Fresh Air

The largest lake in France should not be this difficult to find. Alas, sometimes your bus driver pulls over on the side of the road and says “get off.” You don’t really have a choice. For those of you already incredulous that I simply did something wrong or didn’t plan well enough, I would like to cite several factors. One – the final stop on the bus line I took is called Plage (beach) and the map shows that it’s actually right next to the beach. Two – I’m sure I was on the right bus because the destination marquee on the front of the bus read “Plage.” Three – the bus driver literally pulled over in the middle of some campus, not even at a bus stop mind you, and kicked us off. This is not normal bus driver behavior. I’ve ridden to the end of enough bus lines, both on purpose and accidentally, to know they only let you off at approved stops, even if you ask. Usually they tell you that you’re at the end of the line, that it’s the last stop. Not this guy. In the middle of the road he just says, “I’m done, get off.”

My theory is that he was seriously jonesing for a cigarette. This is not just idle speculation, but an informed hypothesis. You see, I’m fairly certain someone forgot to tell France about lung cancer. Seriously, it’s baffling. When I go to a bar or a café, I generally choose to sit inside to get fresh air, and even then people have cigarettes hanging in their mouths because they can’t wait. Pass a school at lunch time, and it’s a cloud to rival Boulder on 4/20. I’ve seen my bus be late because the driver was smoking. I was there sitting on the bus, watching the scheduled departure time come and go while he sucked down carcinogens.

This speculation however, is irrelevant. Not knowing where I was, I decided to follow the stream north which took me into a small town. It was lunch time, i.e.: sometime between 11am and 3pm, so naturally everything was closed, including the Office of Tourism. I took a path into the woods, which, as best as I could tell by the extraordinarily inaccurate map, would take me to the beach. It didn’t. It did take me to the ruins of the Castle of Thomas II, Duke of Savoy. Walking the forest path, with pebbles dancing merrily in my Birkenstocks was when I had the thought, the largest lake in France should not be this difficult to find. As it turns out, it really shouldn’t be. There is a bus stop about a twenty second walk from the entrance to the beach. I had a much easier time getting back from the lake than I did in getting there.

Aside from my ongoing struggle against the buses of Chambéry in which I always lose, day to day life has taken on predictable rhythm. Work out, have brunch, espresso and writing at Café de l’Horloge, cider and writing at O’Cardinal’s, dinner, Grey’s Anatomy. It used to be dinner and Grey’s Anatomy together, but the doctors are always messing up and it had a negative impact on my appetite. I also think I might be losing weight, perhaps due in part to not being able to finish dinner thanks to aortal spurts, but I can’t be sure. I only mention it because it’s rather confounding considering my diet: cheese, butter, cheese, sausages, cheese, wine, cheese, and Brussel sprouts.

I was in the midst of said predictable rhythm, writing over a cider at O’Cardinal’s, when something changed. It was Saint Patrick’s day, and there was to be an Irish singer performing at the pub that night. The outside area was packed, and I was fairly certain that he’d be performing there. However, I was early and decided to get some fresh air inside while I waited. Then a man strolled in and started setting up his equipment. I have long considered myself shy at heart. It’s under much better control than it once was, but it’s still there. However, when you find yourself in a foreign city with a veritable paucity of expats, the fact that someone speaks your native tongue is enough in common to strike up a conversation.

Tim O’Connor and I sat sharing a pint at an Irish pub in a medieval town in the French Alps. We talked about music and travel and commiserated about the wall of formality which makes it so difficult to meet people here.

Throughout the night, I enjoyed lively music, listened to a Frenchman complain for twenty minutes about how America is ruining France (just stop, please stop talking to me), watched an Irish step dancer, sang along to the Beatles with a bunch of French people, and had my name announced to a packed pub. The last of these was an odd experience. Tim had introduced other people throughout the night, but had had a reason for each. There was Bejamin, his fiddler. Next was Ricky James, Tim’s friend who sang a few songs with him. Then there was Maeve, the Irish girl who danced spontaneously and on request accompanied Tim with vocals on a traditional Irish ballad. Then there was me, who had absolutely nothing to offer. “There’s an American here: Elizabeth!” he called into the mic, introducing me. An awkward smile. A half-wave. A confused silence. And then a French hippie took off his Guiness top hat with a rolling flourish and bowed to me as he shouted my name. Thank you, stoned white guy with dreadlocks. If it weren’t for you, who knows how long we would have sat awkwardly before Heart of Gold got started. 

