have heard Tool blasting out of bars (not that I have anything against Tool; I've seen them live and have both Lataralus and Ænima, though I haven't listened to either in years); I have seen tattoo parlors all about town, and black leather trench coats, black hooded sweatshirts, etc. seem to be very much in vogue. I noticed a good many second hand (and retro-style first hand) shops with super hipstery looks displayed in the windows (leotards and leggings in red and black or magenta and teal), but saw no one wearing such duds. Almost all Icelanders seem to be very blonde. Their children are even more blonde.
We sat out in front of the church (Hallgrímskirkja) for awhile, waiting for services to end so that we could take a peek inside. The church is huge but ugly (sorry) and looks like it was poured in one fell swoop from a cement truck. The inside is worse: bland bland bland, taupe carpet running down the center, no colors in the windows or on the altar, heather-colored pews and so on. Michael explained that it was a bit cluttered for a Lutheran church (which is what it is, Church of Iceland being a Lutheran Church), but I still found it disappointing. The church's bell, though, is extremely loud and can be heard from almost all parts of the city, and it rings seemingly incessantly (on the quarter hours).
It turned out that our guesthouse's street (Laugavegur) is the "High Street" of Reykjavík, featuring such posh shops as Puma, Marimekko, and a chaussurier vending Campers. Luckily, no Chanel, Banana Republic, or Starbucks. When we found ourselves longing for a mid-afternoon nap but locked out of our guesthouse (did I mention we hadn't been given a key to the front door?), we went across the street to Svarta Kaffið ("Nigger Cafe," to be honest, based on menu imagery and the Sambo statue inside: photo to come, I promise), famous for its "soup in a bread" (we didn't order it because at Kr1080 it would have been over $15 and I just couldn't justify that; instead I had a Kr250 tea and Michael had a Kr950 Guinness and some Kr650 nachos that turned out to be a cup-of-soup-sized cup of tortilla chips and a salad-dressing-on-the-side-sized cup of cheese and another of jar salsa. Dang, Iceland is expensive!) The waitress was very sweet as I explained our plight, and though she didn't know the owners of our guesthouse, she made a few phone calls and ravaged her phone book trying to help. Eventually, we found a relevant phone number in one of our guide books, made the call, and spoke to the proprietor, who told us we could enter from the back door if we went off the main street into the alley, up into the backyard (through the gate), and up some stairs, and he promised to come over in an hour to give us a key. He didn't, but his wife and daughter did show up after a few hours, gave me a key, replenished breakfast items, greeted some new guests (four Swiss who had sailed in from the North), gave me the pass code for the wireless internet (which I couldn't get to work), and left. That night I thought we might go to the movies, but Iceland plays mostly all American movies anyway, and the only one we would both agree to see (Ocean's 13) was playing too far away. Instead, since we had access to a kitchen, we decided to avoid eating out and paying with our firstborn and do what our Lonely Planet guide calls "self-catering." The grocery store (Bonus) was closed (of course), so we walked down to the 10/11 (think: 7Eleven, but so much nicer), where I bought a bag of spinach, an apple, half a roasted chicken, and a small bottle of olive oil. Michael bought a box of pasta, a small jar of pesto, and a coke. This was. . . Kr2500ish ($40ish). Oh my GOD, Iceland is SO expensive. Luckily, these groceries lasted for two nights' dinners (well, not the spinach; I had to buy a $4 zucchini the next day).
It was late when we finished eating, but the sun was, of course, shining brightly, and we were wide awake, so we went on another marathon walk. This time, we went back down to the water where to take pictures of the Sólfor (Sun-Ship), the famous sculpture at the waterfront that defines Reykjavík in all Google image searches. From there, we walked the opposite way from that we'd walked in the morning, and found ourselves in corporate park/high rise/mid-construction land, which looked something like so many places we know (Williamsburg in Brooklyn, SoMA in San Francisco, or even the Bay Area's Redwood City or San Jose at worst moments). We walked and walked out that way, then we walked and walked home. I fiddled with the internet, which still wouldn't worked, washed up, read ten or so pages of my book, and crashed out.
See more photos from day two.
1 comment:
How much is that girl in the window?
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