I had managed to catch a cold somewhere between all the hot water and cold Icelandic air. After days of soaking in geothermal pools, stepping back into the freezing weather and driving around the country, my nose had finally decided to register a formal complaint. I needed Afrin, and one morning after our first hotel stay, I found a pharmacy that had it.
Getting there should have been simple. We had already returned the RV and rented a compact 4×4, a vehicle so small that after living in the RV, getting inside felt like being packed into a sardine can. At least we could continue exploring Iceland without wasting an entire day transferring between buses or paying approximately $145 each way for a taxi into Reykjavík.
There was, however, one small problem. We were running low on fuel.
The gauge was around a quarter of a tank, the warning was already flashing, and the next gas station was approximately fifteen kilometers away. Goldilocks, who had spent most of the RV journey offering unsolicited advice about changing gears, watching sheep and driving speed, suddenly became remarkably quiet. I could practically hear her calculating the remaining fuel, the distance to the station and the probability of spending the morning stranded beside a road in Iceland.
I kept driving. The warning kept flashing. Goldilocks kept looking at the fuel gauge, and I suspect her heart stopped several times during those fifteen kilometers. Eventually, we reached the gas station without incident, which seemed like the appropriate moment to offer some reassurance.
I explained that this wasn’t even my personal record for arriving at a gas station with an empty tank. My record involved a car that actually ran out of fuel and shut off just as I entered a gas station. Fortunately, I had enough momentum left to coast all the way to the pump.
I smiled.
She didn’t.
Judging by her expression, she was quietly planning my murder. Apparently, what I considered an impressive demonstration of experience, she considered evidence that I had learned absolutely nothing. We filled the tank, continued our journey and, most importantly, I eventually got my Afrin.
Iceland Ring Road Part 3: One More Dirt Road Before Reykjavík
With the RV behind us and our little 4×4 carrying us toward the capital, we still had a few places to visit before settling into city life. One of them was a lava cave near Ölfus, which naturally required taking another Icelandic “dirt road.
“By this point, I had developed a healthy suspicion of that expression. In Iceland, a dirt road could mean a perfectly reasonable gravel surface or something that looked as though a military convoy had used it for target practice. After our experiences with the RV, I wasn’t particularly eager to discover which interpretation applied, but at least the little 4×4 seemed better suited to the job.
We also stopped at the continental divide on the Reykjanes Peninsula, where the North American and Eurasian tectonic plates are slowly pulling apart. There’s something fascinating about visiting a place where the ground beneath your feet is part of a geological process that has been going on for millions of years. Iceland is literally being pulled in different directions, which seemed appropriate after the number of disagreements Goldilocks and I had experienced over parking spaces, driving speeds and the proper operation of a manual transmission.
Eventually, we reached Reykjavík. After so many days of mountains, waterfalls, glaciers, empty roads and tiny settlements, arriving in the capital felt like returning to civilization. We checked into Hotel Klettur, and for once we had a place to sleep that didn’t require an electrical hookup, a campground reservation or Goldilocks walking around with an iPhone level looking for a better spot.
Reykjavík After Dark
That evening, we went out for a walk. The weather was pleasant, and Reykjavík was beautiful at night. The streets had a completely different atmosphere from the places we’d spent the previous days exploring. Restaurants, shops, illuminated buildings and people enjoying the evening replaced the sheep, mountains and endless stretches of open road.
We eventually reached Hallgrímskirkja, Reykjavík’s enormous church, beautifully illuminated against the night sky. Its distinctive architecture rises above the city, with a design reminiscent of Iceland’s basalt formations. After spending so much time looking at volcanic landscapes, it seemed appropriate that even the architecture would reflect the country’s geology.
We admired the church, wandered through the surrounding streets and eventually found somewhere to eat. It was a relaxing evening, and for the first time in quite a while, we weren’t calculating how many hours of driving remained before reaching the next campground. There was no RV to level, no extension cord to stretch across a muddy field and no need to wonder whether the bathroom facilities were somewhere on the opposite side of the campsite.
For one evening, everything was remarkably civilized.
Naturally, Iceland corrected that situation the following morning.
Raincoats, a Wedding and an Unexpected Cinnamon Bun
We woke up to rain and wind. Not the occasional drizzle that makes you wonder whether you need an umbrella, but proper Icelandic weather, the kind that seems personally offended by tourists who have the nerve to leave their hotel. After everything we’d already experienced, however, a little rain wasn’t going to stop us. We put on our raincoats and headed out.
