Best of the Rest: Geyser & Gal

So Iceland almost doesn't happen - and it wasn't thanks to Mr Eyjafjallajokull, who spluttered his way into notority, wreaking havoc in Europe's skies back in March and April of 2010. (And believe me, I was freaking out that I wasn't going to escape Ireland.) Instead, it was a simple case of Icelandair deciding to cut their connecting flights from Birmingham to Reykjavik.


The morning starts out normal enough. I'm staying over at J.'s, when I wake up at 6:30am.  There's a nagging voice in my head telling me that I need to check my flight. Call it intuition. I find an email from Icelandair advising me that my flight's been cancelled and could I please call to rebook.  

"We've tried to contact you on numerous occasions," they say. 
Er really....? 

I checked my Irish sim and find that they left a message on the day of R's wedding to advise me of the same thing. I then go into their website and find that flights from Birmingham to Reykjavik are non-existant. Oh crap. There is a glimmer of hope though - I see there's a flight from London Gatwick to Reykjavik leaving at 9pm that night. I try to ring Icelandair and find that their office only opens at 12 noon GMT. The next 12 hours go a little something like this:


1) I wake up J. and I'm like a cartoon character on fire running around in circles going, "OMG, OMG, OMG, MY FLIGHT'S BEEN CANCELLED - ARGH......" My day out with the Brums is officially dunzo.


2) J. kindly gets a friend to drop me off at the train station. It's a mad dash back to Coventry to repack my bags and organise flights.


3) I try skyping Icelandair a minute after 12 and get placed in a queue. After being put on hold for 25 minutes, I am disconnected. WTF. I try again, and it's the same thing.


4) I end up using R.'s landline and get put on hold for another half an hour. I start to dread how expensive R.'s phone bill is going to be. I finally get through and they put me on the London Gatwick flight. I leave R. a note about the phone call along with a tenner, and tell her to let me know if the call ends up being more.


5) Next, I try to book transport from Coventry to Gatwick. The airport bus is fully booked. So is the train with the least amount of station changes. I get R.'s mother-in-law to drop me off at the train station and then begin the epic dash from Coventry to Watford Junction to Clapham Junction to Gatwick.


6) I look like a train wreck (pardon the pun,) by the time I haul myself and my suitcase onto the train from Clapham Junction to Gatwick. I get talking to a group of English boys who are quite fun. They've just come from a stag do in Newcastle and in the next five minutes, I'm invited to their friend's wedding as a plus one. 
"I'm dead serious," says one of the boys in the group.
"For the sake of being random, I would actually have said yes," I say. "But I'm afraid I'm actually going to be at La Tomatina at that time." 


They ask me where I'm going. 
"Iceland," I say.
There's a bit of a pause.
"We're going to assume given the destination of this train and your suitcase, you're talking about the country, and not the supermarket." they say. 
"I'm not to be mistaken for Kerry Katona," I say.


The boys bid farewell at Purly, but not before asking me why Londoners are so gloomy. 
"Nobody seems to ever want to have a chat," they say as they head out the door.
"Call it the Big City factor and multiply it by ten fold," I call out as the doors start to close.


7) Finally, at 8:45pm, I am on the plane to Iceland. The seats are kinda small and there's very little leg room. I pity the tall, white blonde Scandinavian guys across the aisle from me who look really squashed and extremely uncomfortable. (On a side note, I notice a fair few of these black t-shirt guys over the course of Scandinavian travels. It was later confirmed by a Norwegian boy (I think he had a bit of a crush on me, the poor boy,) who was going to a metal festival in Oslo over the summer.

I'm exhausted from all the adrenaline and nervous energy from the day that I'm asleep for most of the journey.



I wake up when the plane lands on the runway. I look out the window and I am struck by how remote the place is. I can't see the presence of any city lights and aside from the litle airport and runway, all I see is a black rocky landscape expanding far into the distance. And still they like to call Perth the most isolated city in the world.


Totally surreal (even though I already knew about it,) was the presence of sunlight even at 2am. The sky is a pale silver with the sun glowing orange behind the rocky backdrop. An eye mask in the summer months is definitely a must over here.

