Living the Dream, Day Five

At last, Greg found a good night's sleep! That silly satin sleep mask I bought him prior to the trip actually proved useful! I also tried wearing mine, though I must have taken it off at some point during the night. With the ever-present light in our room, in spite of the curtains (which were usually not black-out shades, surprisingly), sleeping was difficult for unmasked people. Crazy midnight sun!

Showered, breakfasted, and napkins pilfered from the dining room (for our lunch later), we packed up and headed out of town. Today we had a long drive that included views of lava fields that were mostly barren except for clouds and waterfalls. ("Foss!" we would shout when we saw one, both to alert and annoy each other. This was the suffix used in Icelandic for the names of waterfalls.) Our final destination today would be a Stong, a little town with our farm stay lodging in Southern Iceland. Greg said that this part of the drive reminded him of driving through the lava fields of Hawaii on the Big Island. I will have to take his word on that, since I've never been, though I hope Hawaii will be my next vacation destination. Note to self: Start dreaming about Hawaii.

Road side cairns on a pull-off in a vast area of lava, moutain, and little else.

We passed people all over the Ring Road on bicycles. I did not envy them. Greg (the cyclist among us) reassured me that there is joy to be found in this sort of travel. It was hard for me to imagine it, as gusts of windy rain blew even our car (tiny thing it was) around a bit.

On the well-traveled (?) road to Dettifoss. Note that this is the busy season for tourism.

We continued on a gravel road. If these roads are suitable for all vehicle types, I would hate to see the F roads (named "F" for "forbidden" to many kinds of transport, we imagine. Or F for a worthy expletive for jarring terrain). We finally arrived to Dettifoss, the most powerful waterfall in Europe. What was almost as impressive as the falls themselves is the lack of traffic or hype around the amazingness of this waterfall. It was tourist season, and we passed a grand total of three other cars on the drive to the waterfalls. The parking lot seemed was surprisingly deserted, but that's just how it goes here, even for landmarks.

Massive Dettifoss, the most powerful waterfall in Europe.

The way to get the best view of the waterfall is to walk down to it from the parking lot, first on a path and then by rock scrambling. Surreally, the mist from Europe's biggest waterfall precedes it for kilometers. There is some irony in the signs in the bathroom to conserve water, as this area has a shortage of water - while massive tons of water from the falls crash down the mountainside. Oh, and as it rained on us! We will have to trust this is accurate. Both Greg and I independently determined that this request meant that maybe we should refrain from washing our hands while using the facilities save water. When we compared notes and realized that we had come to the same conclusion, we laughed in disgust about how those WC doors most be the germiest in the whole of Iceland!

Sign in the bathroom -- above the sink. It would make you think twice about washing your hands, too.

Unlike the U.S., in which most dangerous forms of nature are often well-secured from idiots and litigious-minded folks by a "You are signing your life away by entering here" statement that is surely approved by attorneys, there is one itty-bitty cord (or was it dental floss? a spider's web?) and one simple statement about the dangers of falling from the rocks. Heck, there are rarely even guard rails on treacherous roads in this country. In fact, when we see one it is laughable, because it is hard to distinguish "Why here of all places? What makes this so worthy of a guard rail as opposed to the other forty suicide cliffs we just passed?"

The power of Dettifoss was indeed massive - and impressive. We did more rock scrambling to get our workout for the day as well as to see other views of the falls and then headed back up to our car.

We made our way up the gravel road a bit more until, with great relief, we came back to Paved Road Land. Our next stop was Asbyrgi, which we renamed "Aspergers," though only because it was so close in what we assumed to be the pronunciation, and we were happy to be able to come close to pronouncing something here. We stopped in at an Information Center with yet another ridiculously beautiful Icelandic woman behind the counter. Seriously, Iceladies! You don't ever quit being breath-taking, do you?

In the gloomy haze, we walked around the Asbyrgi area, a massive horseshoe-shaped rock formation that of course has a number of legends as to why it is horseshoe-shaped...Something about one of the god's horses leaving a hoof print when it landed (of course). It was a beautiful and efficient thing to view (take a short walk, ooooh and ahhh, and then a short walk back to the car) and at the end of the day, Greg decided it was his favorite.

The walk to Asybergi.

So our next stop was a "Really, how could we not stop to check this out!?" experience that I suggested, based on travel guide recommendations (and my questionable taste): the Icelandic Phallological
Museum. The "world's only Phallological Museum" (one can only hope, anyway), it boasts. Yes, really...A whole museum dedicated to phallus. This ultimately led to the quote of the day from Greg: "Should I bring the zoom lens?"

Marvelling at the statues outside of the museum. Ah, the wonderment!