Our first stop was Hallgrímskirkja, this time to see the interior. The church was beautiful inside, with an impressive simplicity that matched its monumental exterior. Unfortunately, our visit was brief because a couple had reserved it for their wedding. Apparently, people were still getting married despite the weather. Good for them. We respected their occasion and continued exploring the city.
While walking through the rainy streets, we passed a bakery that appeared almost empty. We went inside and realized we’d stumbled upon one of Reykjavík’s famous cinnamon bun bakeries, the kind of place where the line can normally stretch at least a block. Under ordinary circumstances, we might have spent a considerable amount of time waiting, but that morning the weather had apparently driven everybody sensible indoors.
Once again, our luck was better than our planning.
We emerged with delicious cinnamon buns and coffee and continued walking through Reykjavík. There are worse ways to deal with bad weather than exploring an unfamiliar city with something warm to drink and a fresh pastry in your hand. The rain was still falling, the wind was still blowing and my nose, despite its recent pharmaceutical assistance, continued behaving like a leaking faucet.
Our destination was the waterfront, where we wanted to explore the old fishing harbor and see another side of Iceland’s capital.
The Old Harbor, Harpa and Oldest Ramen in Iceland
Reykjavík’s old harbor offered a reminder that Iceland wasn’t built around tourists taking pictures of waterfalls. For generations, fishing and the sea were central to life here, and walking around the marina gave us a glimpse of that history. After driving through so many remote landscapes, it was interesting to see the country’s maritime character reflected in its capital.
We continued along the waterfront toward Harpa Concert Hall, one of Reykjavík’s most striking modern buildings. Its geometric glass exterior catches and reflects the surrounding light, creating an appearance that changes with the weather and the angle from which you view it. Even beneath a gray, rainy sky, it was impressive. After days of volcanic rock, mountains and waterfalls, Harpa felt like a modern interpretation of the same landscape.
By this point, however, we’d been walking for quite a while, the rain showed no intention of stopping, and my runny nose was becoming an increasingly irritating traveling companion. Something hot to eat sounded wonderful, so we found a small ramen restaurant, described as the oldest ramen place in Iceland, and went inside.
The ramen was delicious. Two steaming bowls of noodles and broth were exactly what we needed after walking around in the cold rain. We ordered a Pepsi as well, enjoyed our meal and briefly forgot about the weather outside.
Then came the bill.
Seventy-six dollars.
For two bowls of ramen and a Pepsi.
Now, I have absolutely no complaints about the food. It was excellent. But somewhere in the back of my mind, I couldn’t help thinking about what seventy-six dollars would buy in other parts of the world. In Iceland, apparently, it buys noodles, broth and the privilege of briefly escaping the weather.
By then we’d become familiar with the country’s prices. We’d paid for parking at natural attractions, campgrounds, meals and practically every other requirement of traveling around Iceland. Still, seventy-six dollars for ramen had a way of reminding us that we were no longer eating dinner in our little RV kitchen.
We decided to return to the hotel, dry off and rest until dinner. It seemed like a perfectly reasonable plan.
Which, naturally, meant something was about to go wrong.
The Missing Phone
We were about halfway back to the hotel when I reached inside my raincoat for my phone.
Nothing.
I checked another pocket, then my pants. Still nothing. I stopped walking and started checking everything again, as though the phone might magically appear if I searched the same pockets enough times.
It was gone.
There are few things that can instantly change your mood while traveling like realizing you’ve lost your phone in a foreign country. Photos, maps, contacts, reservations and everything else you depend on while moving around an unfamiliar place suddenly become a problem. I immediately started retracing our route, walking faster and mentally reviewing everywhere we’d stopped.
Had I left it at the restaurant? Dropped it near the harbor? Lost it somewhere around Harpa? We had walked through so many streets in the rain that narrowing down the possibilities seemed almost impossible.
We tried calling the phone and activated its lost-phone feature.
Then something unexpected happened.
Someone answered.
A woman visiting Iceland had found my phone. I have no idea where she was from, but at that particular moment she became my favorite person in the entire country. She told us she was near Harpa Concert Hall and explained that she was wearing a green raincoat so we’d recognize her.
I told her I was wearing a green raincoat too.
“Twincies!” she replied.
