Iceland, 25 September 2022

I started this blog in March 2016 to help me remember my first international trip: a visit to Iceland with some friends from grad school. Six years later and I'm back in Reykjavik with my husband, Jason, on his first international trip. I've wanted to share this place with him ever since I arrived the first time, and I'm so excited I finally get to.

The flight is delayed by an hour, but uneventful. We leave Seattle at about 4:50pm on a Saturday, and because of the time difference and 7 hour flight, we get into Keflavik Airport at about 7:00am on a Sunday. I hate flying so much: I get congested, and wickedly nauseated, and as a fat person it's hard to fit comfortably in a seat (okay, it's pretty impossible to be in coach no matter your size). The airport is pretty small, and I'm surprised by how much I remember (we turn left here and there will be a bathroom on the right, customs is up the stairs, there's a bus terminal right by the exit). Last time I was here was Easter Sunday in 2016, and I was flying back to Seattle. The airport had hidden golden eggs throughout the terminals for kids me to find, and I found two or three before I decided to leave some for others because I'm so very selfless.

It's the law that if you travel by plan you have to take this photo

We board a bus that will take us from the airport to Reykjavík while the wind tries to smother a fellow passenger with his own scarf. Reykjavík, Iceland's capital, is also the world’s most northern capital city. I don't really know where I'm going, but I know I booked in downtown, which is small enough I figure we can find our hotel no matter where the bus drops us. We get off at Stop 14 by the Harpa, and walk with another traveler up, up, up the hill several blocks to our respective hotels. He breaks the ice by saying "Nice sweater" to Jason, who is wearing the same sweater the Dude wears in The Big Lebowski. When we packed that morning, Jason had told me "I didn't have anything else in my backpack, so I packed my Big Lebowski sweater so I can wear it at the Big Lebowski bar!" and like the Grinch, my heart grew three sizes.

Hopefully our new friend Trevor (from Victoria—Canada, not Washington) got his hotel room okay, because we do not. We find the building just fine, but the attendant on duty makes a yikes face, and tells us there's a been a booking issue. Apparently they double-booked, so instead they put us in a room at their sister hotel. She confides in us that this is actually fortunate for us, because the current hotel is kinda crappy ("Very old, not very nice," she says) but this other hotel is much newer and nicer. We walk back down the hill to our new hotel, just steps from the bus stop and. They're very kind here, and let us check in early and give us free drinks for later in their bar for the inconvenience.

Heart-shaped hot cocoa (they spell it "coco") on our first morning

We drop our bags and head out to find breakfast on Laugavegur, Reyjkavik's main street. The name means "water road" or "wash road," because back when the road was being built (1880s), women would come down to that street to wash their clothes in geothermal pools. Today, Laugavegur is where the boutiques, tacky tourist shops, tattoo parlors, and restaurants are, so it's a good place to start. We find a tiny cafe in a building that looks like a house. The six tables are full, and the lone teenager behind the counter informs us "It's just me. You can wait, but it's going to take me awhile to get to you." There's an indoor swing chair that's available, so I'm happy to wait. My hot chocolate comes in a heart-shaped mug.

 

Hallgrímskirkja, the tallest church in Iceland. You can go to the top for a bird's eye view of the city, but our schedule won't work out the entire time we're in Iceland to visit.

Reykjavik has wonderful street art. Buildings and businesses have murals painted on the side, and I search for my old favorite (a woman transforming into a wolf) but it is covered by construction. Iceland is a good place to be an artist. In fact, 25% of Icelanders work in a creative job (and 1 in 10 have published a book, too, by the way). There's a host of reasons why, as this thesis lays out, but it comes down to major factors including an egalitarian society, a de-emphasis on test scores in school, an emphasis on free-play in kids (and adults, as the giant hopscotch on Laugavegur attests), and a national pride in making things by hand.

 

Day valkyrie, night valkyrie

Einstein and Tupac sharing a beer

We walk up and down the blocks, window shopping and people-watching. Shopkeepers are very unlike American cashiers, who often say hello the moment you walk in, welcome you, ask you how you are. They're polite, sure, but not fawning. I say "Hej hej" when I enter (an informal Nordic greeting) and "Takk" when I leave (Icelandic for "thanks"), and hope I'm not basically someone's dad mispronouncing "Gracias" at a Mexican restaurant.