All in all, it was probably one of the best St. Patrick’s Days on record.  

The Brevity Report:

• Lac du Bourget
• Castle of Duke Thomas II
• St. Patty's Day festivities

Shambleshanks, Conqueress of Banks

Due to a completely avoidable and thoroughly inopportune sequence of mishaps, I found myself in the uncomfortable position of owing a dead person 53 cents.

Ah, but I forget myself. Let me take you to the beginning…

I arrived in France with roughly 43 euros and bag of assorted change in my possession. I was not bothered by this circumstance since you get the best exchange rate with credit card transactions anyhow. I figured if I needed to, I’d be able to change some dollars after I’d settled in. I was unscrupulously frivolous with those 43 euros, and soon found that I had only a fiver and a few coins left. Again, not much of a problem, except that everywhere I have been has a minimum requirement for credit cards purchases. My only daily expense is espresso, and I have reservations about the prudence of consuming enough of it to meet the minimum for a credit card transaction.

After my second cider at O’Cardinal’s – had to meet the minimum, after all – I decided to visit the cathedral. O’Cardinal’s has become my favorite bar. I know I’m in France, and maybe should be checking out all the different brasseries available, but there’s something undeniably comforting about an Irish pub. And it is adjacent to the cathedral, which makes it the perfect place to wait on the bus after mass. I was wandering in the church, marveling at the extensive work of tromp l’oeil, when I caught sight of a hand. It has been some time since I’ve been in Europe, and I forgot about the proliferation of incorruptibles in churches. Therefore, I was a bit surprised to see the quill-wielding hand on display. Naturally, my reaction was something along the lines of, “Oh sweet, whose is that?” Well, as it turns out, no one really knows. The sign says simply, “hand of the exhumed saint of Annecy.”

I find this a bit perplexing. The only thing that makes sense to me is that when the former Franciscan chapel was being converted into the cathedral, the graves were dug up and the bodies moved. Someone must have stumbled on the hand and thought the same thing I did, “Who does this belong to? Eh, don’t know, but we should definitely keep it out.” Okay, it makes sense so far; there have been other reports of only certain body parts being incorrupt, like St. Vincent de Paul’s heart. Here’s the thing that really gets me though. Who decided to put the quill in the hand? Why, having no idea who this person was, do you assume writer? Why not confessor? That seems likely. Or cook? Well on second thought, a hand holding a chef’s knife in a glass case might be pushing the line. I digress, however.

Continuing my circuit, I decided to light a candle. Instead of one collection box for buying the candles, the instructions say to drop payment in the box beneath the statue in front of which you light the candle. Joan of Arc doesn’t have a box, so I was saved having to choose between her and Thérèse. After lighting my candle and saying a prayer, I put my hand in my pocket to pull out the requisite euro. Which is when I remember I am a bit strapped. I pull out all my coins – I have 47 cents. I realize I could have been magnanimous or taken out a line of candle-credit and dropped in my five, but prudence urged me to keep a hold of my last bill. “Alright Saint Thérèse,” I bargained, “I’m getting more money tomorrow, I’ll pay you back then.” It seemed so simple. How wrong I was.

The next day, I met with absolutely no success. There is no “Bureau de Change” in Chambéry. All the banks turned me away. Some didn’t even let me in. And nowhere online or in print can I find a clear answer about where to change cash. Remember the sequence of avoidable mishaps? One of them was forgetting my debit card. I can take a cash advance on my credit card, but that immediately starts accruing 25% interest. It would be cheaper to take the bus to Geneva and change my money in Switzerland. It says right on their tourism website, “exchange your money at any Swiss bank.” And let’s be real, who doesn’t want a good excuse to go in a Swiss bank? So, after hours of walking, several extraordinarily rude French bankers, and nothing for my trouble except for getting called “sir” over the intercom, I still couldn't pay Saint Thérèse back.