(Below: Swimming in the Blue Lagoon)

 

 

 

I set out the next day to do the usual touristy things. First on the agenda is the Blue Lagoon (again, almost didn't make it there as the bus conveniently forgets about me until I ask the hostel to ring). Touristy? Yes, but totally worth it. The whole experience after a day of chasing after planes is extremely calming and of course, blue.


Back in town, I head over to Reykjavik's most famous hotdog stand - Baejarins Bestu (translated to mean "town's best"), Hafnarstraeti 17. During my stay in Iceland, I go past the little shack at various times of the day and night, (from what I can gather, it operates Monday to Sunday, 24/7,) and there is always a queue.

"The man who owns that stand is laughing all the way to the Bahamas," mutters my tour guide the next day.

So famous is this place that they have a framed photograph of Bill Clinton and Metallica hung casually on the side of their corrugated tin wall - eating hot dogs, of course. (On a side note, the Icelanders seem to be into this colourful, corrugated tin look, which is very Nordic in architecture, I've been told.)

  

Anyway, back to the hotdog stand, ask for a "Clinton", and you'll get the hot dog with mustard only. Bill wasn't particularly adventurous, so I'd recommend getting the "works" for the truly authentic Icelandic hotdog experience instead, consisting of ketchup, honey mustard, remoulade, crispy onion and fresh onions. It's an interesting (and yes, delicious) combination that you'll never taste outside of Iceland. I get chatting to one of the local Icelanders while scoffing down my dog - an elderly gentleman who, like all the Icelanders I meet, speaks perfect "American English".

(Below: Mmm, hot diggidy dog.)

It's then a walk around the shops along the main st of Laugarvegur. All the retail stores are dotted along the main drag, and there doesn't appear to be much else once venture off the main street. The big tourist buy are those big, woolly jumpers (the nanna kind as what my buddy N. had said,) although I do spy a few Icelanders out in these at night. The novelty t-shirt store has a shirt that makes me chuckle.

 

Despite the predominance of stores totting the 80's woolly jumper look, there are a fair few funky boutiquey type stores. Upmarket vintage clothing stores appear to be popular too.


I have dinner at the popular Icelandic Fish and Chips bistro and order the langoustine which is crumbed, seasoned with lots of garlic and grilled. This sets me back just under 20 euros. It's tasty, but the langoustine is a little mushy at times.

Back at the hostel, I meet a guy from the Neatherlands who suggests that we go out for a few drinks. We have some wine on a patch of lawn looking over Reykjavik town, and although it's nearing 10pm, the sun's still at 4 o'clock in the horizon.

Totally surreal.

We then head off to a bar, where the guy asks me how I ended up over this side of the world. Turns out the phrase of "Australians are everywhere," doesn't quite apply in Iceland. (In fact, my tour guide the follow day thinks I'm somewhat of a novelty, which is a novelty for me in itself.) I explain to the guy that it's a rite of passage for any young Australian (who doesn't do the boring thing of buying a house or getting married early,) to pick up and leave for London, and to travel around The Continent. He interjects and says something to the effect of, "Well, Australian guys must be stupid. How could anybody let you go?"

It then dawns on me that Mr Neatherlands mentioned something about going to work in China. I quickly put two and two togehter and go - uh oh, he's one of those.

I don't have the heart to tell him that it was actually me who decided to go, and just leave; and then to continue with my whole spiel of, "I don't believe in marriage or kids blah blah blah." but then, we get interrupted by some old, (and very drunk) Icelandic man in a suit. 


"Welcome to Iceland," he slurs. "I think you're beautiful."


I give him the incredulous stare, the one that usually sends guys packing; with the one cocked eyebrow and the expression that reads, "Are you kidding me?"


The Holland guy looks a bit pissed that he's been interrupted and tries to whisper something in my ear.


The Icelandic Suit's expression darkens, his face already red from alcohol becoming redder by the minute.


"You need to be careful, boy," the Suit says, eyes narrowing at the direction of the Holland guy. "I know some very powerful people over here in Iceland and command a lot of respect,"


He starts rattling off some random names of people, all of whom to be honest, don't sound onimous at all, and sound more like something out of The Hobbit. (Yes, Icelandic reallly does sound like something out of a J.R. R. Tolkien novel.) As I take a closer look at The Suit, it occurs to me that he is in fact some (sleazy) Icelandic politician.