Not sure what they're selling; no plans to find out

We go to the big flea market, but it's not nearly as good as I remember so we leave after looking at just a couple stalls. Jason's tired, so we go back to the hotel so he can take a nap. I prefer to power through jet lag, so I go back out and wander some more. I find a convenience store to get power converters for our cell phone chargers. I get another hot chocolate, this time from a bookstore cafe that apparently has a seagull problem. I drink it outside and people watch, while two musicians (a dad and son, I think) play a mix of classic American music and Icelandic songs. I hear "Ring of Fire," something in Icelandic, and a few more before I get too cold and wander back to the hotel. I've put in 15,000 steps and haven't slept in over 24 hours.

Beware of Steve

When I take this photo, four tourists on electric scooters almost crash trying to see what I’m looking at. From my perspective it looks like the stairs go nowhere, but from their perspective it looks like a weird tourist is taking a photo of nothing special.

Cats are kept as pets throughout Iceland, but they’re especially known for roaming downtown Reykjavík. They came over with the island’s first inhabitants in the ninth century, prized for both their mouse-catching abilities and their fur. Now, there are an estimated 20,000 cats in Iceland (which has a population of only about 376,000 people), and one source puts 12,000 of them in Reykjavík alone. Because geothermal heat is cheap, homes and apartments are easy to keep warm, and folks will leave a window cracked even in winter for a fresh breeze. Which means cats come and go as they please, wandering the town, catching mice and rats, and delighting tourists. With no coyotes, raccoons, or urban foxes, and low speed limits in the city, the cats don’t have much to worry about in terms of predators. Another bonus for the cats of Reykjavík: there aren’t many dogs. Of course, there are working dogs in the country, but dogs were banned in Reykjavík from 1924 all the way through 1984 in order to combat a fatal tapeworm that spread throughout the country.

The friendliest cat I met

 
For dinner, we go to Lebowski Bar, which has a funky thematic mixture of 40s pin-up, bowling, and 80s/90s American movies. Of course, the main focus is the movie The Big Lebowski, with a Big Lebowski-themed menu (the Donny is a cheeseburger, and the Walter is a bacon cheeseburger) and an extensive White Russian Menu. I specifically wanted to come to the Lebowski Bar because Jason is such a fan of the movie, but my secondary motivation is their milkshakes, which are the best I’ve ever had.

Abiding his time

After dinner, we walk over to Skólavörðustígur Street in the dark to check out the famous Rainbow Street. Originally painted for a Pride celebration, the rainbow section of Skólavörðustígur became permanent in 2019, with citizens—including Reykjavík’s mayor—helping to paint the colorful stripes. During our days in the city, we’ll see dozens of tourists lined up to take photos on the street. Walking back to our hotel for the night, we pass a group of teenagers arguing about which Mario Kart’s “Rainbow Road” level is hardest.

 
Rainbow Street at night

Extra spicy cat who tolerated Jason but did not like me

Being Boston - the First Weeks

I get into Boston much later than expected: my flight was delayed over 4 hours. Our cat did remarkably well, not a peep or a fuss and I’m so proud of him for being so good. Jason picks me up at the airport and brings Bailey with him. Bailey is more excited to see Lebowski than he is to see me, but that’s okay.

I’m so excited to see Jason and our new apartment, but I’m so fried and tired that I just want to go right to bed. Our five-story building is beautiful, old and faced with tan brick. We take the creaking old elevator up to the top floor: you slide open the glass exterior door, and then push back the accordion metal grate on the inside. I do a quick walk through with Jason before I go to bed. Our high ceilings have textured wallpaper or beams, depending on the room. The main hallway has classic half wall paneling and built in display shelves. Our bedroom has a bay window, and in the morning I’ll see just how much light we get.