The best way I can describe the feeling of finding myself in monetary debt to a saint is that my heart felt itchy. I figured I’d pay back the next day, so I hadn’t bothered to negotiate any sort of interest rate. Also, strictly speaking, I’m fairly certain you’re not supposed to only pay for half of something then come back later. Unless you’re in Ward, then they’re happy to be paid back their $7.92 a year later. I went to bed that night thinking that Switzerland would be my best option. I’ve been wanting to get over there anyhow, why not sooner rather than later?

The next day, however, I awoke with an unparalleled optimism. I had this crazy thought, “what if you don’t go to Geneva today? What if you go to the post office instead?” And I was somehow cheered by this. I can’t explain it. But it was the kind of morning where you believe the world is your oyster. After my morning calisthenics, I even decided to go for a run. I am unsure whether it was a moment of inspiration or a moment of vanity, but I laced up my shoes and was out the door, stretching my stride like a gazelle and breathing in the fresh mountain air. Or, rather, I was for the two minutes before my lungs decided that they wanted none of this running business and my weak ankle thought it would be a good idea to join the rebellion my lungs were fomenting.

What is the difference between a run and jog? Is there some definitive speed that delineates the difference? Is it form and grace? Is it the amount of physical exertion required? Because if we’re going by speed, I was likely jogging. If we’re going by grace, then I think “shambling” would be the proper verb. But if we’re going by physical exertion required, then I was world class running, and that’s what it felt like. You know, besides the whole crumbling apart and not breathing thing.

Before departing my subterranean lair, I remarked that it was an exceptional hair day. No “sirs” for me today, no way. Arriving at Les Halles, I walked confidently to the post office. I was so certain it would work, that I didn’t even pose it as a question. “Bonjour!” I said brightly, “I’d like to exchange my money, please.”

“No,” at least she’s nice, not like the jerk bankers, “not here, but you can at the big post office by the train station.”

Nailed it.

I imagine she must have been a bit confounded by my profuse thanks, but I didn’t bother explaining what an ordeal it had been thus far. Furthering my world-oyster-success, walking back from the main post office I finally managed to find a place with good espresso. It’s a little cart attached to a bike – the roast is good, the barista is competent, and it’s one euro. And now that I have cash at hand, I don’t have to buy ten shots to meet the credit card minimum.

Oh, and I should mention...

...I paid back St. Thérèse. With interest. 

The Brevity Report:

• I changed dollars to euros

Cobble Stones and Stinky Cheese

When I was packing, I gave myself three pairs of shoes. My Chuck T.’s obviously took spot one. Spot two went to my Birks. And that last valued spot? “Well, you can hike in running shoes well enough,” I said to myself, “but running in your hiking boots would be awful.” Thus my Sauconies took the cake. It seemed like a logical conclusion. Maybe it was, but it was also thoroughly unreasonable. The questions I should have asked: 

Q1: “How often do you think you’ll want to run?” 

A: Never. 

Q2: “How often do you think you’ll want to hike?”

A: Always. Everyday. As much as possible. 

What a rube.

But where did I leave you? Ah yes, my Sauconies soaked through from trudging through the streets of Paris in the rain. You know what are waterproof? My hiking boots. Spilt milk I suppose…

The next morning, the world was a brighter place. Literally. The sun was out, and if I could’ve heard over the traffic, I believe birds may have been chirping. It was that kind of a day. I made it to Gare de Lyon with time to spare (not like you, Renée, when I say time to spare, I mean five minutes, ten max, not two hours – no Rome Rules on this trip). I bought breakfast to go: mango juice and an apple. And this mango juice was legit. It didn’t taste of carrots whatsoever, and the delectable hint of passion fruit was perfectly balanced. I got myself situated on the train; besides the girl sitting next to me, I was the only one in the whole compartment whose seat was next to someone else. I didn’t know the etiquette in this situation, so I decided to keep my seat until the conductor punched tickets.

