I bundled up in the gym lobby, girding myself against the sub-freezing temperatures outside; five below, centigrade, when I walked in and undoubtedly colder now. As I stepped outside, and rounded the corner, beginning my long ambulatory trek home, I did my usual sky-survey.

I’m a little bit of an amateur astronomer; I don’t have a telescope, but I really enjoy the natural beauty of a full, unpolluted starfield. Reykjavik, like any other city, is wretchedly polluted with excess lighting, but these days we’re getting decent views of the Venusian-Lunar conjunctions. Orion’s low in the south and Ursa Major high in the north.

Today, as I looked over towards Ursa Major and then towards Polaris, I noticed a little something strange. There was this weird contrail stretching out from the northeast sky, cutting just north of the Dipper, and continuing on towards the northwest. It was a fairly diffuse contrail, but it could believably be lit by the moon or the city’s light. Then it started shifting.

Northern Lights!

I stopped dead in my tracks and watched the nascent aurora gently shimmer in the sky. There were streetlights everywhere, so I ran down the ice-slick sidewalk into a big - and unlit - gravel parking lot nearby. I had a great open view. A diffuse band, maybe a degree or so of of arc in width, but stretching all the way from northeast to northwest along the sky. It was hardly bright, which is why I’d initially thought it was some unusual kind of contrail. But, staring straight at it, the subtle rippling of the aurora belied its true nature.

This initial display was probably pretty unremarkable for the locals; few people seemed to be stopping or even taking notice of the celestial waltz happening above. I ended up quickly walking farther along my route, as halfway down it there was a long, nearly light-free path between bunch of darkened houses, with a broad and unobstructed view of the heavens.

Once I reached that spot, I stood there for a good twenty minutes. The lights had gotten more active; the iridescent curtaining was clearly visible. As I watched, a ripple - several degrees of arc in width - silently passed overhead. Sublime. The band slowly faded.

As I got farther towards home, I looked up again and was astonished to see an even more remarkable formation. The northwestern band had reappeared and seemingly split, fanning out into up to five bright, writhing green tendrils. Like a giant bird’s foot undulating in the sky.

In the end, I stumbled home, nose icicular, after a full hour of intermittent walking - a trip that normally takes twenty minutes or so.

By random chance, and likely by downturn of economy, my usual hair salon was closed when I checked on it last Saturday. This is rather inconvenient, as it’s a good twenty minutes’ walk from work or home and now only open during a tight slice of my working hours. Instead of trying to cram a trim into the hectic tempest that is my average working day, I instead decided to brave the tiny rakarastofa - traditional barber shop - located just two doors down from my apartment.

I’d avoided this place prior for a couple reasons; chief among them, it’s a seriously old-school barbershop. The sort you see in old films, with the heavy leather-cushioned iron chairs, razor strops hanging from the wall and a weathered barber’s pole hanging outside. It also has a pedigree as one of the neighborhood’s fixtures; it’s been in business essentially throughout the living memory of all whom I’ve spoken with.

As I’ve got rather thick, stiff hair, I tended to prefer Asian salons in San Francisco; they were familiar with the consistency of my mane and tended to do a great job for rather little money. Your average Icelander has soft, downy hair that requires the application of Dark Matter to do more than droop. I was, therefore, afraid of the potential expense for an artisan ‘do that wouldn’t suit my particular type of hair.

Also, being an ancient Icelandic establishment, I foolishly doubted the proprietor’s ability to speak English.

Turns out I had absolutely nothing to worry about. The gentleman on duty in the murky gloom of Reykjavík’s January at 9 AM had a fine command of the language, but moreover, he was enthusiastic in trying to speak with me in his native tongue. It was my first real Icelandic linguistics workout since I’ve started learning, and we were able to communicate fairly well after I asked him to speak slowly and clearly for me.

Of further surprise was that this was a serious business type of barbershop. Entering it and having a cut - mind you, one of the best I’ve had, ever - was like stepping right into TVLand’s Fifties. I’ve been searching all over Iceland for proper men’s grooming supplies. Most places either sell overpriced designer crap or worthlessly cheap mass-market product. This tiny little establishment, just next door to my home, stocks real double-edged safety razors, several types of blades, a bewildering variety of shaving brushes and an utterly unbelievable array of traditional aftershaves and colognes. Plus all the accessories needed to operate the above properly.

Having already purchased an entry-level pure-badger brush during my initial quest, I picked out a beautiful golden-brass DE razor and some blades. I’m thinking I’ll check out their selection of proper soaps and colognes next; my current soap is only marginal for a proper wet-shave.

I spent a good chunk of the weekend working on an article for Rob and Dream Not of Today. It was a lot of fun; Palli and I spent a good two hours out among the protestors. I managed to drag words out of a surprising number of people, given the rather reserved persona of your average (sober) Icelander.

Still, in the process I received my fair share of glances bespeaking puzzlement - or other, less kind, emotions. But nothing untoward was said or done; most of the natives seemed content to answer briefly to whatever basic questions I could formulate on the fly.

There’s a bunch of behind-the-scenes stuff that went unpublished for the article; interesting tidbits that didn’t quite fit into the established narrative. I’ll reproduce them here for the interested.

