Iceland

Built on flat, barren, rocky ground near the southwest corner of Iceland, Keflavik Airport was constructed by the Americans during World War II for military purposes, at a time when aircraft with limited cruising range needed to stop multiple times between Europe and America. It was expanded in later years, eventually replacing Reykjavik Airport as the primary Iceland stop for international civilian aircraft. As we deplaned through the jetway, I expected a stark, chilly terminal, but I was wrong. The warmth of wood – hardwood floors! – and welcoming lighting surprised me. Luggage pickup and Customs were both quick and efficient, and within 15 minutes of touchdown we were descending an escalator to the ground floor to meet our Walking the World guide.

By this time I was seriously jetlagged, but I had taken the lead in this phase of our journey, so it was up to me to read the numerous placards held by waiting people and to identify “WTW” as the one we were looking for. I introduced myself to Kathleen – I’d spoken to her by phone at home the week before to ask final questions – so I recognized her low, musical voice as soon as she opened her mouth. I turned to introduce her to Art. We then met Brjann, our Icelandic guide. Our flight from Minneapolis was the last of the four to arrive from the States. Brjann took our luggage and we followed him and Kathleen outside to a 15-passenger van, where we were quickly introduced to the other members of our group.

It was 7 a.m., and we wouldn’t be able to check into our Reykjavik hotel until about 2 p.m. Brjann’s job was to keep his sleep-deprived passengers engaged until that time. Our route took us around the tip of the rugged Reykjanes peninsula.

As he drove, Brjann described the points of interest outside the windows of our van. First was the naval station at Keflavik, built during World War II and still occupied by American forces. Apparently the Icelanders have a love-hate relationship with the American navy; they would like to have the foreigners gone, but Iceland is defended by those same foreigners. Plus, the economy of the area is heavily dependent on the base, both for jobs and for the money spent by Americans in the area. I understood Brjann to say that the agreement between Iceland and the States was that the Americans would leave when both sides agreed they should. Apparently that has never been the case! Keflavik is considered a hardship tour for American military personnel; a colleague of mine who was stationed there says there’s nothing to do during the dark months of the year except drink, gamble, and go to school.

This was our introduction to the impressive geology of Iceland – the island was formed – and continues to be – by the separation of two tectonic plates. They drift away from each other at the rate of two centimeters a year, producing, as the Around Iceland guidebook says, “strong volcanic features and intense geothermal activity.” The last volcanic eruption at this site was in the 13th century. Numerous other eruptions have occurred in Iceland since then.

Art usually notices the results of shortsighted engineering designs – when we’re home, his attention is always drawn to inefficient roads; for example, the “Mercer Mess”, a spot on I-5 in Seattle where numerous lanes merge, and where drivers who’ve just crossed Lake Washington have to get across three lanes in about a quarter of a mile in heavy traffic to exit successfully at a Seattle offramp. Or nonsynchronized traffic signals where you stop at a red light for six blocks. He was, therefore, amused by the Icelandic lighthouse project.

What I remember about this place – Hafnaberg Cliff near Reykjanes - was that it was windy. My travel clothes – nonwrinkling slacks and sweater – were inadequate. I pride myself on being relatively insensitive to cold, but I missed part of Brjann’s discussion while I went to the van and dug through the luggage to find the one where I’d packed a fleece jacket “just in case”.

I did hear Brjann’s talk about the Arctic terns nesting on the cliffs. They summer in Iceland and winter in Antarctica, and they live for 25 years. That means they can fly a million kilometers in their lifetime – about 620,000 miles.

As we left the Hafnaberg Cliff, Brjann drove cautiously on the one-lane road. Multitudes of birds sat on the pavement because, we were told, it was warmer than the rocks on which the birds nested.

We drove through a small town on the coast with numerous wooden buildings. The southern coast of Iceland has been the site of multiple shipwrecks through the centuries. The remains of one ship, the Jamestown, washed ashore here, and its wood was used by the townspeople for building construction.

Interesting – our first “full Scandinavian breakfast” in the dining room of a fish museum! These meals were buffet style and consisted of granola cereals with “sour milk” (like yogurt but cultured differently), breads, with jams and wonderful Icelandic butter – cheeses, meats and fish and fruit, and hearty coffee. I sampled nearly everything this first day, but by the end of the trip I limited myself each morning to coffee and juice and granola with sour milk, and the meal kept me full for hours. When I got home I tried in vain to find the sour milk at our grocery store.

Brjann explained the maritime climate of southern Iceland. For a country so far north, its climate is relatively mild because the north-flowing ocean current in the Atlantic splits on the southwestern corner of Iceland, eventually surrounding the island.

