From Mývatn, we made our way to Akureyri, Iceland’s second largest city with a population of less than 20,000. It makes you rethink a bit what it means to live the “city life.” We had one of our nicest dinners at Rub23, a swanky sushi/seafood fusion restaurant so nice, in fact, it felt out of place in sleepy Akureyri. So if you ever find yourself in Northern Iceland, you know where to go to satisfy your hunger for fancy fish!
Our last big hike, and my personal favorite, was along the river Skógá (near Eyjafjallajökull) We started at the base, by Skógafoss, slowly making our way up to the highlands. The weather was perfect: lots of sunshine but not too hot. And the view, well, I’ll leave that for you to judge.
I used to think that I had great taste in music, but now I know that everybody thinks they have great taste in music. After all, why would you listen to music you didn’t think was great? That doesn’t prevent me, however, from sharing with you some of my personal favorites.
I believe that an individual’s taste in music says a lot about them. That’s certainly true for me, in any case. In this upcoming series of music-oriented entries, I’m not looking to explain everything I do or who I am with this music…okay, maybe a little; but I will attempt to share these pieces of music through my narrative and explain why I like them the way I do with the hopes that maybe others will appreciate them in the same way.
This first song is one of my absolute, absolute favorites, and it was the song that made me understand how individuals could have such different interpretations and reactions to something very…simple.
It is a song borne out of the cold in northern Sweden, sung in Sámi—the language of the indigenous people of Norway, Sweden, and Finland. I was spellbound at first listen, but when I showed it to René, he told me that it sounded depressing, which was a disappointing reaction. (Actually, he thinks a lot of my music is depressing; it’s now become somewhat of a running gag.) He then said something which really me wonder: Having lived in Norway perhaps allowed me to perceive the song in a different light. I always believed without questioning that music was universal, but I think it’s true that culture gives you certain keys to access certain feelings and emotions you experience when you listen to music.
For me, even without having read the lyrics, I see in my mind the Arctic landscape, the barren tundra, and the occasional gentle drifts snow, all painted out by the piano. The quiet beginning of the song conveys a feeling of a chilly vastness: white as far as the eye can see. Then, with the beating of the drums comes the heat human life: nomadic, tribal, primordial.
I envision the nights too, quite clearly. Above, countless stars sprinkled in a cloudless sky. Collectively, their brightness turns the sky a deep, opaque green. Outside, it is below freezing, and the air is too cold to breathe. In the midst of this permanent winter, however, are a couple of teepees, each glowing with an orange center—orange from the embers of the fireplace. And as the drums beat louder, the flames grow larger—large enough to envelope the whole inside of the teepees with warmth and serenity.
The arrangement and melody reminds me of our fragility and vulnerability amidst the greatness of nature. And the lyrics fit the melody so perfectly, evoking even deeper layers of feelings and imagery. It’s a very romantic and comforting song—a song to fall asleep to when you’re alone, tucked underneath your cozy blankets; a song to which you dream about falling asleep in someone’s arms.
Áššogáttis (By the Embers) By the embers, it is peaceful The air is mellow Resting close to you Northern lights dance under high heavens with sundry forms of fires The full moon keeps watch of weak wanderers so the coldness of winter won’t trick us beyond the border of eternity
Surround my world with radiance and warmth Red beauty Let me be in the center of life, where it’s boiling, burning hot Listening to the sound of life Where does it come from? Following its path, in pursuit, brings me closer to your colors and warmth which shimmer, shine, and seduce me
Gibraltar is the tiny oddity found in Spain’s southern tip. It’s not often that you string the words British and Mediterranean together, but when you do, well, that’s when you get Gibraltar. Wedged between Andalusia and Morocco, the people here speak proper British English with a prominent Spanish flair. They also use pounds, but still drive on the right side of the road.
The giant cliff-like face of Gibraltar’s famous rock can be seen long before you reach the coastline. Upon reaching the border, we came across the most interesting airport I’ve seen to date–the runway intersects the only road connecting Spain with Gibraltar, so traffic must be stopped every time there’s a plane taking off or coming in. Apparently it’s considered the most dangerous airport in Europe.
