Weird and Wonderful Iceland

March 28, 2007 — -- Talk about remote. This place looks more like the moon than the moon does, not that I've been there, of course, have I? Well, not yet, although we've all seen those famous pictures of Buzz Aldrin on the moon, and we've all heard the conspiracy theories about those pictures being a mock-up, the wind in the flag? Its not true, is it?

This isn't where they were shot, was it? Naaaaa, couldn't be. I heard Aldrin was once confronted by a man spouting the conspiracy theory, that he said to Buzz that he'd never been to the moon, that the whole thing was staged for the camera. Buzz's answer? He punched the guy right in the face -- enough said.

Of course, unlike Aldrin, I'm not the first to venture into Iceland's seemingly uncharted territory. Hollywood types are all over the tundra these days. Iceland has been the backdrop for films like "Flags of our Fathers," "Die Another Day," and "Lara Croft: Tomb Raider" -- yes, that means Angelina Jolie is somehow affiliated with this place.

Big Airport, Bleak Land

It's not until you land at Keflavik Airport that you begin to realize just how far away from anywhere else this island is -- especially Hollywood. It doesn't look anything like anywhere else. The guidebook says you are between Greenland and the north Atlantic Ocean northwest of the United Kingdom. For the record, it's 650 miles west of Scotland, 5½ hours from New York by air. I wonder how long by rocket?

The airport is huge; I lost count of how many runways we crossed as we taxied to the terminal. The United States used to pay Iceland to operate an air base here. The base closed last year, but until then this was the only country in the world to make a profit from its defense policy. Iceland doesn't really have an army, much less an air force. I guess its remoteness means it doesn't have much cause for them.

The terminal building is new, clean and efficient, all polished wood, steel and glass. As you pass through its modern interior you glimpse the landscape outside through the windows. It looks cold and bleak, and you find yourself wondering how cold it is, whether you've packed enough warm clothes -- this place is called ICE-LAND after all.

With surprising speed, you retrieve your baggage and find yourself at the car rental desk: "Four-wheel drive, sir?" the man at the desk asks. The price is prohibitively expensive so I plump for a saloon car. "Collision damage waiver?" he says. I think about the ice for a moment and agree. The car is in row A, block C, car park 4, and the weather appears to be drawing in. I want to get driving before dark. It takes a while to find the car with the aid of remote alarm. It's not that cold, just overcast and raining. This is February, and the days are already getting longer and warmer.

The airport road is a bit of a maze and I feel slightly inadequate because all the other cars seem to be four-wheel drives, some of them monsters. Oh dear, did I make a mistake by being too cheap? Up close the black rock of the landscape is jagged, horribly twisted and sharp to the touch -- it's like the side of a volcano, but everywhere. OK, concentrate, which way am I going? South, OK south, to the world's most northerly capital, mmm. The roads are straight, dirty from all the dust whipped up by the almost constant drizzle, but there's only one turn I have to make, then I need to stop when I reach the sea. There are huge storm drains on either side of the road, so be careful.

Road to Reykjavik

On the drive my mind wanders a little. The guide book says Iceland is new, well relatively, in world creation terms, that is. "It was thrown up by volcanic activity a mere 20 million years ago, and it remains one of the most volcanically active places on earth," the book says. "It straddles the mid-Atlantic ridge between the American and African plates, which are moving apart, about an inch a year." I guess that's a good thing, here at least.

All that activity below the surface causes hot water to bubble up and fill taps and baths, waterfalls and hot springs. Geysers spurt 100 feet into the air. "The earth is moving, literally," according to the guidebook. "It's still alive." The only thing I can see on the drive to Reykjavik is the road and the rock though, and the rain and those huge cars.

I make the turn and arrive in Reykjavik in about an hour or so. The city looks fairly bleak -- lots of concrete and steel buildings, most of it low rise; the sea looks very cold but the mountains rising steeply from the other side of the bay look quite majestic, monolithic, black and twisted.

It's hard to believe the infamously colorful singer Bjork hails from this city. Her quirky style doesn't seem at home here, although her out-of-this-world music jives with the offbeat spirit of the country. Maybe the cold weather enhances creativity?

Back to my adventure. Finding the hotel is a nightmare. I drive up and down the road for what seems like an eternity before I pluck up the courage to ask for directions. I'm staying at the Hotel 101, which is at the top end of the price scale. Well, I think to myself, I saved on the car didn't I? Eventually I am directed to the hotel. The entrance is on a side road at a 90 degree angle to the address listed on its Web site. The sign outside the door with the hotel name is about 10 inches square, and I forgive myself for not finding it immediately.

The interior of the hotel is beautiful, an eclectic mix of modern and antique, glass and steel, colorful lighting and an open fire with leather chairs. I check in, but I'm told there's nowhere to park. The car park costs a fortune, but I can park on the street at certain times.

I plump for the second option, as it's OK to park now. Both the lift and the hallways are very dark, "mood lighting" no doubt, very trendy I'm sure, but my eyes aren't that good so I reach for my glasses to find the right button to press in the lift.

Nice Digs

The room is fantastic. Dark wood floors and huge windows, it wraps around in a 'U' shape, and the windows are twin aspect. The bed is bigger than some hotel rooms I've stayed in, covered in pillows and Egyptian cotton. It's all open plan, and there's a walk-in shower and a bath the size of the bay outside. There are elegant Blue Lagoon toiletries, but I check the prices before opening, wow! That's nearly as much as the room. I take a long bath with my own toiletries and a room service dinner. Long day tomorrow, and I couldn't resist that bed.