The place was both fascinating and disgusting (pickled or dried up penises are a bit gross, unless you are a Biology major, maybe), and it was definitely a unique roadside attraction. It made us wonder how the curator got interested in the topic, aside from being a male himself....Weird fetish? Did he find a unique specimen, and then people started giving him others? I am glad that he welcomed photography, though mainly to prove this place exists. I can't wait to drop that one on someone in a game of "I Never."

Some of the highlights included whale penises, the silver casts of the Icelandic Handball Team (insert joke), and in the folklore section, my personal favorite: the penis of a merman and the penis of an elf. Uh huh... Also, there was no shortage of phallic art and decor. So much comic material in one little building! A side affect was that, inevitably, after visiting, we couldn't stop finding phalluses everywhere we went and in everything we saw. I was looking at a world map later, and I whispered to Greg, "Scandinavia looks like a penis!" (In my defense, it kind of does...Check it out sometime.)


Whale specimen.

Silver casts of the Icelandic Handball Team. (No one claims the one front-and-center.)



If I may, it is too good to pass up: "Match the member to his member (above) - or vice-versa."



Allegedly that of a merman...

 



...and that of an elf.



Sadly, I can't remember if this is a sculpture or an (alleged) specimen from the folklore area of the museum.

Look what's coming up in the garden!

Some people carve little boats. And others. . .

When we got to our farm stay lodging in Stong, there seemed to be an international cast of females running the show there. Because of the driving rain, we decided to stay close and eat at the guesthouse restaurant instead of venturing out again. (Many of the guesthouses along the way had smallish restaurants as well.) After a nap in our room, I was so out of it that things seemed even more surreal than usual. It didn't help that the young woman behind the desk who checked us into our room a couple of hours earlier was now transformed into one of the waitstaff who served our dinner. She never acknowledged us meeting before, and treated us as if we were entirely new to her. It was a little bizarre to me: "And SHA-ZAM! Now I'm your waitress!" Or maybe she was an identical twin?




 The farm lodging in Stong.

What is the meaning of this, outside of our room? It's not a native species. 


Our meal was nothing to write home about. It made me depressed, or maybe I was just a little bewildered from my nap and under the influence of the rainy weather: Cream of vegetable soup with pieces of (non-creamed) veggies in it, lamb and potatoes with a mushroom gravy (just "eh"), and cooked veggies (the same ones from the soup, not coincidentally, I'm sure. Ah, frugality). Dessert was chocolate-glazed chocolate ("eh" again - and I am usually generous with praise for anything with sugar) and whipped cream. I had a glass of wine (or two), and Greg had a dark beer. Overcompensating for our food by looking to the drink, I suppose.

Tales from the Crib...and Beyond: Living the Dream, Day Four

Living the Dream, Day Four: Greg slept poorly again due to light entering the room through the edges of the curtains. I slept well, but then had to endure Well-...

Living the Dream, Day Four

DAY 4

Greg slept poorly again due to light entering the room through the edges of the curtains. I slept well, but then had to endure Well-Sleeper's Guilt, which led me to be quite fatigued from it all by the time we ate and got in the car.

Speaking of eating, the crowded conditions of the dining room resulted us sharing a table and sitting in close quarters with another youngish Swiss couple who were traveling through as well, though in the opposite direction. I was not alert or sociable enough to make great conversation, but that's what Greg is for; he is nothing if not friendly and sociable.

The female of the duo was the one of their couple who did most of the talking back to Greg. She reminded me in appearance of Stephanie Carlile. They had traveled through the Westfjords before making their way east. They mentioned a couple of points of interest in Myvatn, where they had recently visited. It was comforting to hear both of them struggle also to pronounce places and things in Icelandic, describing one such place as "nearly unpronounceable." So we weren't the only ones with this affliction!



This day, a Sunday, was particularly grey and dreary, but it made for dramatic, cloud-enshrouded mountainous landscape. We drove along the eastern fjords (Austurland), traversing windy, narrow roads that swept along the often rocky and dramatic sea shore. Plenty of farms and lumbering, fluffy sheep were noted along the way, as usual. Maybe that's why Greg couldn't sleep: The sheep to count were busy playing in the traffic or on some steep, sloping mountainside. We have no idea how their owners are able to collect them from some of those perilous cliffs and remote mountainsides.

