My First Week in Iceland

“The 10:15 flight to Reykjavik begins boarding in half an hour.” The announcement boomed from the speakers of the Chicago O’Hare airport. In six short hours, I would be landing in Reykjavik, Iceland to start a month of au-pairing for the family of a fisherman. Ever since watching The Secret Life of Walter Mitty in 2013, it had been my dream to visit the land of fire and ice, but the reality that I was actually going had still not settled upon me. One evening of applying for nannying positions on Workaway had taken me to Chicago, where I hastily hugged my parents goodbye and marched forward through security, for the first time in my life completely, utterly alone. My stomach sank as my mother’s face, obscured behind bodies in line, vanished around the corner. I will not see friends or family again for over thirty days. The pit in my stomach deepened.

Alone In the Airport

An airport is a lonely place without friends.

This knowledge takes its weight upon me:

life is worthless without the ones you love.

I feel this suddenly

and entirely.

I thought about my goodbye to my parents: I wished it was longer, I wished I was not so damn stoic. I’m not someone who is easily moved to tears, but I fought the water welling up in my eyes. Gathering all the courage within me, I arrived at my gate just in time, filing into the plane with a hundred strangers bound to the same city. Why am I here? I asked myself. I wanted to, so I did. It is that simple and that unbelievable.

My first view of Iceland was from the bus to the city center. Scattered black rocks and rich moss looked like the surface of another planet. How is this place habitable? I put on Marigold by Pinegrove and read welcome texts from friends, instantly feeling more comfortable. Laufey, my host mother, was waiting for me as I stepped off the bus. A wave of warmth came over me: I was no longer alone. Laufey’s got wild, thick black hair and rich brown eyes with a sparkle in them that earns my trust. She spoke in a light tone and offered help so willingly, driving me around Reykjavik to extend her country’s invitation, pointing at places she used to visit in her twenties. The drive to Mosfellsbær, the small city where Laufey lived, took about thirty minutes. Mosfellsbær is met by Esja, a staggering mountain over 900 meters (nearly 3000 feet) tall. All my awe for the landscape seemed to be haltered by the shock that I was here, after all those years of dreaming about Iceland. It was unreal–beauty too big for a context.

View from the airport to the city

We pulled into the neighborhood, a modern collection of angular houses with jet black and white plaster and a clean, minimal look. Laufey’s was an exception with its turquoise shutters and wooden door, inviting my curiosity. The home was modern without losing its warmth; a vast collection of records sat under the TV table with a Beatles box set and a Bob Dylan illustration framed above. The two dogs, Ellie and Ronja, skidded their way across the hard wood to greet me. I was introduced to the three girls, Anna, Àlfheiður, and Ylfa, and loaded my things into the small bedroom that would be mine for the month. This was real.

Laufey’s living room

The cold winds, rugged cliff sides and stretching plains aided in the loneliness that struck me early in my stay. This country, despite my years of wanting to visit, seemed inhospitable and cold in every sense. The gray skies hung over the clouds and stretched long into the night. I couldn’t sleep, I had little time to think, and I desperately wanted to see my friends again. After several days of nannying, I felt stuck. I could not sit down and write songs–I had to take Anna to the playground. I could not read a book or promote my latest single–I had to watch the Icelandic Ugly Dolls. Who am I when I can’t be productive? I was quickly forced to rewire my desires: I had over-romanticized this trip and thought about it selfishly. My first priority needed to be serving Laufey and the girls–if I gave them a good summer, then I’d have accomplished everything I needed to. I looked down at my travel journal and saw a quote from Paul Theroux: “Travel is glamorous only in retrospect.” Humbled, I decided to focus on being present with the family. Productivity has its time, but now is the time to listen and observe.

Mosfellsbær

Living a normal suburban life in a country as grand and vast as Iceland felt contradictory, but it is a gift to see a place in a slow, intimate way. On Saturday I went to the annual Color Run and was struck by how normal it all was, how I could’ve done this same thing in Indianapolis or Nashville and little would have been different. We are all quite similar despite our systems.

