First, I want to thank fellow Daily Kos member, Rei, for the excellent volcano reporting from Iceland. I try to keep up with the posts as much as possible, and I have found them to be very, very interesting and informative. My decision to visit Iceland with my family over the long Thanksgiving Day weekend was, in part, inspired by Rei's excellent, in-depth reporting.
I do not even know where to start. Iceland was an unexpected life changer in ways I continue to process and discover. In a nutshell, however, Iceland broke me the minute we landed.
If for some reason it matters to you whether my family and I liked Iceland, the answer is unequivocally yes. Let's just get that out of the way. Absolutely. In fact, we are already contemplating our next visit there--my wife and daughter want very much to return. It is rare for all of us to agree on a return trip like that, but Iceland is a very powerful place.
"Extreme" is the word that comes to mind, and extreme has always been something I lean toward. Not crazy extreme, but just good old fashioned extreme. In fact, during the weekend before Thanksgiving, a couple of buddies and I went backpacking to Mount Greylock in western Massachusetts. Beautiful place. When we bedded down on Friday night in our tents, the outside temperature was 15 degrees F. We all had a blast.
When we landed in Iceland, the stress hit me in a way I could never expect. It hit me hard, without warning, and instantly. Arriving at the hotel early in the morning at 7:00, it would take about 90 minutes for our room to be ready. The red eye had exhausted us, and we hoped to catch some of Reykjavik in the afternoon after a short nap.
I looked up the weather forecast and soon learned that the sun would not even rise until approximately 10:50 in the morning. Sunset was around 3:55 in the afternoon, which means about five hours of light for the entire day and during very overcast conditions. It was a dim situation, and that is when the stress started settling in--in a most unpleasant manner.
For some reason, I awoke at precisely 7:09 every morning. The green digital clock numbers on the television are burned on my retinas. Probably stress I carried with me from New York. I would look out the window only to see total blackness--and this lasted until about 10:00, when the first cracks of light would appear in the sky. I had no idea how or why this would stress me out, but it did. Really big. In fact, I could not believe it. I have lived for years in a foreign country, and I have traveled between time zones and continents multiple times during my life. Never had a problem with any of that. Iceland broke me faster than I could say "ice."
To my surprise, I then learned that the temperature in Iceland pretty much flat lines between 32 degrees F in January (the coldest monthly average) and about 52 degrees F in July (the warmest). Iceland? While it was 48 degrees F in Reykjavik, it was 30 degrees F at my home in New York.
So Icelanders, on average, experience much milder and much slimmer temperature swings than Alaskans, for example. The name "Iceland" does not imply this, and the letter "c" does not even exist in the Icelandic language. "Iceland" seems to have been derived from "Island." Go figure.
Then there were the trees--or lack of them. Our Fontana hot springs tour guide joked about a forest "over there." It consisted of what appeared to be a few trees, literally. And he said: "Whenever we see more than four trees in Iceland, we call it a forest." The whole bus laughed, and I had no idea why. Was it about the "for" in forest rhyming with "four?"
When I looked up the topic later, I realized that Iceland pretty much has no trees left. At one time, Iceland was apparently 40% covered by birch trees and/or boreal forests of some type. Prior to World War II, Iceland had very little heating capacity, so people needed wool. Sheep grazed, providing the wool, after the trees were cut down.
Oddly, I learned this from the Iceland Forest Service at a page entitled, "Forestry in a Treeless Land." Iceland is full of ironies for sure. Try "hot river." There were a lot of those.
So few trees meant scarce firewood, it seems, and folks stayed warm with wool and by burning imported coal. According to this Guardian article, it was not until the 1970s gas crisis, however, that Iceland went nuts with domestic geothermal options, and that is one of the neatest things I have ever seen in my life. About 90%--get this--of all houses in Iceland are heated by geothermal heat. In other words, preheated spring water right from the ground.
More than one person explained to me that the typical manner in which Icelanders regulate the heat within their homes, even during the coldest day of the year, relies on opening windows! And the average, total monthly cost of heat, hot water, electricity--all utilities--for a typical three-bedroom household is about $50. How hot is that?
