Mything you already: A portrait of Reykjavik
Words and pictures by Richard Asher
It’s gone 2am in Reykjavik, and a stranger called Haukur is showing me some particularly odd statues. One of them features a man suckling fervently at a cow’s udder. In another, Thor fights against Age, and the scene is suffering personified. On the whole, these sculptures are kinda disturbing.
My impromptu tour guide is as earnest as he is anti-establishment. I’d found him eating pizza and drinking red straight from the bottle, sitting at a picnic bench not far from the Hallgrímskirkja. His unkempt, dirty-blonde hair and his dark, sunken eyes had made me wonder if he lived on the streets. But I think he’s just another cynical Icelandic youth with a crinkled hoodie and a love of alcohol. I’ve met his sort before.
“This place is shit,” he’d announced unequivocally after I’d told him I’m a journalist, “You know we don’t all believe in elves and fairies, right? Iceland is very backward, though. Don’t listen to any lies: they try hard to keep foreigners out of this country.”
Understandably, I got the impression that Haukur wasn’t a big fan of his own land. But that would be to oversimplify. He had profound respect for his Norse mythology. I can tell that now, in the sculpture-riddled garden of the Einar Jónsson museum, as he regales me with tales of Thor, and teaches me about Ragnarök (a very cool word referring to a kind of Norse take on Armageddon), swigging on his red wine all the while. I had no idea how crazed some of these mighty tales are, (who knew Thor once carried a whale under his arm?), but I try not to smile at them. He’s really into it, despite what he said about elves and fairies.
He knows these myths backwards, and recites them in staggeringly good English. At one point he even uses a word – I forget which – that lies beyond the limits of my own mother-tongue vocabulary. It makes me feel rather small. The Icelandic aptitude for English will come to freak me out in my couple of days here. I swear the local kids actually speak to each other in English half the time, which kind of bothers me. It’s like they’re so advanced that they only keep their own language in order to feel cultural sometimes.
Eventually Haukur saunters off home, and I continue that deeply spiritual first stroll I feel compelled to take whenever I arrive somewhere new. This one has been more spiritual than most. It was 1am when we got to the hotel from our late-night landing at Keflavik, but going to bed was unacceptable. It was daylight! And it was Iceland. I hadn’t travelled for a few months, having voluntarily grounded myself with a jaded case of whatever the opposite of wanderlust is. The break had done the trick…Iceland!
There’s something about the very name, isn’t there? It must be because this is about the only country that allows nature into its very appellation. There’s something compelling about that, and perhaps that’s part of why I’d felt a tingle even as we flew in along the south coast. I saw the sprawling, magnificent whiteness of what must have been the Vatnajökull glacier; the black rockiness of the shore; the Atlantic Ocean itself, all glinting in the July sunshine. It was one of those sights you felt deserved orchestral music.
I knew at that moment that I wasn’t going to be suppressing seen-it-all-before yawns in this country. Even the drive from the airport, so often tedious yet so often revealing, had me rapt. Mossy rocks scattered a lunar landscape on the short highway to the capital, but what struck me most was the thought that I wouldn’t want to be stuck out here. There were few signs of life: no billboards, no convenience stores, no petrol stations. It was, in many ways, reminiscent of the North Korean countryside. Except you had only nature to fear.
My impromptu tour guide is as earnest as he is anti-establishment. I’d found him eating pizza and drinking red straight from the bottle, sitting at a picnic bench not far from the Hallgrímskirkja. His unkempt, dirty-blonde hair and his dark, sunken eyes had made me wonder if he lived on the streets. But I think he’s just another cynical Icelandic youth with a crinkled hoodie and a love of alcohol. I’ve met his sort before.
“This place is shit,” he’d announced unequivocally after I’d told him I’m a journalist, “You know we don’t all believe in elves and fairies, right? Iceland is very backward, though. Don’t listen to any lies: they try hard to keep foreigners out of this country.”
Understandably, I got the impression that Haukur wasn’t a big fan of his own land. But that would be to oversimplify. He had profound respect for his Norse mythology. I can tell that now, in the sculpture-riddled garden of the Einar Jónsson museum, as he regales me with tales of Thor, and teaches me about Ragnarök (a very cool word referring to a kind of Norse take on Armageddon), swigging on his red wine all the while. I had no idea how crazed some of these mighty tales are, (who knew Thor once carried a whale under his arm?), but I try not to smile at them. He’s really into it, despite what he said about elves and fairies.