Something that added an element of suspense to our trip was the rural nature of our surroundings combined with the scarcity of petrol stations that were actually open. For a country with a lot of churches, this country is also known to be "not especially religious" these days. However, Icelandic folks must take their day of rest quite seriously, given how everything seems to be shut down and locked up tightly. This didn't bode well for my aching bladder, with the N1 stations and other facilities closed all along our route.
We continued driving through dramatic coastlines and small fishing towns. Along these roads, Greg summed it up nicely: "Driving around Iceland is like driving through a national park... in the off-season (due to the lack of crowds)." Eventually, we were able to find that elusive N1 that was open, just as our bladders were about to explode. Greg learned the advantages of having N1 station cards on hand, which were good for when the stations were closed but still would allow us to gas up.

The main stop of interest on this rainy day - a day in which most photos were taken from the security of our car - was a museum in a family home that consisted of a private collection of rocks, Petra's Rock Collection. It was nothing short of amazing, and I am not being facetious here: Beautiful rocks, 70% of which were from Iceland. The woman whose collection it was also collected pens, key chains, shells, and other small items, but rocks were clearly the favored theme. The residence had an amazing garden, which was also part of the rock exhibit. Flowers of every hue, garden gnomes and nick-knacks a-plenty. We would have liked to have had lunch out there, but it was misty and sprinkling. We had the place to ourselves until a tour bus full of Italian travelers arrived.

 Petra's Rocks



Jeepers creepers - a little doll nativity scene inside a stone.



We journeyed on, having lunch in yet another fishing town along the coast from the comfort of our car. We were spending a lot in USD on dinners; restaurant-eating was expensive. With drinks and all, it usually totaled $65-90. But, considering the complimentary breakfasts that came with our lodging and the make-our-own/bring our own sandwich lunches, we figured we were off-setting our costs and rationalized the expenses of dinner.

We checked in to our next farm stay in the 4:00 hour, again avoiding potential embarrassment by arriving early. This place was newer and appeared as though it was designed to primarily be lodging, instead of hastily converted lodging. In other words, it was nicer; more like a motel with shared bathrooms in a dorm-like feel. We were greeted by a young, friendly Scandinavian sort of fellow who was very personable. In spite of the dreary weather, this was my favorite lodging so far.

We went out again to check out a highly-recommended little town. This involved driving over and through snow-capped mountains. We watched the thermostat in our car go from 6 degrees C to 2 C. Dressed in many layers due to the rain and chill in the air, the coziness of the car inevitably led to me nodding off.

We arrived at the little town to find, like most things on a Sunday, that the Visitor's Center was closed. However, the town's highly-lauded coffee shop/bistro/art gallery, Skaftfell, was both well-marked (yay for good signage) and open! It was both a hipster haven and a friendly place. We were greeted by a (what else?) bohemian transplanted French guy who offered suggestions to us as far as what to have, including just to sit and have some water if we'd like. We settled on coffee and a caramel latte for me. Sitting by the window, Greg read travel guides and I surfed the web. We stayed on to dine there as well, eating what Greg pronounced to be his best dinner yet, while watching the mist and rain outside.

Skaftfell, the Little Eutopian Coffeehouse in the Clouds

Our dinner was curried lamb, barley, a surprisingly good salad of beets and pistachios, and a mini-bottle of chardonnay. The alcohol served in Icelandic restaurants (the ones we experienced, any) was interesting. Wine selection was often offered with a "whatever we have around here today" ambivalence, and instead of an emphasis on presentation and expertise, the wine was often served from mini-bottles.

Greg tells it better, but there is also the "Pilsner Loophole." Iceland (understandably) has very strict no "drink-driving" (as they call it) standards; sometimes all it takes would be one drink to put you over the legal limit. This made Greg quite wary whenever we stopped for dinner, since he was always the driver. Greg also noticed that there were 'pilsners' listed on the drink menus with the sodas (and separate from the beer/wine list, which was also on the menu). He asked a waitress what that meant, and she confirmed that a pilsner is a lighter beer, in that it contains less alcohol than those listed as "beer." It also costs less, so Greg was all about the pilsner! We were out another night, and Greg asked the waitress if they had any lite beer (meaning pilsner), and she told us "yes." She brought Greg a couple of glasses of the (assumed) pilsner over the course of dinner, and when we got the bill, he noticed he had been overcharged for his drinks. When the waitress went over the receipt with him, he reminded her that he had had light beer, which was cheaper. As it turned out, there was a true beer that was actually named "Lite," so when he ordered a light beer, that was what he got -- more alcohol by volume than he meant to have and more money than he meant to spend.

But back to the little coffee shop/bistro/art gallery: We took a look around in the upstairs art gallery before we left. The current exhibit was a project that featured stories of the residents of the small local town. The exhibit curators posted videos of the citizens sharing stories and responding to interviews. The participants' pictures were posted on a large wall, and clearly there was room for more residents. Much of the information posted was written in Icelandic, to our loss.



Scenes from the Skaftfell gallery