Ever since I was a little girl I’ve been strangely curious about Iceland. I was always enamored with maps and globes & remember excitedly pointing it out to adults telling them, “its called ICEland but theres GREEN things there. And see, thats GREENland and its the one that ACTUALLY has ICE. Isn’t that FUNNY?!”
Boy, did they get a kick out of that, just saying, “Yup, she’s her fathers little viking daughter,” patting my head as I began to spew facts about shaggy Icelandic ponies to any of the them still listening.
As I grew older I still found myself wondering about it, somewhere that was some how even further north than where my swedish family lived, a curious country where punk music flourished, belief in folklore was unspoken rule, where the first nordic pagan temple since viking times was being built, volcanoes still rumbled and not quite slumber, and of course had a sky regularly painted by the Northern lights as if it were by a French impressionist.
This was why when I saw a cheap ticket on a budget airline to Sweden that would let me hang out in Iceland for 5 days on a layover while I was on my way to see family, I booked it without hesitation, my memory of my Turkish fever dream far behind me in pre-pandemic days. The flight was what it was. A cheap ticket on a budget airline that I pretty sure doesn’t exist anymore with absolutely nothing included. I was seated behind a passenger who wanted to loudly voice their dismay about all of the things that made this particular flight so cheap. It’s not that I disagreed with them, but they were preaching to the choir and I had very much hoped to enjoy my cramped snackless flight in silence, especially since one of the reasons it was so cheap was that it left Logan at an absurd hour in the middle of the night.
One lesson I learned on this trip to Iceland that I took more seriously than my lesson about buying cheap plane tickets was to not splurge on cellphone connection. Until that trip I usually had a devil may care approach when it came to seeing if my phone would be working, even when in the US, until then, opting to use a wifi box instead of buying a plan with data because being available to be notified at any given moment hadn’t really been important to me.
However upon arriving in Iceland, having a cellphone with reliable data became VERY important. I had planned to try and keep things low budget and figured public transit would be the best way to do things there, figuring it couldn’t be very different from the trains & buses I had been on in Sweden.
Grumpy, tired, and a little annoyed when I arrived in a very stormy and disgusting Keflavik, I realized I had made a mistake in my stinginess with my cellphone. My esim I had bought for ‘just in case’ wasn’t working, neither was my wifi box, and because of this I had no way to use the app for public transit tickets. My only other option was to take a nice brisk walk to a convenience store about 1.5 miles away to buy a card to preload and use on the bus, to which on the way, I would be mapless, as I would lose ability to use it once I lost the wifi service from the airport.
Perhaps on a sunny day it was doable, but with my heavy bags and the fierce way the wind was blowing outside, I ended up spending quite a few pennies to get to my hotel.
I had decided to stay the first evening right in Keflavik, figuring that I may need a nap right away after my flight and since the airport was quite a ways away from the actual capital of iceland, I could take some time to recover before the next leg of my trip.
Hotel Druus is a relatively small establishment on the outskirts of Keflavik just next to some amazing cliffs beside the vast Atlantic.
Exhausted, dazed and squinting in the bright rays of the grey arctic morning light I fought my way up the pavement way to the door of the reception area and was greeted warmly in Icelandic by a young man at the front desk.
It will never cease to amaze how everyone in Iceland automatically assumed I was also Icelandic and spoke to me in their language but when I’m visiting my family in Sweden, there is no hiding my American background and they do not even attempt to try speaking with me in Swedish. I have a sneaking suspicion it has something to do with my penchant for flannel and ugly boots when I travel while my swedish cousins always look fashionable in a bit of different way with their muted beiges and creams.
My host got me settled into my room, arranged what time I’d like to have breakfast, assuring me that there was no pressure to go, but just to give them a good idea if I ended up wanting some coffee, what time I’d like to be there and where to find their restaurant.
When he told me how to prop the balcony door open if my room was too hot, I almost laughed out loud. Just from the few moments of waiting for a taxi & getting in the hotel, I could already feel the chill of Icelands air biting at my bones despite it already being April and spring had been springing in Boston when I had flown out. The room was toastier than my wildest dreams and after a hot shower I found I did indeed have to prop the door open for some air.