He knows these myths backwards, and recites them in staggeringly good English. At one point he even uses a word – I forget which – that lies beyond the limits of my own mother-tongue vocabulary. It makes me feel rather small. The Icelandic aptitude for English will come to freak me out in my couple of days here. I swear the local kids actually speak to each other in English half the time, which kind of bothers me. It’s like they’re so advanced that they only keep their own language in order to feel cultural sometimes.
Eventually Haukur saunters off home, and I continue that deeply spiritual first stroll I feel compelled to take whenever I arrive somewhere new. This one has been more spiritual than most. It was 1am when we got to the hotel from our late-night landing at Keflavik, but going to bed was unacceptable. It was daylight! And it was Iceland. I hadn’t travelled for a few months, having voluntarily grounded myself with a jaded case of whatever the opposite of wanderlust is. The break had done the trick…Iceland!
There’s something about the very name, isn’t there? It must be because this is about the only country that allows nature into its very appellation. There’s something compelling about that, and perhaps that’s part of why I’d felt a tingle even as we flew in along the south coast. I saw the sprawling, magnificent whiteness of what must have been the Vatnajökull glacier; the black rockiness of the shore; the Atlantic Ocean itself, all glinting in the July sunshine. It was one of those sights you felt deserved orchestral music.
I knew at that moment that I wasn’t going to be suppressing seen-it-all-before yawns in this country. Even the drive from the airport, so often tedious yet so often revealing, had me rapt. Mossy rocks scattered a lunar landscape on the short highway to the capital, but what struck me most was the thought that I wouldn’t want to be stuck out here. There were few signs of life: no billboards, no convenience stores, no petrol stations. It was, in many ways, reminiscent of the North Korean countryside. Except you had only nature to fear.
It’s a long time since I’ve truly felt the pleasure of simply existing in different surroundings, but after I say goodbye to Haukur, it’s there. In Iceland you can actually feel the purity of the air when you let it fill your lungs. I engage in a staring contest with a disinterested cat, of which one finds many on Reykjavik’s streets. The Hallgrímskirkja is on top of a hill, and I can look down more than one road to see a cloudy-orange sky reflected in the waters of the bay. There’s not much I find more calming than the endless twilights of the north, especially in the cities. To hear your own footsteps in the light of day somehow makes you feel like you own the world.
Over the next couple of days, I try to make sense of Reykjavik, but I don’t get very far. It’s not as colourful on the ground as it seems in aerial photos, but I enjoy the odd bright pink, blue or yellow building. I can’t comment on the party scene, because we haven’t visited over a weekend. Which is not to say we don’t find a drink or two in the cosy, Bohemian bars along Laugavegur. And I notice two things, the first being that Iceland no longer lives up to its reputation for ferocious pricing. Since that trouble with a banks a few years back, the Króna no longer bullies other currencies, and prices are comparable to the UK or better.
The second thing I notice is that people think you’re crazy when you ask if you can pay by card. They’ll give a curt ‘yes’ but their eyes scream, of course you can pay by card, you moron. I guess Icelanders aren’t aware of how lucky they are to be able to pay for a single drink, or a hot dog from a roadside van, using plastic. A British ex-pat we meet confirms that it really has become a cashless society here. Just one way, perhaps, in which Iceland is a glimpse into the future.
Anyway, hot dogs. On my last night, in cold, streaming rain that’s a disgrace to July even at these latitudes, the kindly ex-pat brings me to said hot dog van. Bæjarins beztu pylsur – which according to its very own Wikipedia page means ‘the best hot dogs in town’ – is an institution here. I’m glad I came – eating two is a good sign, right? I’m not sure what all the trimmings are, but they do make a difference. It’s a curious thing, the Scandinavian obsession with hot dogs, but nothing of which I can disapprove.
Another mighty nice local treat is skyr. Which (and Icelandic dairy connoisseurs will no doubt have my guts for saying this) is basically like thick yoghurt. If it comes in a tub with one of those metallic peel-back lids though, beware. It’s razor sharp and far too easy to slice a finger open. I know I’m not the only one with a scar from this. So handle your skyr with care.
Still, every society needs some danger, and maybe that is Iceland’s way of manufacturing some in between the occasional visit from a lost polar bear. This country doesn’t even have an army, for goodness sake! And if there are any police, I don’t happen to see them. Not even when we go to see the president. I’m not kidding. This is such an innocent nation that you could walk up President Ólafur Ragnar Grímsson’s driveway and knock on the front door, without having to explain yourself to anyone.