Intricate glass on our elevator

The way down 

Textured wallpaper in our hallway

Under the covers lump is Lebowski; on top of the covers lump is Bailey

Motto

The next few weeks are a blur of unpacking, settling in, and realizing just how much of a change this new city is. I try to focus on the positives, but it’s hard. Not only am I so far away from all my family and friends, the culture here is so different from Washington. The people are much more gruff. Drivers don’t follow road rules: they make their own lanes, they don’t signal, they honk incessantly, and the left-hand turn across traffic seems to be king. In the first week, though, we meet a delightful couple when we buy a desk and chair from them off craigslist. And we meet a couple that lives two floors below us with their cat, Ty. They’re all very kind, very welcoming, and it makes me feel better to experience such warmth.

The best way for me to a place is on foot. We live in the Brighton neighborhood, and I walk for miles, mostly exploring further south and east. Jason works in Brookline, which is an old Jewish neighborhood. I think 1 in 3 men I see are wearing yarmulke, with many also wearing Talit. The women wear long dresses and head scarves. I walk past religious buildings of all types, but certainly more temples and synagogues than any other city I’ve visited. Of the business I pass, the majority seem to be dentist offices and salons.

The buildings are immediately one of my favorite things about Boston. Many of them are over 100 years old. There’s hidden detail everywhere, from small relief carvings in banisters to terracotta and stone building adornments. Bay windows and deep windowsills. Many buildings have wrought iron fences and balcony railings. I recognize maples and oaks among the other deciduous trees, but a lot of the trees and shrubs are unfamiliar. In this neighborhood they’re old, and their boughs have been allowed to spread across the roads to meet in a green bower over the cars. Streets are narrow and ill-defined, and in no discernable grid. Molly tells me that the roads were literally designed by cows: cattle cut great paths through the land, and then city planners just paved over where the cattle had gone.  

We're nearing Memorial Day, and the memorial street signs in our neighborhood have wreaths and flags

Corinthian columns on a local apartment building

I was really tickled by this sign. They can leave the door code out in public because you have to be able to read Hebrew to decipher it 

On a school next to our apartment

I love the wind here. It’s hot and so humid, but the weather makes up for that with a cool breeze that’s often blowing. I know I’m close to the ocean but the salty tang doesn’t make it this far inland. I’m often struck by a strange, stinky-sweet smell coming from the sewers. Mostly though the air smells clean, and of sweet flowers. We picked a beautiful season to move. I send pictures to Maggie to help me identify strange flowers. The wild roses are familiar, as are the belladonna and lily of the valley. Maggie points out wisteria, and I still need to figure out what a certain flowering tree is. It smells vaguely like lilac, and looks like a cross between that and Queen Anne’s lace.

This tree had flowers that reminded me of butterflies

One of my walks takes me to Chestnut Hill Reservoir. It was created in 1870 to supply water to Boston and the surrounding area, but has only been used in emergency situations since the 1970s. I see rabbits, chipmunks, turtles, geese, and swans. I’m most delighted by the chipmunks, which I don’t often see in Washington. It feels very special when I catch the bright red of a cardinal or a flash of blue from a jay, even though I know they’re relatively common out here. A walking path rings the reservoir, and I’m reminded of Seattle’s Green Lake. Initially I assume the Reservoir is bigger, but it turns out it’s only 1 ½ miles around, half the size of Green Lake.

After dropping Jason off at work one day, I see wild turkeys ambling out to the road and a long grove of strange-looking trees. I circle the block and park to check out both. The turkeys are like turkeys everywhere: lumbering idiot birds that intimidate me hugely. I hear their chortling clucks but keep my distance. It turns out that the trees I’ve found is Longwood Mall, the (presumed) oldest stand of European Beech trees in America. The trees are massive and magnificent, their heavy branches sometimes dipping all the way down to the ground before curving upwards again. There are signs all over urging people to treat the trees with respect, and I’m dismayed to see so much graffiti carved into the trunks.   

Turkeys

Beech trees

Later, I go to the Public Garden. It was the first botanical garden in the US, but that’s not why I’m going: I hear there’s a cool cemetery nearby. I walk perhaps a half-mile of the Freedom Trail through the Common to get to the graveyard. The Trail is not what I expected: it’s lined with benches, most of which are occupied by homeless people asking for money. One man sits apart on the corner, shouting the weather report and baseball scores of the day for spare change.