Next morning I meet my colleague Harper in reception downstairs. She's local and is going to show me around before my correspondent shows up tomorrow. We tour the local swimming pools. It's 8 a.m., and its snowing; the indoor pools are deserted but those outdoors, which are naturally heated by warm springs, have a few people sitting in them chatting.

Apparently it's common for people to meet in the pool before and after work, in all weather. It's all hot steam and friendly, very relaxed, as is my colleague. I'm doing the driving and as we leave the pool a blizzard has broken. It's too much to drive in but Harper just laughs and says wait a minute.

"We get four seasons every 10 minutes," she says, and she's right. Next we visit the local market -- it's heaving, people scurrying around doing their shopping. There's a ton of fish on sale, most of it fresh, some dried or salted.

"Do you want to try the whale?" she asks. I pass, and pass again when she asks why the West is against the whale trade. As we leave the market a small group of children walk past in what look like fluorescent builders' jackets, all holding hands and walking in a row with their teacher. "The school bus," Harper explains.

Lunch is a café on the high street, and it's buzzing with young and old. The menu is Western, eclectic, and '80's soul music is playing in the background. Everyone appears relaxed, happy even. The weather's still terrible outside as can clearly be seen through the almost completely glass walls, but no one seems wrapped up that warmly. They are all wearing clothes the same as the rest of us from warmer countries.

I order soup and a sandwich, and Harper Laughs. "You think you are cold, but you're not," she says. I do think I should be colder than I am. After lunch we visit the observatory at the highest point in the city, which houses the library and another restaurant, more steel and huge windows. I'm getting used to this. We take the lift to the top floor and walk around the panoramic balcony. The view is just OK because the weather doesn't let you see that far, and to be honest, there's not that much to see. Mountains that way, the sea the other, a small working fishing port, but there are not very many prominent buildings save a church here and there. It is freezing up there, and she laughs at me again.

We head back into town for a coffee in one of the many cafes. It's laid-back, with art for sale on the walls and crafts for sale inside, all very, very relaxed. We break for a nap. I want to go out tonight, and we're going to be up late.

An Unlikely Hot Spot

It may sound strange considering its remote location, but Iceland has become a hugely popular night spot for those in the know. On the weekends, foreigners and natives drink and dance the night away, whether it's the dead of winter or the sun's still shining at two o'clock in the morning.

For us, night falls quickly, and I realize I parked on the street when I shouldn't have. I've got a ticket, rats, but I didn't get towed, phew. Harper shows up at eight, we eat in the hotel bar, which is full of well-dressed, affluent men and women. Everyone's laughing and joking, and Harper points out some prominent Icelanders sitting at one end of the bar.

No one pays much attention to celebrities here, she says. There's only about 400,000 of us Icelanders, so everyone's a celebrity, really. That, I assume, explains why this is one of the cool places for the hip to escape to -- no one really notices -- which must be nice if you spend your life trying to run from the paparazzi. Apparently Leonardo Di Caprio was recently spotted here in Hotel 101, Jude Law in the Sirkus bar with a babe from Icelandic TV, and 50 Cent famously stayed at the Nordica hotel.

"It's waaaaaaaay too early," Harper says, for what I ask. "Going out -- no one goes out until after midnight," she says. "It costs so much that people visit friends and drink before going to the bars and clubs."

Hmm, well I don't have many friends here, so we're starting early. Across the road is a small bar. It's packed, smoky and noisy but has beautiful wood paneled walls. I ask Harper why she said no one goes out at this time. "They're the older generation," she points out.

She introduces me to a grisly 50-something guy. "He's famous," she says. "A poet." The man says hello, shakes hands and makes small talk, all very friendly, then goes back to his table and recites a little something in Icelandic for his friends, who all fall about laughing.

We finish our drinks, then walk a few blocks across town to the cathedral. There's a torch-lit parade going past, mostly families and children, with a brass band at the lead. The whole town seems to be on the streets. Apparently it's some sort of city celebration, one of many, I hear.

"No one goes out at this time?" I ask again. Harper just laughs. Another few blocks over and people are massed at the theater. There's a special screening of a play as part of the festival. We watch a little and then make our excuses and leave. It's a little avant garde for my taste.

Late Nights With Lots of Faces

It's late now, 11:30 p.m., so we walk back to the main street to find the bars and clubs, the streets heaving with people, some outside bars laughing and joking, others just walking around. Even the art galleries are open and full of people.

Harper gets us into a bar with a disco upstairs. This place is absolutely full with 20-somethings. What day of the week is it? Tuesday, wow. I notice that everywhere we go these people look very similar, not necessarily in their style but in their DNA, the blond hair and blue eyes, even their features. Apparently this place was never really invaded or colonized, except for a few Irish priests and some Norwegians more than a thousand years ago. A quick search on Google reveals that this place was regarded as almost ethnically pure up until about 20 years ago and today, only about 7 percent are foreign or of foreign origin, not that anyone seems to mind where you come from.

We meet a few of her friends and spend a couple of hours just drinking and chatting before heading back down the main street to a small arty bar. The atmosphere here is more gentle but Harper tells me people here are just chilling out before heading back to the discos or going on to private raves.

That's "Damon Alburn's bar over there," she says. Maybe tomorrow, I reply. It's four and I'm ready for sleep, and I've run out of cash, again.

I read somewhere recently that Buzz Aldrin was charged for his "expenses" on Apollo 11, for the food and other mundane necessities of space travel. Apparently, he keeps the receipt in a frame on the wall in his office. He might have had more fun if he'd just come to Iceland, but I don't think he did, did he?