Chad's directions were excellent.
We drove right up to the building, walked the stairs to the second floor, and met Erica who was ready for us. She is from Sweden and has been in Iceland for about six years. How'd she get from Sweden to Iceland, one wonders.
"My boyfriend is from Iceland," she said.
"How does a Swedish girl meet an Icelandic fellow?"
"We were both taking a course about the Nordic countries in Finland. We met in Finland."
Erica had lived for a year in Isafjordur in the northwestern-most peninsula of the country. When I'd told Rut's father the night before that we'd be going to Isafjordur as part of our trip around the island, his eyes and the shake of his head said "No, no, no, don't go there." When I asked him why, all he said was "Birds. Millions of birds." There are some 800-foot cliffs up there, and those are lovely, but that's about all he could brag about the area. I asked Erica why someone from Keflavik might have that kind of reaction when I mentioned we'd be visiting Isafjordur.
"It is farther from Keflavik to Isafjordur than it is from Isafjordur to Keflavik," Erica said. Now that's an explanation I understand. It's not unlike what one experiences with the middlewest - "It is farther from the coasts to the middlewest than it is from the middlewest to the coasts."
We bought a few postcards before we left Erica's office, and some stamps to put on them; we walked down the stairs to the car; and we were on our way.
Did I forget to mention that we'd driven into Reykjavik in some of the ugliest weather I've seen in awhile? It was raining, "raining sideways" I like to say when the wind is blowing 45-55 m.p.h. It was still raining sideways as we headed out of Reykjavik for Thingvellir National Park. The wind blew and the rain stung the windshield of the car as we drove north and east from the city into some pretty rugged countryside.
I think I'll be over-using such adjectives as "stark" and "barren" and "desolate" as I describe the Icelandic landscape. The place seems like the very ends of the earth to an Iowa farm boy - harsh, bare, inhospitable.
Yet the Icelandic horses don't seem to mind. Apparently they can make a meal where there seems to be no meal at hand - a few meager hummocks of grass scattered and sere are enough to keep these horses happy.
The Icelandic horse is distinct; its genes have been untouched by outside influence for about nine hundred years. And the government of Iceland ensures that the purity of the breed continues: no horses come into the country. It is a smaller horse, yet not so small as the Shetland pony; it has a luxurious mane and a full tail that reaches nearly to the ground. When you see a group of these horses in pasture and there's a hard wind blowing, you'll notice that they stand together with their south ends, the part with the thick tail, pointed at the wind.
To be continued....
What weather and provender! May the horses emigrate?
Posted by: Peter | May 06, 2005 at 08:21 PM
Peter--Yes, they are exported. Apparently there is quite an Icelandic horse association in Europe. I suppose they get fat on real pasture....
Posted by: Tom Montag | May 06, 2005 at 08:52 PM