I saw zero something something gallons per minute shower heads. No sir. Our hotel had this rain bath shower thing that was probably somewhere along the lines of six gallons per second. With all that geothermal heat, virtually unlimited clean water, and about 320,000 people, Iceland, in full display, shows how we can live in harmony (and total opulence) with the Earth's unlocked power. If the population is small enough, that is. Moderate enough. Balanced with nature.
A fellow tourist raised his hand. The extremely polite and articulate Fontana tour guide answered the question: Why doesn't Iceland have all electric cars at this point? Answer: Good question, but switching over is slow, and due to the extremely rural characteristics of Iceland's countryside, having a battery die four hours out of Reykjavik may be deadly if conditions turn sour.
And wow do conditions go badly quickly there. On our final drive back to the airport in Keflavik, I recall experiencing something like 3 blizzards and 2 sunny days all within 45 minutes. When the golf ball ice particles starting slamming into the bus windshield, I grew concerned. Then the sky was blue.
To any pilots out there--I had this very non-technical observation. When our Icelandair plane took off for our return flight, weather conditions seemed extremely extreme to me. Can we really take off in this weather? I wondered. The pilot, while holding the brakes (if they are called that), turned the thrusters on to what seemed like full blast mode. But we did not move. It felt like the seconds leading up to a drag race. The jet engines just kept on howling, and the wind around our window started to look like a rain tornado. Then, just like that, the brakes released, and we zoomed forward. Is there a reason for that long, stationary thrusting period? It was wild, man.
To know Iceland, I quickly learned, is to know the weather of Iceland. I have never seen weather change on a dime as quickly as it does there. On Saturday night, we learned that our Sunday "Golden Circle" tour had been cancelled due to "anticipated hurricane conditions." Hurricane? Iceland? I thought they must be using that as an example to discourage fellow tourists from rock climbing that day or some other dangerous activities in windy conditions. I mean, Buffalo, New York can be pretty windy in the winter, no? Let's save the drama, I thought.
Until the hurricane hit our hotel. And I stupidly "cracked" the window open for some fresh air. Long story short, this ignorant tourist needed fellow man help from the front desk to literally close the hotel window against what felt like 200 mph wind gusts. No joke. I was so embarrassed, but the hotel guy just laughed me off. Happens all the time with the newbies, it seems. Iceland continues to break me, unabated, I observed with a frown, as I watched our hotel windows actually bend inward from the wind pressure.
"Extreme Iceland" is a tourism company that we employed to visit a cave. We are not shy. We love a fun time. We were warned about having to crawl; the tour being uncomfortable; there might be some cuts and scrapes. If you have ever stupidly tried a teaspoon of Dave's Insanity Sauce for the first time for kicks, and you almost die, you know where I am going with this.
The Golden Circle tour folks turned out to be a bunch of pussies, it seems. But not Extreme Iceland. No ma'am. The tour guide arrived in the lobby ready to go. She was a super healthy looking, bright, positive-energy-from-the-core kind of lady. You just knew she would risk her life for anyone simply from her heart. We'll be in a cave, she said, so why cancel? All smiles. "It's just a hurricane and I'll have you back by 12:30," I remember her saying. So off we go to some crazy lava fields, during a hurricane, passing a huge aluminum factory on the way.
I mean this as literally as possible--like self propelled bugs, we did not have to "walk" to the cave. The wind pushed us there as these marble-sized chunks of ice pelted us like paint balls. I have never been in a storm like that, and I have seen my share of crazy storms. It was completely off the hook. Painful is a great choice to describe the experience, and descending into a lava cave was about as refreshing as a hot spring at that moment. I was seriously concerned that our lone van in the dirt parking lot would be sideways when we exited. Like cars after riots.
Except for dripping sounds of water all around us, the lava cave was silent, calm, and wonderfully pleasant after the "walk" to its entrance. I loved it in there, and the cave was incredible--our guide super knowledgeable, too. More on the cave in a moment . . . .
2008. The economic crash. The extreme downgrading of the Krona, Iceland's sovereign currency. This was a topic that came up a surprising many times from a wide variety of Icelanders we met. I clearly remember reading multiple posts concerning Iceland's banking crash right here on Daily Kos back in the day. And I was moved by them.
That 2008 crash seems to have really had an awfully big impact on the Icelandic psyche in a way that never happens here, even when billion dollar companies go BK due to human incompetence or, worse, criminal activity. We have trained ourselves to no longer care about consequences, me thinks, ultimately to our peril. It was a collective thing, a sort of sadness of humbling proportions that the entire nation still learns from and ponders--and that brings me to the core of my thoughts.