Bluejay

Boston Gardens gate

Toward one end of the Freedom Trail

I walk beyond the beautiful fountain and up the street to Granary Burying Ground. It dates back to 1660, and holds the remains of some of Boston’s most illustrious historical figures. Today, it’s surrounded on three sides by brick buildings. Business people work inside, and some of them have their desks facing out into the little square. On a second floor window, I see brightly-colored paper figures: a nursery or preschool must be there. I visit John Hancock’s tomb: it’s easy to find as it’s so tall and elaborate. It takes me several passes before I find Paul Revere’s resting place: there’s a simple pillar marking him, next to the much smaller (presumably) original headstone. The most common decoration are engraved skulls with wings, although I see some hourglasses and willow trees. It’s shady and quiet here, even though traffic whizzes by the front of the cemetery.   

John Hancock's grave

I love the way they used to attribute graves as the  "property of" the deceased

Some of the graves had their headstones embedded in the surrounding brick wall

Paul Revere's big gravestone next to Paul Revere's little gravestone 

People left stones on top of Revere's monument 

On another day, I walk several miles to Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. I go past Harvard and MIT, through the hospital district. It’s much faster-paced in this neighborhood, I feel more like I’m in a big city than I do in Brighton. The MFA is staggering in size. The outside is grey stone, with huge ionic columns supporting the classic Greek pediment above the door. I’m tickled to see they are displaying a huge Pride flag along with the American flag.

Back of a garbage truck

Opposing doors on the walk

Interesting street art on the way to MFA

The crosswalks in this neighborhood are intricately designed

Yes

The MFA, Boston

The museum and its collections are just as vast on the inside. I get lost several times and finally give up on the hope that I’ll see it all or tour it logically. I start, by chance, in a small gallery with jewelry. The pieces are dazzling, many of them designer and absolutely encrusted with jewels. They’re grouped by the symbols they share. My favorites are the snakes, the confronted animals, and the medusas. In ancient times, snakes were worn for protection and power.

Medusa

I move on to other ancient art, and my favorite section is on funerary arts. I see mummies, carvings, vessels. Princess Henettawy’s coffin is on display, and it’s from 1000 BC: it’s one of the oldest things I’ve seen. I’m sure there’s a smart way to progress through the galleries to see things in a logical or at least ascending time-period order, but I’m too overwhelmed to figure it out. I wander in and out of hallways, mostly choosing where to walk next based on which room has the fewest fieldtrip groups in it at the time.

Princess Henettawy's coffin 

I like the tongue-in-cheek caption here

One room was visible storage and restoration, and they answered questions via whiteboard messages

I somehow end up in the colonial America gallery, and am delighted to see so many works from my art school text books. The Portrait of Washington (Gilbert Stewart) that was replicated on the dollar bill. The massive Watson and the Shark (John Singleton Copley) dominates a deep-green wall, commanding your attention with its drama and detail. Silverworks by Paul Revere. Paintings by John Singer Sargent. I’m taken back to art school, and god I miss the people and the dedicated time to make art. Working late in the studio, collaborating with friends, the rush that is peer critique and kick in the guts that is instructor critique.

Silverwares by Paul Revere

A reconstructed room of a local wealthy family

Dolla Dolla Bill, y'all

A young boy and his friends kept giggling and saying "Jesus is dive-bombing the crowd!"

Watson and the Shark

This room was the collection of a man who collected art based on its mathematical properties: he used equations to decide what art was the most perfect or beautiful and only collected that (much of it is based on symmetry) 

I make my way to the contemporary art galleries, and love this strange hanging sculpture and some shadow play cutouts. Visitors move quicker through the contemporary art galleries than the historic galleries. Why is that? Is it that it’s easier to digest meanings with the distance of time? That the unfamiliarity of older work inspires more curiosity? Simple sensory overload of the neon tubes and bright colors in the modern galleries? I’ve been looking at art for almost 3 hours, and I’m tired and at my saturation point. But I make sure I find my way to the basement for the current Matisse exhibition. The space is crammed full of people, looking, taking selfies, chatting. To be honest, I don’t get as much from the Matisse exhibit as I thought I would, but that’s mostly due to the massive amount of people who make it impossible to contemplate, and my own over-stimulated nerves. I’ll need to go back to MFA several times before I see it all.    

There is so much culture and art here in Boston. I just have to be brave enough to go out and find it all. I'm glad I have the chance to try.