Geez, talk about a stereotype.

All of a sudden, without warning, The Suit lunges towards me and embraces me in a bear hug. I have nowhere to escape as I'm essentially sitting on a bar stool, right at the corner of the bar. Note to self, never sit in a corner ever again. While trying to squirm my way free, I suddenly feel a hand on my thigh - good Lord, it's the Holland guy. I just don't get it - I'm sitting there with my glasses, smudgy make up and messy hair - how is it possible that I'm (simultaneously) being groped by two different men? Needless to say, I quickly break free, and run back to the hostel.


Back in the hostel dorm, I'm getting ready for bed when I hear the familiar six-slices-of-white-bread-stuffed-into-the-mouth accent. Oh no, you've got to be kidding..... Enter two ape-ish Irish guys into my dorm. Great, I escape Ireland, the Land of "I'll-just-climb-into-your-bed-in-the-middle-of-the-night-because-this-is-how-we-mate", only to now have two in the same room as me. Oh, the irony.


The Irish guys perk up when they see me. They tell me they're from Galway with an expectant smile, the expectation being that I'm going to squeal, "Oh, I love your accent," like all the lame Australian girls out there. Yes, I'm talking to you; that's just so 1999 :p~


All they get from me is an unimpressed, "Huh. Okay."


One of them bends down right in the middle of the room to reveal his hairy rear end and about half his arse crack. Charming.


They ask me where I'm from and I tell them Perth. One of them tells me that he use to live there when he did his year out in Oz.


"Where did ye use to hang out?" he asks.


"I was an Ambar and Velvet Lounge kinda gal," I say.


Unsurprisingly, he doesn't know these places and then tells me that he use to hang out at Rosie O'Grady's. I tell him that stereotypes exist for a reason.


Another girl enters the room and comments that she hasn't seen any Irish people while travelling around.


"Actually, it's true that we haven't seen any other paddies around," says one of the guys, looking puzzled.


I have to bite my tongue to stop myself from saying, just because there are Irish pubs around the world, doesn't mean that they're filled to the brim with Irish....... Come on, people.... It's just like McDonald's.....


The boys leave soon after, to head to the pub. I don't need to ask, but it's likely the Irish one.


The whole dorm gets woken in the wee hours of the morning when the Irish guys stumble home. Annoyingly, they're singing and then one of them hits himself against one of the bunk bed posts. Nobody else says anything aside from me - and I can tell you that I'm quick to shush them. (Hmm, do you see a pattern forming? :p) Unsurprisingly, the Irish boys are the only two who sleep in for most of the following day while the rest of us are out doing adventure sports.


My next two days are spent on a couple of small group tours (read: sitting in a monster truck with a handful of other travellers mainly from surrounding Scandinavian countries).

As an independent traveller, tours aren't really my kind of thing, but when you're travelling on your own, there's no fun in hiring a car and driving to random places alone. If this was one of those "today-I-went-to-Buckingham-Palace" kind of blogs, I'd be reporting on the following:


The Golden Circle Tour
Iceland's "bread and butter" of tourism consisting of the following sites:
- Thingviller (Iceland's first parliament)

- Geysir (self explanatory) and

- Gullfoss

And even with Iceland's economy going to shit, they're still proud to say that they don't want you tourists' stinking money :p

The more adventurous, (and those who can afford it,) also pack in snowmobiling over Langjokull glacier to the mix.

 

It's definitely on the list of 100 things to do before you die.


And as a final comment on the more standard side of things - for those of you who shun the more touristy Blue Lagoon, the more  untouched and remote Landmannalaugar is probably the ideal hot spring for you.

It is however, an extremely cold walk back to the public toilets to change. I can't say that the same opinion was shared by the Norweigan crew who were a part of my tour group - they had come to Iceland for the sunshine and warm summer weather, and on a side note forewarn me that Bergen, my onward destination, has the worst weather.


"It rains almost every day," says one of the guys.