We only spent a short afternoon there, which was filled up by a visit up the monumental rock of Gibraltar and fish & chips at Casemates Square. And despite the lack of time, the place left quite an impression in my mind. It seems like a relaxing and easygoing place, perfect for a short weekend vacation. So with that said, I don’t think I’m done with Gibraltar quite yet, but for now I’m quite happy to have gotten a preview.
Mývatn, or “Mosquito Lake,” gets its name from the numerous little critters that would make the lake their breeding grounds when the weather gets warm. Luckily for us, in the middle of October, there weren’t any of them around to plague us. What we encountered instead was a cold serenity.
The mornings were the most beautiful, because the skies were cloudless and piercing blue then, and the grounds glistened with fresh sheets of snowfall. Coming out of our cozy little log cabin townhouses, we breathed in the crispness of winter and scuttled our way to breakfast at Vogafjós, a family-owned cowshed-café hybrid that served fresh local produce. As we ate, the caldera of Hverfjall loomed in the backdrop, resembling the knuckles of a sleeping giant.
It was here in Mývatn that I saw for the first time the northern lights. I think it was during the second night of our stay. The skies were clear, and if you focused your eyes really hard upwards, you could almost be sure to make out just the faintest glow of green. Outside our cabins, there was a man taking photos on his tripod. After mustering up the courage to approach him, I learned that he was Australian. I also learned that he was taking long exposure shots of the Aurora. He then asked if I wanted to try capturing the lights with my own camera; did I ever! So we mounted the camera, and as I removed the hood of my mittens, I wondered to myself the correlation between frostbite and photographers. I snapped, and for fifteen seconds we stood there unmoving, waiting for the final click of the shutter. When it happened, this came up on my LCD screen:
At times, Iceland doesn’t seem like a real island as much as it does a fabrication from man’s fantasy. Just the name itself evokes wild and vivid images of swirling snow and glistening landscapes—a truly fitting abode for its equally mythical settlers, the Norsemen. A trip there won’t exactly dispel these notions either, for Iceland is a destination that lives up to its mystique. It’s an island sitting at the crossroads of dimensions, between the fiery licks of Múspell and the misty realm of Niflheim, an island in close proximity to both heaven and hell. In Iceland, you may very well find yourself caught in the midst of a midnight snowstorm on your way to a soak in a natural hot springs cavern…as we did! And you’ll be left the next morning wondering if it had really happened at all.
My interest in the lonely little island was first perked sometime around 2006, when I began toying with the idea of spending a year abroad in high school. There was something very romantic about leaving behind the messiness of domesticated Fremont, California, for a small village of 2,000 surrounded by a vast expanse of untouched wilderness. I had a clear vision of skipping stones on the Icelandic black pebble beaches, but ultimately, I could not commit myself fully to go there, for fear of it being too small. Fremont, my “town,” had a population of 200,000, and so I ultimately chose to go to Norway, with Iceland as my second country of choice. (On a side note, picking countries to live in as an exchange student is one of the most exciting things ever!) But ever since then, there was no doubt that I would one day visit it. While in Norway, my friend Doug even inspired me with the idea of cycling around the island with nothing but our rucksacks and our bikes; it’s something I’m still looking forward to doing.
I didn’t dare dream, however, that I would get the opportunity to go there so soon. So imagine my surprise when one of the Academic Travel destinations offered by my college for the fall semester was to Iceland.
I’ll never forget that feeling of being there the first day, staying on the outskirts of Grindavík at the Northern Light Inn. The view outside from our bedroom window looked as foreign as Mars: pumice-like lava formations as far as the horizon stretched, dotted here and there with patches of moss. Nearby, pillars of steam rolled steadily upwards from the geothermal power plant, an odd metallic piece of engineering that jutted out from the brown barrens. And on our walk back in the evening from the Blue Lagoon, all was still, and dark, and i ro, except for the heavens, which shone with spotlights of orange in the distance, not from reflection of the sun, but rather from the glow emitted by the nearby towns in Reykjanes…