The Presidency is one of our last ports of call on this flying visit, so it seems I’ve come full circle in a way. After all, I’m meeting the very establishment that would no doubt have infuriated Haukur. But Mr Grímsson seems a nice guy, really. Apparently he has dogs. And he speaks with considered passion about Iceland, and especially the things the world can learn from his nation’s geothermal methods of powering the nation. But just when I want to give him points for thinking green, I remember he’s got a polar bear skin hanging in the reception area. Apparently they shoot the ones that turn up on Icelandic shores. Bound to upset some visitors, that.
When I get back home, and people ask what I thought of Iceland, I’m rather stumped for an intelligent answer. I just mutter about credit cards, hot dogs and the country not having an army. Oh, and the fact that I saw seven (mostly deserted) golf courses. And that I never quite realised what an overachiever Iceland is when it comes to music. I wasn’t there long enough to find a thread to connect all these surprising, foreign snippets of trivia. But I was there long enough to know I need to get back and finish the job.
Richard Asher was a guest of flybe, and took the inaugural flight on its new Birmingham-Reykjavik route. Visit www.flybe.com for more information.
Over the next couple of days, I try to make sense of Reykjavik, but I don’t get very far. It’s not as colourful on the ground as it seems in aerial photos, but I enjoy the odd bright pink, blue or yellow building. I can’t comment on the party scene, because we haven’t visited over a weekend. Which is not to say we don’t find a drink or two in the cosy, Bohemian bars along Laugavegur. And I notice two things, the first being that Iceland no longer lives up to its reputation for ferocious pricing. Since that trouble with a banks a few years back, the Króna no longer bullies other currencies, and prices are comparable to the UK or better.
The second thing I notice is that people think you’re crazy when you ask if you can pay by card. They’ll give a curt ‘yes’ but their eyes scream, of course you can pay by card, you moron. I guess Icelanders aren’t aware of how lucky they are to be able to pay for a single drink, or a hot dog from a roadside van, using plastic. A British ex-pat we meet confirms that it really has become a cashless society here. Just one way, perhaps, in which Iceland is a glimpse into the future.
Anyway, hot dogs. On my last night, in cold, streaming rain that’s a disgrace to July even at these latitudes, the kindly ex-pat brings me to said hot dog van. Bæjarins beztu pylsur – which according to its very own Wikipedia page means ‘the best hot dogs in town’ – is an institution here. I’m glad I came – eating two is a good sign, right? I’m not sure what all the trimmings are, but they do make a difference. It’s a curious thing, the Scandinavian obsession with hot dogs, but nothing of which I can disapprove.
Another mighty nice local treat is skyr. Which (and Icelandic dairy connoisseurs will no doubt have my guts for saying this) is basically like thick yoghurt. If it comes in a tub with one of those metallic peel-back lids though, beware. It’s razor sharp and far too easy to slice a finger open. I know I’m not the only one with a scar from this. So handle your skyr with care.
Still, every society needs some danger, and maybe that is Iceland’s way of manufacturing some in between the occasional visit from a lost polar bear. This country doesn’t even have an army, for goodness sake! And if there are any police, I don’t happen to see them. Not even when we go to see the president. I’m not kidding. This is such an innocent nation that you could walk up President Ólafur Ragnar Grímsson’s driveway and knock on the front door, without having to explain yourself to anyone.
The Presidency is one of our last ports of call on this flying visit, so it seems I’ve come full circle in a way. After all, I’m meeting the very establishment that would no doubt have infuriated Haukur. But Mr Grímsson seems a nice guy, really. Apparently he has dogs. And he speaks with considered passion about Iceland, and especially the things the world can learn from his nation’s geothermal methods of powering the nation. But just when I want to give him points for thinking green, I remember he’s got a polar bear skin hanging in the reception area. Apparently they shoot the ones that turn up on Icelandic shores. Bound to upset some visitors, that.
When I get back home, and people ask what I thought of Iceland, I’m rather stumped for an intelligent answer. I just mutter about credit cards, hot dogs and the country not having an army. Oh, and the fact that I saw seven (mostly deserted) golf courses. And that I never quite realised what an overachiever Iceland is when it comes to music. I wasn’t there long enough to find a thread to connect all these surprising, foreign snippets of trivia. But I was there long enough to know I need to get back and finish the job.
Richard Asher was a guest of flybe, and took the inaugural flight on its new Birmingham-Reykjavik route. Visit www.flybe.com for more information.
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