Iceland, more than any place I have visited on Earth, left me with the impression that "improvement" is always possible. We can learn from the 320,000 very wise Icelanders on this one. They embrace it. I have deep respect for the Icelandic people as a result. Iceland, if nothing, is a country of endless hope.
If I had to put it in a nutshell, I would say the Icelanders, prior to 2008, stepped into our hot tub for a change--the hot tub of pure, clean, crystal clear greed, and they got a little drunk on it before quickly realizing it just was not their thing. And they learned from that--they keep learning from that. I felt that everywhere we went. It was this pervasive energy, this message that existed in everything they said. Iceland is a family, and we risked the farm. No more.
I recall one person asking if "any Brits are on board." Nobody raised a hand. "Good," he said, "we don't have to talk about giving your money back." Nobody laughed.
When the sun started to head downward, my watch would always be around 2:00. Their 2:00 kind of feels like our 4:00, at least in November. The air becomes darker, and you know the sun is departing soon after a brief visit. It is an exit moment. The calm before the darkness. In a different time, without extensive knowledge of our immediate solar system astronomy, every day during an Icelandic November would feel like a mini end of the world.
A long, long time ago, it was explained to me when I was a little kid, the old, Pre-Christian Europeans would bring evergreens into their homes as a symbol that spring would return. Everyone, cold and in darkness beyond their control, was afraid that spring might just decide to not come back this time around, and burning logs, singing songs, decorating evergreens inside, etc., served to encourage spring's return in one way or another (or at least the hope that spring would return). Please come back! the people would sing, or scream, depending on your point of view.
Going through that cycle on a yearly basis is difficult enough. Daily? Welcome to Iceland.
And that is the essence of Iceland--living on the edge, 24/7, with endless hope. Please believe me when I tell you that attitude seems to be good for the skin. I mean really, really good for the skin.
However you look at it, we human beings have been entrusted with the world by default. We are the world's trustees, and we are not doing a very good job at all. Let's face it, we pretty much suck to high heaven. And we are not constantly reminded of the perils of outer space in our comfortable, four season locales, at least in the U.S.--not that many miles above our heads, conditions are actually way more severe than anything in Iceland.
But the Icelanders--there is no fooling them. They know. Which brings me back to that cave.
As I said above, our cave tour guide was simply great--a true leader for our crew worthy of mad respect. As the tour was winding down, we were all thinking about the dead lamb at the "end of the road," as the cave name implies. Something "road" "endi," as it was in Icelandic. It was this tiny little lamb's decomposed remains that brought all of this home for me in a super poignant way.
You see, that little lamb got lost--lost in all of the confusion of the darkness that must have been all-encompassing from its point of view--pure darkness devoid of any light whatsoever. Dark. Darker. Darkest kind of thing.
And we all imagined the sounds of that lamb in that darkness during what must have been its long, lonely, cold, most-likely-terrifying final days. A natural, spontaneous moment of silence ensued as all of us observed that little lamb's corpse. It just died there. Lying right in that spot, many years later, observed by flashlight-bearing tourists in a state of pure honesty.
"What crushed the lamb?" my little daughter inquired. Nothing. It had collapsed under its own weight, and the remains revealed the fragility of this complex little mammal in a vast and rugged, unforgiving, hard, cold, lava cave. The parallels cannot be missed. We need to find a way out of our cave fast. The walls are closing in on us.
As I said, the Icelanders seem to have no fact-challenged bones in their bodies. "We see the glaciers disappearing every year," our guide pointed out at the end, after we struggled back to our van. She said it with a type of concerned, rational, observational energy that I rarely encounter in my home nation when we discuss climate change or global warming or whatever you want to call it. Her statement was simultaneously humble, and sad, and fatalistic, and far away. As if she knew something I could not possibly know.
And I thought of the elves and trolls of Iceland. The magic powers that maybe only native Icelanders are sensitive enough to comprehend. "We do not like to mess with the elves," she said on our way back. "So we bend the roads around their homes," she explained. "When elves get angry, they make things very difficult for us. So it is always better to bend the roads, keeping the elves on our side."
It was the most practical statement I ever heard in my life.