• Several people carried blank signs, in both rectangular and disc-shaped form factors, and offered the sign-less markers with which to construct their own.
• A woman carrying a large European Union flag, mounted on a thin PVC pipe so tall it listed under its own weight.
• A gentleman on stilts.
• A picketer with UTSALG emblazoned across a depiction of the Icelandic flag. The phrase is Danish, meaning “For Sale”. Remember that Iceland was ruled by Denmark for hundreds of years.
• Another sign: Látum Auðmenna Borga. Let the Rich pay.
• The orator’s speech mentioned support pouring in from the countryside, naming towns as far away as Austurfirðir - clear on the opposite side of Iceland.
• A sign: Landrað Af Gáleysi Er Landrað. Strictly translated, “A treason of incompetence is (still) treason.”
• A ladies’ choir singing softly in front of Alþingishusið - the house of Parliament - just after the “main” protest concludes.
• Several small white splatters on the facade of Alþingishusið. Dried eggs from previous evenings’ protests.
• A blue bag strung up from a lamppost. Further inspection, and the questioning of a nearby woman, reveals that it is a falcon. They’ve lynched, in effigy, the symbol of the Icelandic Independence Party. That would be the party of Geir Haarde and Davið Oddsson, both widely blamed for various aspects of the crisis.
• A woman carrying a sign: Ókeypis Knús - free hugs. “An interesting way to boost spirits,” observed Palli.
• There are no (visible) policemen near the protest. One, in a bright yellow traffic vest, ensures that no one befouls the garden behind Parliament.

Strange times indeed.

The idea, originally, was beautiful in its simplicity. A few hundred words every other day or so, describing the daily struggles of an American grappling with expatriatism and acclimatizing to a rather unique pace of life. What it failed to take into account, of course, was the seduction afforded by internet silence and a “unique pace of life” disrupting writing’s natural rhythms.

That is, of course, no excuse. I might just as well claim lack of muse or will.

Regardless, we, collectively speaking, are now Here, in a new Year. We’ve received Hope from a new President for the United States and the Promise of a new Parliament for Iceland. The past months have been traumatically dramatized by the ever-toppling stream of financial dominoes.

I’ve recently started, or re-started, a few other side projects in lieu of playing with games during the rare free evening. Now seems as good an opportunity as will be had to give an old project compository-prosical resuscitation.

This evening, should I not be sidetracked - don’t count on that - I intend to update the software behind the site and crack out one of a few things that have been clawing away at my braincase. But for now, I must depart - my good friend Rob of (d)N0t has requested I investigate the unusual riots that have, of late, rocked downtown Reykjavik.

It’s been a bit of a busy week, and I’m getting used to the time schedule here, so I’ve had less of a chance to randomly hike about the city. I’ve also exhausted a lot of the more immediately interesting subjects in the downtown area, with a few notable exceptions. In particular, I’m waiting for a nice clear day to photograph Hallgrimskirkja, preferably after they tear the scaffolding off it.

That said, I should have some very nice stuff over the weekend.

Five photos after the jump.

Read the rest of this entry »

Yup, it may be Monday but I still managed to snag some shots. Fortunately there’s several routes I can take around the city, and even the smaller streets will occasionally yield an interesting photo.

Read the rest of this entry »

After the picture extravaganza on Saturday, Sunday was a little more sedate, but I did take a couple of photos now and then. I’ll try to get a writeup of the weekend done at some point soon.

Read the rest of this entry »

Okay, here’s the big one. About 40 photographs from a long afternoon walk around the city, culminating in a visit to the Perlan, the hot-water tanks built on a hill overlooking the city. The Icelanders got the wise idea to put a big viewing deck on top of the tanks and open it to everyone, as well as preserving a decently-sized park area around it.

Be warned, lots of pics after the jump.

Read the rest of this entry »

Another roll of photographs from Iceland, featuring an early morning stroll around the deserted city center and then more randomness while walking a winding path in the general direction of the office.

Read the rest of this entry »

I managed to get to sleep around 6 in the afternoon yesterday, meaning I sprung awake today at 3 AM. Not ideal, but at least I’ll be functional during the morning. It also gave me the unique opportunity to poke around the city in the wee hours, when no other sober, sane soul is out on the streets.

Allow me first to confirm a nasty rumor about Iceland’s hot water. Yes, it does have the distinctly lovely odor of sulphur. Yes, this means that a shower smells like the restroom of a burrito joint on two-for-one day. Fortunately, the scent doesn’t seem to cling too much, and Icelandic soaps seem to be perfumed to cover up any remaining traces of pungency. I’ll still probably pick up some cologne somewhere, just in case I’ve been obliviously walking around smelling like a latrine for the past 36 hours.

After my stinkbath, I suited up and headed out in search of brekkie around 3:30 in the morning. The helpful night clerk pointed out that no restaurant was open at the moment - although there were a few pubs still serving - but there was the Icelandic equivalent of a 7-11 convenience mart down the street, called “24″. I can only presume the store’s purpose was to defeat terrorism by feeding hungry Americans in the dead of night.

Once in the store, I picked up a tub of skyr, a bottle of Toppur - Icelandic soda water, bottled by the omnipresent Coca-Cola Company - and a curry-flavored Pot Noodle. What I forgot to pick up was hot water for my Pot Noodle or a spoon for my skyr. Oops. I did, however, find the world’s greatest tinfoil.

Sweet.

I ended up munching on my skyr using the foil lid as an impromptu spoon while sitting on a park bench under the statue of Ingólfur Arnarson in Arnarhóll, a public park centered around the aforementioned statue. It rests at the top of a small hill, and the benches there provide a damn nice view of the downtown area against a backdrop of fluffy clouds and a golden western horizon. I think the sun was just peeking up over it as I broke my fast.

Heading back down into the city, I wandered randomly around the streets a bit, looking at the various statues that are sprinkled liberally throughout the downtown area. I honestly have no idea who most of them were, since any sign that existed was in Icelandic, and the gray, flat light wasn’t particularly conducive to good photography. I’ll try to get some decent shots later on, though, hopefully before I post a link to the day’s photo gallery.