If you’ve travelled with me, you know that when I am extremely tired, I lack completely the ability to keep my mouth closed when I’m sleeping. Yes, I am that person. There are commercials making fun of us, pinning us as one of the perils of travelling coach. And I guess that’s true. But know this: we have no control over the situation. All I can hope is that my breath smelled of mango and passion fruit. I hadn't even planned on sleeping, I awoke surprised to find my maw gaping. And upon awakening, I was hungry, ready for my apple. I was ready for it before, but hadn’t had the heart to eat it. You see, there’s this thing I have called misophonia…

Shortly put, specific food sounds trigger a violent rage within me. It’s a real thing. For me it’s the smacking of food, that blood-curdling liquid sucking sound that comes when people can’t keep their mouths shut chewing. So with my apple I was acutely aware that the crunching of it in the all too silent train coach might be unwelcome. I gathered my effects and went upstairs, took the bench seat in between the luggage rack and bathroom, and enjoyed my apple in peace.

While incorrect in her use of the word “irony,” Alanis Morissette would have been lucky to chance upon my circumstance. When I arrived back in my seat, the denizens of coach six had decided it was lunch time. Smackers. Of the highest degree. Every. Last. One. I tried. Truly I did. But the girl next to me was the worst offender. Imagine the sound you hate worst in the world - nails on a chalkboard, sniffling, what have you. Now imagine it is so close that it sounds like someone is drilling it into your brain and it is echoing from all sides. I lasted three bites. Like I mentioned, violent rage. It was everything I could to do to not start throwing some 'bows.

I spent the last hour of the trip in the dining compartment, ironically food-sound free. On the upper level of the train with a window to myself, I watched the green French countryside rolling along. Picture in your mind the quintessential small French country town. One main road, a handful of small mortar homes, a stone church at the center. Farms and vineyards surrounding it. This was the view I enjoyed over my espresso.

Karine came out during her lunch break to pick me up from the train station and get me situated in my new home. If you read Alas! Ear wax!, you must have an idea of how grateful I was for this.

Almost eight years ago, I was at the Cité Universitaire in Paris reading an email. It was from Katie A. Good news! she said. I’ve found us an apartment! It’s the bottom floor of a house… Most of you know how that story ends. I showed up on move-in day and discovered that when she said “first floor,” she really meant “basement.” Fear not, for though I am again below ground, my current situation is not nearly as dingy and I am in a much safer town. I have taken to referring to it as my subterranean lair, however.

I spent the better part of three days in said subterranean lair due to inclement weather. I won’t lie, I got a bit desperate. I tried to ration the one book I brought, but 700 pages doesn’t last long when the writing is this good. I can’t connect to Netflix, but I was ready for any English television. I didn’t find any. I did find Grey’s Anatomy in French though. I haven’t watched it since I was a freshman in college cramming into a room in AQ trying to make friends. I’m fully invested now, although it’s gotten really depressing. George died. Izzy has cancer. Izzy has cancer and gets fired. For something to bring me out of my own thoughts, it’s rather melancholy. It’s helping my French skills I suppose. That’s my excuse. Tomorrow night they’re airing Revenge, too. Nothing like tawdry drama to boost one’s spirits. Happy Tuesday!

Armed with a bus pass and an umbrella, I now have had a chance to explore, and I absolutely love it. I am in a valley in Savoie surrounded by mountains, a 15 minute ride to downtown. Walking the cobbled streets of old town is akin to walking through a story book. A turn down this alley, duck through that archway, past that inn, and there I am in a square surrounded by cheese shops and wine shops and  ancient churches. There are signs on some streets or buildings: “Castle from the 11th century, hotel from the 16th century, this road from the 14th century", etc.… and if it weren’t for the modern store fronts, you’d believe you were there.