It blew through my cute little patio with crisp freshness that was only rivaled by the sheets and I quickly settled in to rest my nerves, watch some TV and have an icelandic beer I had bought in the duty free shop. A tip for my readers, if you plan on drinking in a hotel or wherever you’re staying, try to buy your alcohol there and bring it with you! It can get quite expensive at the stores and their laws surrounding what, where and when they can sell things can get pretty complicated!
After my beer and a nice little rest in my cozy room, I rose and dressed in preperation for a stroll to get a proper look at my surroundings. One thing I have learned from both the Bostonian and Swedish sides of my family is that there is no such thing as bad weather, just bad clothing. For my walk around the cliffs surrounding Hotel Duus & Gróf Marina I made sure to layer with a nice base of Merino Wool under clothes before adding a breathable spandex shirt, a fleece pullover, a windbreaker from Colombia, some fleece lined water resistint joggers by Akini, merino wool socks and my favorite pair of Red Wing boots that I stole at least 6 years prior from Steve, our friend from Lord Stephen: If not by blood, certainly by nobility. About two years ago an exboyfriend of mine got me absolutely hooked on Merino wool and I haven’t been able to make myself buy any other kinds of socks since. As someone who can be ridiculously sensitive to textures, I appreciate so much the softness of the wool and whether its sweat or rain, how it wicks away moisture away from me. I no longer shy away from puddles for fear of the skin crawling feeling of wet socks that lingers for hours as they attempt in vain to dry. One of my favorite places to hit for a big pack of wool socks before a trip is Costco. Kirkland Signature will forever be one of my favorite brands.
Wrapped up like some kind of analogy of an insect in a carpet, I embarked on my ‘stroll’, which was more of an uphill battle against the wind and sharp rain being hurled from the overhanging grey sky.
I stopped for a bit once I reached the peak and sat down, surverying the vast Atlantic from a foreign perspective. All my life I had babbled about wanting to get to Iceland. A friend of mine had commented on my habit of picking up ‘lucky’ pennies on the street, jokingly saying that I would pay my way to Iceland with all the pennies I had found and now it was finally sinking in that I had made it here as I let the rain beat and across my face and my hair flying whichever the way the wind felt like pulling it as it wove it into wild ratty braids, as a squeezed a lucky penny between my fingers.
As I descended the trail’s path up the hill I took the section branching off to where a small cave opened up along the crags that cradled enormous spot lights that lit the cliff face for both safety and beauty in the dim, hazy days.
The cave was marked with a sign that proclaimed the property belonged to a massive Icelandic Trolless. The sign told her story, her kindness, her love for human children (To care for it said, Not! Eat!), about the author of a storybook in her name by Herdís Egilsdóttir and assured the visiting public that she was a nice troll and danger to none. I had read many stories warning of the dangers of fae and folklore, especially those found in the strange prairies of Iceland. I was skeptical, but as a fearless adventurer I felt it was my duty to venture in to meet this trolless face to face.
The trolless, Skessu, slept and rocked in her giant rocking chair, occasionally snoring loudly. Her cave was furnished with benches for visitors, a very very large bed for her, a big pair of her clogs and colorful art hanging and decorating all the nooks and crannies. I decided to climb into her clogs. I’ve always been told to try and put myself in other people’s shoe’s sometimes after all. I threw my legs over the vividly painted wood, wearily eyeing one particular art installation of a tree decorated with pacifiers, finding it a bit suspicious that if she didn’t eat children that there were so many pacifiers and no children around, despite the signs promise.
The cave and the clog was decently comfortable so I sat there long enough to feel like I had properly ruminated on my life’s current issues in a way that would be considered adequately thoughtful and I made my way back to Duus to change into drier dinner attire.
Staring out at the tempetous ocean crashing against the shore line in the Gróf Marina, toweling off my hair and noing to myself for perhaps someday later that this would be exactly the place if you wanted to hide away in comfort to write some kind of novel that had just a slight bit of mystery or melancholy to it.
Check back on Wednesday for the second part of my night at Hotel Duus and my expeirence dining at their restraunt Kaffi Duus!
Planetary Anecdotes 
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