So how warm is summertime in Iceland? Well, the word "ice" isn't in the country's name for nothing - we had the tour guide complain about it being "boiling" in the monster jeep by the time it hit mid-afternoon. I glance at the thermostat as see that it's hit 18C - in the interior of the car.

On the more interesting side of my own random musings, I had this (ridiculous) assumption that Iceland's landscape would be more vivid with lots of reds, purprles and blues.

What was I thinking, Iceland would be like Mars?!!? I think the fantasy of the vivid colours probably stems from those Northern Lights advertisements, which are pretty misleading in themselves. "You'll definitely see the green some time during the winter months," my tour guide says. "But purples and pinks..... Maybe only every 3 - 4 years."


Moral of the story? Go to Norway. 

The perks of having a local Icelandic tour guide was having the chance to quiz him on random cultural facts. I learnt the following fasicnating facts over the two day tour:

1) Like those "An Englishman, an Irish man and a Scottsman walked into a bar" jokes, there is the Scandinavian equivalent. (And no, the guide doesn't just hand me this information - it is something I specifically ask. Random? Yes.)  


"The Norweigans are the lazy ones in those jokes," says the tour guide in reference to Iceland's oil rich neighbour. This is obviously said on the first day and not the second, when we have fellow Norweigan toursits on board. "They don't like working more than 7 hours a day. They like Icelanders working in Norway as we're known as the hardworking ones who are willing to work longer days."


2) Handball is Iceland's national sport. My initial reaction when I hear this is to go, "You're kidding, right? You mean that game that everybody use to play in primary school....?"


3) An Icelandic business man use to own Iceland - as the in the frozen food supermarket chain in the UK - although he's since lost ownership of this as the result of Iceland's financial collaspe. (For those of you wondering, no, the Icelandic businessman didn't create Iceland; he just decided to buy it - likely because he got kicks out of saying, "I just bought Iceland today.").


4) Horse breeding for racing is big in Iceland.

And this one was a little observation of mine:
5) Like the Americans are with peanut butter, the Icelanders appear to love their licorice. I spied two different icecream versions during my stay there - vanilla icecream on a stick with an outer layer/coating of chocolate and licorice in the centre, or vanilla icecream coated with licorice (in substitute of the chocolate coating).

And finally, the food:


I dine twice at the Icelandic restaurant Trir Frakkar  (Baldursgata 14), known to be the one of the best fish restaurants in Reykjavik. They serve up great tasting food, with a focus on local produce and specialities. Combine that with the great service, it's a winning combination. Their mains are around the 25 euro mark, which I think is fairly reasonable; that is until I ask my tour guide (on day two) about the exchange rate pre and post GFC. Pre-collapse? It was 80 Kroner to the euro. post-collapse, it's 160 kroners to the euro. I do my re-calculations and then realise that yes, 50 euros is pretty bloody expensive for a main. I check the following food items off my bucket list:


1) Puffin

The meat is very dark in colour and has a texture similar to meaty sashimi.


2) Skyr Brulee

(Skyr is a dairy product similar to strained yoghurt.)


3) Whale

I'm the kind of girl who will eat the world, so when I'm offered to try somebody else's meal, I did. I bite into the meat thinking it's beef, but the texture is even smoother and more tender, and it doesn't quite taste like beef....


"Yum," I say. "What meat is that? It's really declious."


"Whale," is the response.

I almost choke. Poor Willy, you were so delicious too. I feel extremely guilty I leave the restaurant later that evening and half expect a Green Peace protestor to be hiding around the corner waiting to club me to death.


"Please don't kill me," I think. But hey, at least I'm making the sacrifice and not having children. No children = fewer carbon emissions. People seem to ignore the fact that the world is going to shit because of over-population.


The following evening, I forgo Icelandic cuisine for bowl of spicy Thai beef noodle soup from Noodle Station instead.

This photo of Noodle Station is courtesy of TripAdvisor
This photo of Noodle Station is courtesy of TripAdvisor

This photo of Noodle Station is courtesy of TripAdvisor

Asians are dodgy, but at least I knew for certain there wasn't any whale meat lurking on the menu. 


Or was there?