As the week went on, I felt more comfortable around the family and began to settle into this new life, fully aware of how separate it was from my life back home. My days are mundane despite the circumstances: most are spent making coffee, buying groceries, and taking the girls to the playground. It’s the little things that bring me the most life. Smiling when I read the girls’ conversations through body language and mannerisms–some things are universal. Going to the park and learning that “swing” is “rolla” in Icelandic and counting to ten as I push Ylfa toward the sky. Einn. Here we go! Tveir. A little higher! Þrír. Woo!! Trying harðfiskur, air-dried cod, even when it was the last snack I wanted. Introducing the family to peanut butter and jelly.

Coming home to a family each night was grounding. After a long and lonely hike up the mountain Esja, I was greeted with a hot homemade pizza and a table full of smiling faces. I have lots to be thankful for.

The girls and I at the Color Run

My time apart from the family was equally valuable. The days I spent alone in Reykjavik, camera strapped around my chest and a fearlessness inside me, allowed me to feel most myself. Being free to explore, to wander and to wonder, lights a fire in my soul and reminds me that this is the environment I thrive in. I felt a similar draw toward music during this time. It is good to know that these things lie at the core of who I am and manifest themselves even more strongly when little in my life is consistent.

Lunch at Hallgrímskirkja

all of this is borrowed:

my jacket, my bike, this life.

my time and interpretation

are all i have without co-ownership.

the man on the bench next to me

is sketching, likely the obvious

view behind but i’d like to imagine

i am in it, and he’s tracing my curves,

dotting the lines around my dimples,

capturing my displacement

in such a scene.

Me at Hallgrímskirkja in my traditional Icelandic Lopapeysa

As I approached Fríkirkjan on Saturday night I saw the faint outline of two young adults with backpacks: the au-pairs I was meeting up with for dinner. Their names were Noah and Laura, from Spain and Italy, and I quickly learned that they had opposite dispositions: Noah was bubbly and lighthearted while Laura fired away with heavy questions and a serious stare. As we began walking, Laura mentioned she was vegan, to which my heart faltered a bit; I was looking forward to a traditional Icelandic meal. As we checked out touristy restaurants and ethnic cuisine, I grew frustrated; this was not the night out I wanted, but like so much this week, I had to be patient and sacrifice my own desires. We chose the food hall, and I paid 3800 ISK for a fish dinner, which equals out to around 30 USD, a typical price for a dinner out in Iceland. Over our eclectic meals of fish, sushi, and a vegan burger, we exchanged stories, sharing what brought each of us to Iceland. I recalled my fascination with the country after seeing The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, and Noah shared the song that brought them to Iceland. “So, you came to Iceland because of a movie and a song?” Laura asked somewhat dismissively. Her initial air of self-righteousness annoyed me, but I soon realized she was fighting the same battles as I was, just with different armor. We’re all insecure from different angles.

After dinner we walked around the pier by Harpa and talked about the value of being open to many options and the difficulty of choosing one path, something each of us struggled with. Noah expressed their discontent with their lack of clarity in life, to which Laura responded, “Give yourself time to figure things out.” “I’ve been here almost a year, and I still haven’t figured anything out,” Noah cried. I could’ve cried, too. Despite our vastly different upbringings, we were all in the same spot: unsure of where life was leading us and traveling to gain a better sense.

We ended the night by stopping into a cafe-bar called Rúblan bókakaffi to grab a drink, and to my delight, a cover band was performing to an active crowd of dancers and listeners. I took my Viking IPA to a table downstairs and the three of us shared laughs over board games and stories. The lyrics to “Dancing Queen” were belted out from above while I received my first Taboo word: Indiana. Home is always trailing close behind me.

At the Bar in Reyjavík

i survey the strangers:

everyone here is so free

not thinking about the week’s work

or whatever’s expected of them.

i think of the word elastic:

a trail of kinetic energy,

headlights on the highway,

drinks lifted in the air

to cross the dance floor.

i don’t need to join–

i’m just as happy watching,

involved in my own quiet movement

of wandering eyes and thoughts,

tracing smiles through the crowd,

following elbows bending

and elongating, shoulders

shifting from side to side,

broken english belting out

“dancing queen” and springsteen

records lining the shelves.

funny how home follows me around.

Rúblan bókakaffi pub