This February marks five years since I’ve been to Iceland.
It’s one of the country’s that has stuck with me the most. I don’t know how much it’s changed — hopefully not a lot. In my memory, it was perfect just the way it was a half decade ago, what could possibly need changing?
By nature, I despise being in nature.
But not in Iceland.
In Iceland, one can’t help but be in nature. Even in the shower of our AirBnB, the window was open to the wilderness. The scalding water pellets from the faucet and the frigid air would dance together and leave me feeling both rejuvenated and sleepy.
The snow in Iceland somehow makes you feel as though you’re seeing snow for the first time. Every single day that I was in the country, the falling snow and the mounds of snow brought to mind memories of cancelled classes in elementary school. I found myself wanting to play in it, dance in it, lay down in it, and wonder at it.
Nobody is rushing in Reykjavik.
Everything is very casual and very calm. You can breathe in Reykjavik. There’s good healthcare and good maternity care. There’s time to read and write and enjoy life and all that is around you. A walk to a museum in Reykjavik feels like part of the fun. A walk to a museum in New York feels like an obstacle that keeps you from seeing the good stuff. Everything in Iceland is the good stuff.
I don’t think I’d ever need migraine medicine if I lived in Iceland. Swimming in the warm baths surrounded by cold air seems to cure just about everything. Over thinking. Back aches. Frayed nerves. They’re all healed by laying in the warm water and watching your breath dance up toward the stars set against the black sky.
When I think of comfort food, I think of Iceland. Thick fish stew that’s eaten off of a plate and not from a bowl. A side of brown bread and salty butter. Rich lobster bisque. Sweet charred langoustines. The world’s best hot dogs with the perfect snap. Skyr yogurt in the mornings. Even eating in the AirBnB was a treat because for just an hour, I would pretend that I lived in Iceland and wasn’t just visiting.
And then there’s the outdoor activities — none of which I’m good at: horseback riding and ice climbing and glacier hiking. On the other hand, if you count spotting the Northern Lights as an outdoor activity, then I’m evidently very good at that. I saw them the first time we tried.
For a history nerd like me, Iceland is Eden. Of course there’s the Saga Museum and Icelandic History Museum — those are memorable. But then there’s the opportunity to go to the city’s edge and stare out at the fjords. On a foggy day and when you’re all alone in the eerie quiet, one half expects to see a Viking long boat come coasting in silently to the bank.
There’s Viking history everywhere. Most notably in the language. I remember reading a newspaper in Reykjavik one morning about how couples must give their newborn babies an Icelandic name. I’m all in favor. Walking through Thingvellir National Park was a dream. My feet carried me across the same places where the Odin worshiping men once trudged. At night in the park, I watched the same mysterious, greenish purple light spread across the sky just as they did. It doesn’t come as a swatch of paint from a brush. The lights start on two opposite ends and meet in the middle — like the past and the present building a bridge. Some say the spirit of the departed can walk across that bridged. I smiled in that direction just in case.
In another life I would live in Iceland. I would trade in the hustle and bustle for a life of writing and saunas and health care. But I wonder if Icelanders ever get bored.
Does Eden get boring?
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