Today I hitched a ride with Karine and her cousin to La Féclaz, a small little mountain ski town. Perfect to sit outside, take in the scenery, and work on my book. Speaking of which, I’ve got to get back to that. I’ve been rather too preoccupied to take pictures, but I promise I’ll have some for you soon. For now, it’s wine and writing. 

Alas! Ear wax!

Note: None of these pictures are my own, it wasn't a picture-taking kind of day.

For those of you unfamiliar with the titular context of this post, I have provided the literary gem whence it comes:

“Ah! Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans! I was unfortunate enough in my youth to come across a vomit-flavored one, and since then I’m afraid I’ve rather lost my liking for them — but I think I’ll be safe with a nice toffee, don’t you?” 

He smiled and popped the golden-brown bean into his mouth. 

“Alas! Ear wax!”

     -Albus Dumbledore, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone

 It always seemed pretentious to say “I don’t like Paris” when so many haven’t had the opportunity to experience its grandeur, so I mostly just thought it. And as time passed, I let go the bad memories and kept the good ones. There were good ones, of course. Like Andy and Santino singing “Hips Don’t Lie” in the metro, or having fondue with Nana and Morella in Saint Michel and our Armenian waiter giving us free sangria because he loved Nana, or watching the fireworks on the Eiffel Tower on Bastille Day.

So when I had the opportunity to spend a night in Paris, I thought it to be a grand idea. Remembering the story of one Mrs. Margaret Mary Maslak, I knew that the sisters at Sacré Coeur provided free lodging. I had everything planned. My flight arrived in Paris at noon, I would get to Sacré Coeur, drop my back pack off, and be free to wonder the city, perhaps visiting some of my old haunts.

My flight arrived in Paris on time and I got my bag, no problems. Yet. Now I’ve been Charles de Gaulle Airport before and I speak French. However, it has been seven and a half years since I’ve been there and generally when you fly internationally, you are kind of herded to customs, there’s not usually a way by passport control. So what did I do? I followed the exit signs. And just like that I’m on the outside looking back in with no stamp on my passport. I’ve just inadvertently snuck into Paris.

I’m on the RER B, listening to the accordion player, watching the outer slums roll past, feeling nostalgic and excited for the day’s adventures. I get to the foot of Montmartre and decide I’m taking the stairs – my bag is only 30 pounds after all. I fend off the guys trying to tie bracelets on my wrist. Honestly, it’s hard to believe they’re still trying the same routine, thanks to the interweb people know about you. They call you “scam artists.”

After dodging two groups of these guys I find my way to guest house behind Sacré Coeur. At last. I go in, and there sitting at a desk I encounter my friendly-faced enemy. Following is a brief translated transcript of our conversation:

Me: Hi, I have a reservation for tonight.

Desk Lady: Please speak up.

Other Lady: Something unintelligible, possibly saying something about 8 o’clock.

Desk Lady and I ignore her

Me: Yes, I have a reservation to stay at the guest house, am I in the right place? My name is J-a-r-…

Other Lady: Unintelligible something about 8 o’clock.

Desk Lady: This is the right place. But you’re not in the book and we’re all full. At least you have the whole day.

Other Lady: Something unintelligible about 8 o’clock.

Sometimes I think that if I didn’t take things placidly, I’d have different results. For instance, I hear that sometimes if you cry you don’t get a speeding ticket or if you become angry with customer service they actually help you just to get rid of you. So maybe if I’d cried or blustered, that lady from United wouldn’t have been so awful a few weeks ago and maybe there, at 35 Rue du Chevalier, if I had cried or blustered they could have found at least a cozy corner for me somewhere. However, I did neither of these things. I picked up my bag, tightened the straps and headed out into the cold cloudy Parisian day.

Sitting in the Gare de Lyon, my over-active imagination has me simply spending the night there. It’s a nice station in a good part of town, above ground and everything. And then into my day dreams come the police, asking to see my passport and accusing me of all kinds of malfeasance when they are unable to find my stamp of entry. You know what? They’re probably corrupt and are going to try to extort me, and there’s no way they're getting the cash stash tucked under the insole of my shoe. I should probably just find a place to stay. 

