The sun was not
cooperating. It was early
afternoon. We were heading north.
The sun should
have been shining through the left windows of the bus. It was coming through the right rear window.
We are heading
south, I concluded. I had looked at the
map enough to know that Reykjavik was about 45 minutes north of Keflavik, the major airport. Why were we going south? Was the map wrong?
Except we weren’t. Headed south.
Hmmmm. It was a problem I wouldn’t
have to work on much, because it was practically the only sunny day we had
while we were in Iceland.
We had landed,
cleared the passport office, and headed to bus kiosks. I had again relied on Trip Advisor, which
sent us to Fly-Bus. They had service
from airport to your doorstep. Not
quite, but okay. Reykjavik ordinances
limited busses to certain streets in the city.
The big bus we
took from the airport stopped at a depot just outside the city, where the
passengers dispersed to smaller busses that took us into the city. We were given a bus stop number where we were
to disembark.
The driver of
the small bus asked each of us which hotel or lodging we were staying at as he
helped us unload our luggage. He wasn’t
familiar with our place, Alfholl Guest House.
He recognized the street, Ranargata.
Two blocks up, two, or maybe
three blocks right, you’ll come to it.
Except we didn’t.
I accosted two
young ladies and asked them for help.
Out came the cell phones. In a
minute or two, they produced a map. We
had gone up one block too far. Go down
one block, turn left and go two blocks, then left again on Ranargata. We were home.
Fairly simple, especially compared to finding our way in Dublin.
Our first view
of Iceland came from the airplane. It
was a clear day, apparently a rarity as winter approaches. The land looked like rough rocks, lava,
covered with the skin of a kiwi, soft green fuzz.
There is a small
community around the airport, but the ride to the city reminds me of Eastern Colorado
in one way: there are few buildings,
farms, or small towns. The vista
includes distant mountains and an occasional glimpse of the sea, but very
little in the way of agriculture, fields or animals grazing.
Iceland has a lot
in common with Hawaii, volcanic islands with lava mountains punctuating the flats
that have eroded, providing soil for plant life. Iceland has only one native tree and limited
agriculture due to the short growing season of the northern clime. Still, it is green with the moss, or whatever
it is, that covers much of the landscape.
Having arrived,
met our host, and stowed our luggage, we set out for the tourist office which
was conveniently located in the city hall beside bus stop 1 where we got off
the bus and started our pedestrian journey.
We made arrangements for a couple of trips, both by bus. The lady who sold us the tickets directed us
north to the old harbor where we would find abundant seafood places. Which street should we take? Oh, any of them.
The street we
chose took a left turn and so did we. We
walked a mile and never came to the harbor, which later we would learn was only
three blocks from our lodging, if you took the right street.
A couple of
young ladies tried to give us directions to a great seafood place not far from where we stood. We went to the supermarket and turned right,
walked another three blocks where we could see the harbor, but no
restaurant.
An older lady
caning her way along the street sent us back the other way to a local
establishment. The place the younger
ladies directed us to, was indeed another few blocks down the way we were
going, but it was a chain restaurant like Red Lobster or something. Go back to the supermarket, cross the street
and go right for two blocks and we would come to a local place that served
great food, she said.
So we did. The store was a bakery that specialized in
pastries of various kinds. In the
evening they served a limited menu of seafood. The problem was, only one girl at the counter
spoke English.
We asked for a
menu. They had none. The waitpersons almost ignored us. We teetered on the brink of walking out. The girl came to our table and informed us
that she was about to post the menu—which was chalked on a blackboard right
above our table.
We stepped aside
to allow her room to get to the blackboard.
As she wrote, she informed us what she was posting, as she wrote in
Icelandic. We must place our order at
the counter. We made our choice and I
went to the counter.
I stood in line
beside a local who ordered a bottle of beer.
I asked about the beer.
Fortunately, he spoke English. The
beer was from a local brewery, he said. Things
were certainly taking a turn for the better.
He said the beer
was good and there was a large selection.
He pointed to a row of bottles on a shelf behind the counter. The bottles wore the same label, except for a
big number in the middle of it. I saw
that the number 15 was a porter, so I ordered it. It was good.
We sat in our own
private little island of English while those all around us spoke
Icelandic. We indeed had strayed off the
tourist pathway. With a belly full of
good food (it was some kind of flat fish) and good beer, life was good.
The sun had set
as we began our journey home. Finding
our way wasn’t much of a problem, since we had mainly taken one street all the
way. With the sun gone, the temperature
dropped some and the humidity increased.
Still, it was quite pleasant as we walked home on a Saturday night.
Reaching home, we
took our turn at the shower. We shared
the bathroom with three other rooms on our floor. We didn’t see anybody else, so sharing wasn’t
much of a problem. It reminded me that
when I was booking the place in September, I was urged to hurry to close the
deal, as there was only one room left!
Liars.
Sunday morning,
we needed to be at Bus Stop 1 before 11 a.m. to catch our bus to make the
Golden Circle trip. We congratulated
ourselves on a successful day one in Iceland and hit the hay.
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