We walked another five minutes and found her standing with her husband. There was my phone, safe and sound. After approximately a million thank-yous, we asked where she’d found it. She explained the location, and Goldilocks immediately recognized the spot.
“That’s where you stretched your back,” she said, right in front of the couple.
“Yes, that’s right,” I replied.
It was a perfectly reasonable explanation, and there was absolutely no need to complicate matters in front of two strangers who had just done us a tremendous favor. We thanked them again, said goodbye and continued toward the hotel.
Once they were out of earshot, however, I decided it was time to correct the historical record.
Ninja Moves
“Remember when that person went flying past us on a scooter?” I asked Goldilocks.
She remembered.
“Remember how I said that next time I’m going to go like this?”
And I demonstrated the movements.
Again.
Earlier, while we were walking, somebody had passed us on a scooter. Apparently inspired by the experience, I had decided to demonstrate how I would react the next time someone came flying past. Naturally, my demonstration involved a series of ninja moves, which I considered an entirely reasonable response to high-speed scooter traffic.
Goldilocks had watched the original performance and informed me that I was not a ninja.
An opinion I considered unnecessarily dismissive.
Now, standing there after recovering my phone, I explained what had actually happened.
“That’s where the phone fell out. When I did my moves.
“She looked at me.
It was the kind of expression a parent gives a child who has just done something incredibly stupid and is now attempting to explain why it was actually a good idea. Complete disappointment. No appreciation for the technique, no recognition of the coordination involved and no acknowledgment that I had been demonstrating valuable defensive skills against approaching scooters.
Just that look.
Then came her professional assessment.
“You’re an idiot.
I had performed an advanced series of ninja maneuvers in the rain, lost my phone in the process, and a complete stranger had been kind enough to find it and return it.
I considered the entire incident a success. After all, I had recovered the phone, nobody had been injured and I now had a better understanding of the limitations of raincoat pockets during martial arts demonstrations.
We continued to the hotel.
Packing Up One Last Time
Eventually, the day came to pack our bags again and head to the airport. This time there would be no more RV campgrounds, no more changing parking spaces because Goldilocks had discovered a better one, no more suspicious dirt roads and no more trying to decide whether we could squeeze another waterfall into the day’s itinerary.
We had driven around Iceland, walked on a glacier, watched icebergs drift through a lagoon toward the sea and visited an undetermined number of waterfalls. We’d seen puffins, a minke whale and a humpback whale. We’d soaked in geothermal baths, including one beautiful little hot spring that cost absolutely nothing, and eaten inside a greenhouse surrounded by tomato plants.
We’d explored volcanic landscapes, visited old turf houses and churches, driven through the East Fjords and stood outside an RV late at night while the Northern Lights appeared above a campground full of sleeping tourists. Or, as I continued to call them, the areola borealis.
We had survived the RV window falling out, roads that looked as though they’d been used for military exercises, Goldilocks’ unsolicited manual-transmission lessons, a fuel warning that nearly stopped her heart and my brief but promising career as a Reykjavík ninja.
We’d also discovered that in Iceland, a free natural attraction can still cost around eleven dollars to park at, an RV campground can cost fifty dollars a night, and two bowls of ramen and a Pepsi can set you back seventy-six dollars.
And yet, looking back, I wouldn’t trade the trip.
Iceland is one of those places that refuses to behave like anywhere else. The landscape changes constantly, the weather doesn’t care what you’ve planned, and there’s always something worth seeing farther down the road. We had arrived with a route that depended largely on the weather, and somehow that turned out to be exactly the right way to experience it.
We saw what we came to see, along with plenty we hadn’t expected. There were frustrations, surprises, expensive meals, mechanical problems and moments of extraordinary beauty. Some of our best memories came from places we’d planned to visit, while others happened because we took a wrong turn, stopped somewhere unexpectedly or simply happened to be outside at the right moment.
I think we can officially put Iceland in the books.
But before leaving, I had one final observation.
For centuries, the Vikings had a reputation for sailing into foreign lands, pillaging settlements and taking whatever valuables they could carry. Modern Iceland has developed a considerably more sophisticated approach. Today, the Vikings welcome you with a smile, serve you a delicious bowl of ramen, charge you seventy-six dollars and send you on your way.
Iceland: where the Vikings invite you with a smile. Then just pillage and ravage your wallet.
And somehow, you leave wanting to come back.