I buy a SIM card so I can call my friends in St. Germain – I know they’re busy, but they probably have a bed. Doesn’t work. Tells me there’s no credit, 10 euros down the drain. I hop on the limited session of free wifi. It’s now necessary I find a place before the internet session expires. Hostel rooms are double, so even if you’re just one person, you still pay the price for two. And for that price, I decide a hotel room with the benefit of its own bathroom is the way to go. Hotwire here I come. I roll the dice and come up with the Premier Best Western.

Now it is important to note that none of these things actually happened with any rapidity. I was several hours out from Desk and Unintelligible Lady sending me forth, tramping all over Paris with my red Gregory backpack. I emerged from the subway knowing I was close to my hotel. 61 Rue de la something with a “V.” This is when it started to rain. 10 minutes more, and I realized I was going in the wrong direction. Hastening through the rain, I saw it shining there on the corner. My bright beacon of hope: McDonald’s. Here, at least, I knew if got lost I could come out of the rain and use their free wifi to pinpoint my location.

With that knowledge firm in my mind, I turned off Vincennes into an alley, down the stairs, under the archway art of a stretching cat, and found myself just where I needed to be. After I showered off the day’s travel grime it was already past sunset. My dinner budget blown on the hotel, I decided that finishing my chocolate from Iceland would constitute sufficient caloric intake. By the time I finished eating it, I had already let go of my dreams of a Parisian excursion. 

Paris is a bag of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans, I decided, and I got ear wax.

The Brevity Report:

• My reservations were lost in Paris
• I spent several hours wandering trying to find a place to stay
• I had chocolate for dinner and didn't see much of the city

Peril and Luxury

I’m now in France, but you’ll have more on that later. Allow me first to wrap up my Icelandic adventures.

I’ve decided that Iceland was very good for Lent – it made me think frequently on death.

On the myriad of ways Iceland can kill you:

So far I believe we’ve covered violent turbulence, freezing, volcanic eruptions (which happen about once every five years) from one of the 30 active volcanoes on the island, murderous axe-wielding farmers, being crushed in a tunnel beneath the fjords, AT-AT’s and Wampas, and unpredictable waves that will snatch you off the beaches and dash you against the cliffs or suck you out into the freezing rocky sea. The last of which, apparently, make Iceland ideal for surfers, especially in winter. I’m a bit skeptical about that last bit of information, or least about the part that surfers travel here in the winter. Now, I’m only going off of surf movies, but I think the warm white sand beaches of Hawaii or Puerto Rico seem a bit more attractive.

All this on an island the size of Kentucky. Fun fact, in 1963 an underwater volcano erupted and formed a new island off the coast. I’m curious about how it automatically became a part of Iceland and someone else didn’t decide to claim the new land. My best guess is no one wanted it. See the previous paragraph for reasons why. It’s called Surtsey, look it up, especially you, Cam – the scientific opportunity for studying the burgeoning life on the island is quite fascinating.

My day exploring the jewel of Icelandic tourism, the Golden Circle, added more to my ongoing list. First I stopped at Álafoss, really wanting an Icelandic wool hat. Itchy as all get out. Hard pass there for the tactilely sensitive like myself. Although there was this amazing pair of sheepskin slippers…but there’s that thing about the absurd expensiveness of Iceland. So after days of anticipation I walked away hatless, my Colder Boulder hat will do just fine. After that off to Þingvellir National Park. February in the vast white iciness. The lake was frozen and everything was dead. Not ideal for hiking. I left it behind without a second thought. Thus far, a relatively safe Icelandic day. I don't think I've had the chance to mention it before, but all along the road you can see herds of the prized Icelandic horses.

