This is the first time I've explored a country's capital city at the end of a trip. In hindsight it proved to be an interesting approach. Historically, cities have always come late, the form they take a by-product of centuries of cultural growth in the countryside.
Nowhere was this more evident than in my initial stop at the Árbæjarsafn Open Air Museum. To duck in and out of the twenty or so buildings on the grounds was a refamiliarization with cultural elements already familiar from the ten day drive around the perimeter of the country. A common theme was the compact yet cozy nature to the homes, ideal for the creative person looking for a little isolation in which to work.
The city proper was not so quiet. Unknown to us, the annual Reykjavík Culture Night would be happening the following day, and already the city was beginning to fill. We moved up the hill for a quick look at Hallgrimskirkja, the church that is Reykjavík's most recognizable icon. It is an odd shaped structure, almost like a space shuttle, but hey, whatever it takes to closer to God. In the tidy grounds out front is a towering statue of Leif Erickson, which was a cultural homecoming of sorts for me, as the man's name is generally found on page one of the history books of every American schoolkid.
We descended the hill to Þrír Frakkar, a restaurant that came highly recommended, apparently a favorite of Jamie Oliver when he is in town. I decided to start my meal with the dreaded hákarl, or Greenland shark that has been fermenting underground for six months. Every bite brought a sudden rush of ammonia, little wonder since sharks have no anuses and secrete waste through their pores. Thus every bite was quickly followed by a sip of brennivín schnapps to both neutralize any remaining toxins and to wash the flavor of uric acid from the palate. Even more efficient at the latter was the dessert later, creamy yogurt-like skyr highlighted with a variety of fruits.
Our plan for the following day was to wander downtown. We detoured first to the Icelandic Phallological Museum, whose premise proved far more interesting than the mere thirteen minutes it took to see the displays. The usually busy Laugavegur was pretty quiet, and within minutes we realized that it was because everyone was downtown, watching road races of different lengths and categories. I was intrigued by the subterranean punk museum along the way, the elfin face of Björk staring up from the stairwell, but alas it was closed for the festival. We detoured around the police barricades to the very trendy restaurant of Apotek, where we sat awhile with French coffees and watched the runners go past.
The waterfront wasn't far off, busy with people setting off on whale watching excursions. One old warehouse had been converted into a Fish and chips place, where we settled in, the stragglers in the 10K still serving as entertainment value. We meander from here through the afternoon, visiting the Viking exhibits at Landnámssýningin Settlement Exhibition, then the more panoramic look at history at the Þjóðminjasafnið Museum near the university.
We rounded the lake toward the open squares of old town, as small bursts of flame signified the start of the children's road race, followed by the rush of hundreds of little legs. Performance and artists did their thing in the open courtyards of city buildings. Old town itself was also in full festival mode, all the benches and table occupied by patrons of the dozens of food stalls around the central square. We regretted immediately our lunch earlier.
Seeing a city for the first time during its busiest festival brings with it mixed emotions. It is of course all quite fun, and gives a quick look into the character of the people and their love for the place. But it is like trying to find a date at a Halloween party, you just aren't sure what is under all that makeup. I wish I'd had a look around the day before, then returned to party.
As such, neither LYL are big fans of crowds, so we escaped to the relative quiet of our hotel. As Iceland has one of the world's best music scenes, I had a quick look at the festival website to see who might be performing later, but there were no recognizable names. What had immediate appeal was the first Icelandic Craft Beer festival over at the waterfront. I headed back out there at an appropriate happy hour, though this time of year the sun barely makes it past the yardarm. I was sensible in only taking half-glasses as I sampled, but it was still quite a stumble back (past a poet's corner where four people sat behind typewriters to craft verse on themes provided by those in the chair opposite), to regroup with LYL and our awaiting dinner at Apotek.
Music was already playing from the large stage in the grassy park around the corner, with fireworks to follow at 11pm. But the crowds were too dense, and maybe we'd grown too accustomed to the quiet of the remote countryside. We laughingly picked out oncoming faces that we thought looked like Vikings, many just a drink or two shy of full-on berserker stage.
As I drifting off in my hotel bed, my attention was immediately grabbed by some great ska sounds of Todmobile coming from downtown, their energetic singer no doubt whipping up the crowd. I argued with myself whether to go back out, but the laws of inertia were against me. It somehow seemed better that way, to leave a place with some mystery, as a point from which to launch further explorations.
For as I think back on this particular journey, I feel that I had missed the point somehow, in covering ground more too quickly, in missing that which exists within the folds of all that verdant green.
On the turntable: J.J. Cale, "Shades"
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