Within this environment, algae thrive; they are at the bottom of the food chain. At the top is an abundance of cod, which has been fished by Icelanders for centuries and continues to be a primary export. In recent years quotas have been established; I know this has resulted in the decline of some Icelandic villages, but I must have dozed off during Brjann’s explanation of how and why those quotas came to be. I do remember that he said one of the reasons Iceland is not a member of the European Union is that fishing rights would have to be shared with fleets from other countries. And that one of Iceland’s exports is cod heads, which are sent to Nigeria and used in stew.

The Blue Lagoon is a profitable Icelandic enterprise, attracting natives and tourists alike. It’s a natural geothermal spa surrounded by a lava field and black sandy beaches. You walk from the parking lot to the building between lava walls, pay your money at the desk in the entrance foyer, and put on a high tech bracelet.

As you go through the turnstile, the bracelet records the time you entered. You take off your shoes and put them in a cubbyhole, then proceed to the gender-specific dressing rooms. In the company of numerous strangers of your gender, you take off all your clothes and put them in a computerized locker – your bracelet records your locker number – before taking a “cleansing shower”.

You can’t help but note the other body shapes and conditions around you, some of which make you feel good about your own body, and some of which make you cringe at the thought that your body is visible to others. Six of the naked strangers are members of the Walking the World tour, whom you have known for less than two hours. You are reminded of the intense discomfort of high school gym class in the 1960s. With relief, you don the bathing suit which you included in your carry-on as instructed, pass through glass doors and exit into the spa area.

Here’s what Around Iceland says about the Blue Lagoon:

Relaxation in the warm (37-39 degree Centigrade) lagoon in a steamy captivating environment is a one of a kind experience. It is famous for its unique active ingredients and their effects on body and soul. Salts balance and relax, blue green algae nourishes and softens, and the white silica mud cleanses and exfoliates.

The Blue Lagoon spa area is a paradise for body and soul. A waterfall with Blue Lagoon seawater is in the area where guests can experience a light water massage. A play with lava, silica, and lagoon creates an impressive frame around the specially designed steam bath where walls resemble white silica and the lagoon gently flows into part of the area.

The warm, nutrient-laden water, the steam rising from the powder blue surface, the murmured conversations of other bathers nearby in a medley of languages – German, Italian, French, Icelandic, Danish, English – was intense, almost hypnotic. After 45 minutes, I realized I needed to get out of the water. I might have fallen asleep in the Blue Lagoon, or my blood pressure might have risen to dangerous levels, if I hadn’t made my way to the stairs rising out of the water. As I showered afterwards, my fatigue rose up again. I couldn’t remember which locker was mine, but my bracelet did, and the door swung open. My traveling clothes looked out of place to me now.

In the entrance foyer we bought bottled water. We drank it all.

On the final leg of our trip to the hotel, Brjann talked about Icelandic last names. When a son is born, the son’s last name is the father’s first name plus “son”. A daughter’s name is the father’s first name plus “dottir”. That means that Art’s sons would be Jason and Karl and Peter and Gregory Arthursson, rather than Myers. And, as the daughter of Bill Horner, my name would have been Linda Billsdottir. It seems odd to me that brothers and sisters in a family would have different last names even if they had the same parents. Brjann said that Icelandic patronymics are optional now, but that most people still choose to name children in the “old” way.

Seven hours after our plane landed in Iceland, we checked into the Baron Hotel in downtown Reykjavik, a five-story, three-star, contemporary hotel near the waterfront.

Bleary eyed by now, Art and I received our key and took the slow, very small elevator to the third floor. I felt punchy and nearly sick from lack of sleep, so I went to bed immediately for a two-hour nap, while Art made a short trip to the nearby bank to exchange our money for Icelandic krona and to pick up snacks and bottled water from the small market on the street behind the hotel.

When I woke from my nap I was still tired, but the sense of unreality resulting from no sleep at all was gone. The restaurant hosting our group’s welcome dinner was about a mile and a half walk from the hotel. At 7pm the sun was still afloat high in the sky. Some of Reykjavik’s downtown shops were still open, clearly catering to tourists in this, Iceland’s high season. With signs in both Icelandic and English, I felt immediately comfortable in this modern small city.

Art and I walked back to the hotel with Carolyn and Charlotte. We talked about work, of all things, and the frustration with “people issues” we all experience.

When Art read his journal entry to the group the next day, I was surprised at his observations and his humor. I’ve always done the writing on our trips. Clearly, I had underestimated Art’s ability to express himself in the written word. After 13 years together, I learned something new about him.