In June of 1998, my dad and I went to Iceland, just the
two of us. We had absolutely no idea what we were doing. We rented a
4WD car and purchased a package from Icelandic Farm Holidays that
allowed you to pick any participating property from a book for four
nights' accommodation. The only catch was you couldn't book it more
than 24 hours ahead. So we looked at the Hringvegur, the road
that encircles the island, and broke it into near-equal pieces. Our
first and last night were spent in hotels in Reykjavik.
So on
day two, we set out, counter-clockwise along the coast. Everything
seemed great, until about 100 miles from the city, when the pavement
ended. After that, it was like driving up someone's farm driveway for the next
ten hours. Where the volcano had come through, they graded the lava,
put new reflectors up, and that was the road. Where there were hills,
they salted the dirt in an attempt to keep it from freezing. Only
problem with that was that sheep would come lick the road because they
liked the salt. Sheep wander free throughout a district during growing
season; and by law if you hit one it's on you to find the owner and
compensate hir. I had no intention of hitting any sheep. That would be
cruel, and messy. I had no idea what kind of insurance we had, but I
suspected disentangling sheep innards from the radiator wasn't covered.
Thus, slow going.
Plus, the landscape was profoundly beautiful
in a way that no-place we'd been before could have prepared us for. My
dad commented "I've never doubted that the space program was real,
but--seeing this place--I understand how someone might think the moon
footage was faked."
Periodically you would see a sign saying
something like "Kirkjubæjarklaustur 249". That's a real place. I've
been, but I can't pronounce it, and I don't know what it means. Kirk
means "church" so it's least possible that it translates to "The Church
of the Poison Mind," but I doubt it. However, knowing how many
kilometers away it is doesn't help much when you don't what the road is
going to be like. It would be better measured in hours. Or sheep.
It was quite late by the time we arrived at our first farm, outside a town called Höfn (but pronounced "hop"). Höfn
means "harbor" ... one great thing about Iceland is that place names
are generally descriptive. So anyplace that ends in "höfn" is likely to
have boats. There is generally an adjective attached (i.e., Reykjavik
means "smoky bay") but not so in this case. We later visited a lake
called Myvatn that was invested with gnats, and I later found out the name means "gnat lake". See? Easy!
We
slept well, and when we got up the next morning we headed into Höfn
proper for some gas and snacks, only to hear a rhythmic thumping from
the front right tire as soon as we hit the paved town streets. I pulled
over to check it out, and discovered a hex bolt had embedded itself in
the tire sometime the day before. Luckily, the tire had held, but we
didn't want to chance driving on it any further.
Luckily,
according to the map from the rental car company, they had an agent
right in Höfn! We located it on the map and headed there, only to
discover the address in question was a house on a residential street
with nobody around. Not sure what else to do, we stopped at a business
(a propane merchant as it happened) to ask for guidance.
Most
people in Iceland know at least some English, but the further you get
from Reykjavik, their fluency diminishes. And we knew about as much
Icelandic as I shared above. Everybody whom we met was glad to
communicate with us, though, and this woman was no exception. She
listened to my sad tale and laughed when I got to the point about the
deserted house.
"He is also police chief," she told me. "First
you go to coffee shop. If he is not in coffee shop, try police station!"
That sounded about right! She explained how to find it on a town map,
which she handed me. I took out my wallet to pay for the map, and she
said "Oh no, is free; you take!"
Grateful for her advice, I
wanted to buy something. I saw she had a coffee machine, and asked if I
could have a cup. She nodded and disappeared, and came back bearing a
tray with a cloth napkin, china cup and saucer, matching pitcher of milk
and bowl with sugar cubes wrapped in paper. It looked more like
something you'd get from room service in a nice hotel (for $12 plus tip)
than a gas station waiting room; I pictured the grungy Mr. Coffee with
Styrofoam cups and can of powdered "milk" that a place like this would
have at home.
I took my wallet out, ready to pay for the coffee,
and she waved me away. "Is free; you take!" Seriously, lady? You're not
making this easy on me. I wondered if I was going to head back to the
car with one of the backyard grills they were selling and tell my dad,
"Don't ask questions!"
We followed the propane lady's
instructions and found the coffee shop. Our man wasn't there, so we
tried the police station. He wasn't there, either, but they got him on
the radio and told them our problem. We were directed to a nearby
garage, where they quickly changed the tire. No money was exchanged
there, either; apparently the chief was good for it.
All of
this was in such stark contrast to what we were used to, and a pleasant
surprise given some of our previous travel adventures. We returned
eleven years later with my mom and a family friend and had a similarly
positive experience. As Iceland gets "discovered" by Westerners, some
of whom have already been causing problems in heavy tourist areas, I
hope this is one aspect of it that doesn't change.
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