Then came Geysir. It is, as you may have guessed, a geyser. There are three in a very small area. Litli, which is tiny, the Great Geyser, which is unpredictable and irregular, and finally Strokkur, which goes off frequently. Five times in the twenty minutes I was there. In the freezing cold and snow, there was a group of tourists huddling around a mud pit with a large puddle of boiling water waiting for it to explode. My favorite part is right before it geysers (yes that’s the appropriate verb), you can see a large bubble emerging from the depths of the boiling pool, but it is this clear clean bright pure chill blue. I hung around for 20 minutes on the freezing snowy mountain just for that. In addition, there are steam vents dotting the landscape – cracks in the earth spewing forth scalding steam and leaking boiling water. Skip forward to Hveragerði, a town hit by one of the island’s frequent earthquakes in ’08. It ripped open steam vents all over the place. Driving around the valley you can see columns of steam rising throughout the town. Due to the earthquake, it is now an ideal tourist destination for hot spring bathing, boiling eggs in a stream, and baking bread over a crack in the earth. Oh Iceland, you certainly know how to bounce back from and capitalize on tragedy and natural disasters.

After Geysir came Gulfoss, the Golden Falls, the largest waterfall in Europe. I’m not currently up to the challenge of capturing its magnitude, power, and beauty in words. Though I say the least about it, it was the most awe-inspiring stop of the entire trip. 

Kerið was next, a volcanic caldera that’s still intact and you can walk down into around the lake. Again, it was too icy for my lack of crampons. Besides the cool-factor of being in a caldera, it was rather underwhelming following the magnificence of Gulfoss. Later in the night, I went hunting the northern lights. I did not find them. Spoiler, it was too cloudy too see them the whole trip. It’s okay, I retain the perfect memory of lying in a canoe somewhere between the US and Canada and watching them amidst the Perseids.

Lesson for the day: don't trip and fall in Iceland, you might end up in scalding steam, boiling water, or being crushed and thrown into a gorge.

The next day was my day for exploring Reykjavík itself. Nice little downtown, but it was 33 and raining. Bad day for being out and about, give me 32 and snow any day. As such my explorations consisted of mass at the Cathedral and two coffee shops. I was very happy for the familiar Latin mass parts, because the only others words I understood the whole mass were Jesus and November. The top-rated Reykjavík Roasters was disappointing, a rather sour roast. But the Micro Roast downtown served a nice chai.

On Monday I went to Reykjanes geo-park and walked the bridge between the continents. The Eurasian and North American tectonic plates meet in Iceland, and in Reykjanes there is a large crack in the rocks from their continued drifts and you can stand in it and cross the bridge over it. Much more interestingly, in Þingvellir you can actually scuba dive/snorkel down in the fissure between the plates. I want to do that. 

And lastly and certainly not least was the Blue Lagoon. It is a tourist trap? Definitely. Was it worth it? Heck yes. Did I pay an extra 16 bucks for a bathrobe, flip flops, and an algae face mask? Happily. Sure, there is plethora of available hot springs without the exorbitant pricing and horde of tourists, but honestly it's tough to be dissatisfied floating in naturally warm waters with steam rising rising around you sipping prosecco at sunrise. I took no pictures, but this is really what it looks like. A natural phenomenon, it is quite intriguing, again I encourage you to look it up. It is, after all, one of Nat Geo’s 25 wonders of the world. Brief overview – large geothermal pool of milky blue water with large deposits of silica. Basically an entrancing small-lake-sized natural hot tub in volcanic rock the water of which replenishes itself every 40 hours. Despite my asthmatic-induced fear/dislike of steam rooms, when there’s one that looks like a hobbit hole, you go in. You just do. Oh, and standing under a hot waterfall with the pressure of cascading water massaging out the knots from over 20 hours of driving was the perfect way to end the week.

Iceland is known as the land of fire and ice (very original, Martin) and is a place of harsh beauty. I’d very much like to go back there someday, or rather some summer. I definitely recommend it, especially for my beloved geology nerds.

The Brevity Report:

• Þingvellir National Park
• Strokkur Geyser
• Gulfoss, largest waterfall in Europe
• Kerið volcanic crater
• Hveragerði, town with high concentration of steam vents
• Reykjavík: cathedral and coffee shops
• Reykjanes Geopark: bridge between the continents
• Blue Lagoon