My father died a few weeks ago. In the surreal few days that followed his passing, I kept myself busy with the many logistical details that had to be handled, threw myself into cleaning and helping my family. In the back of my mind, the winds of Iceland swept through my head, holding me together until I could return to the solace of the wild winter nature.
Two nights before he died, I saw some of the most powerful northern lights I've ever witnessed from Reykjavik. The house opposite looked to be inhabited by aliens, alit with green fire from behind, and as the night progressed, the show spread across the sky with the leaping fingers of light reaching high above the city, the ribbons waving horizontally, the pulsing glow pulling energy skywards, celestial fireworks for my father. He passed less than 48 hours later. After I returned to the country, it was ten straight days of rain, the relentlessly gray skies matching my sorrow.
I knew I had to be strong for my family, for my mother in her shock at the sudden new circumstances she found herself, living alone for the first time in her life. There was no time for solace or sorrow when I was there; I had to save it for later.
When I returned to Iceland, walking from the bus in the dim morning light, I already felt readjusted as the wind sloughed off my grief and blew life into my nostrils. That weekend S took me all the way to Jökulsárlón, a 750 kilometer round trip through the rainstorm. We stopped to record videos of the wind blowing the streams of waterfalls off into mist, we paused to eat the essential road-trip-in-Iceland hamburger, we made bets over whether or not we'd be alone at the lagoon or not (I won a cake out of this bet).
At the lagoon, we paused on the glacier side briefly to inspect the floes there, then crossed quickly to the other side, where the real magic happens. The tide was coming in rapidly, furious roaring waves crashing around the crackling chunks of ice, turning Land Cruiser sized ice blocks on their side. Along the high tide mark, a neat trail of herring lay, a reminder of the recent and mysterious mass herring death. We walked out towards a long finger of sand that stretched back towards the channel, rapidly being consumed by furious tides from both sides. S braved the water to go to the end while I stayed and simply absorbed it all- the wetness of the rain, the surge of wind gusts, the sizz of sand grains rushing across the beach. I built a small cairn from the black stones that lay scattered on the beach, a beacon for my father's soul, all the while knowing that it would be soon consumed by the encroaching waters that came from both sides.
Iceland may not be where I was born or where I grew up, but it is certainly a place of healing, of cleansing, of sorrow and redemption, a place where my soul finds its center amid the chaos it may find elsewhere. In these times where my thoughts travel their darkest paths, knowing there is this place where the sea is a never ending palette of blue, where the wind is spiked with scents of lava, moss and promise has made all the difference.
19 mars 2013
02 febrúar 2013
wintry weekend
Back in December, my company had the (first!) annual Christmas dinner, an essential work tradition for any Icelandic company. Since our headquarters are located in Akureyri, I went up a few days early to work in the office before the Saturday party. I've always been in Akureyri either for work or on my way through to somewhere more remote, with an occasional stop to stock up on groceries or wine, so I was excited to have a full unplanned day with nothing to do but explore the town.
I woke late on Saturday after the boisterous next-door neighbors partied late in to the night, and with the persistent December darkness, I wasn't in much of a hurry anyway. The day, when it finally dawned, promised to be snowy but much warmer than Friday's -14c - just right for a nice long walk. I'd planned to visit the industrial museum which listed a 2-hour window it was open, only on Saturdays.
First essential stop was of course coffee, at the bookstore café, where I added a muffin to my cappuccino, browsing through the knitting book collection as I finished off my rather lazily late breakfast. I then buttoned into my magically impervious vintage American military coat and headed south, deeper into the fjord and towards the industry museum. Along the way I passed my old office and the grand old theater building, then descended into my new favorite part of the town, the old seaside village where the houses are tiny, low-ceilinged, and cheerfully painted.
The lightly falling snow meant the day never fully broke through the clouds, but in the dim blueness, the holiday decorations were all the more festive. Every house had something on offer- ropes of lights hung in heart shapes in windows, white fairy-light wreaths, a snowman newel-post, or a glimpse of a decorated tree inside the house. At the edge of the old town, I took a snow-rutted footpath beyond the skating arena to my ultimate destination, the Icelandic industry museum. My colleagues had been telling me all week about how Akureyri had been a bustling production town, with a soap factory, locally produced shoes, and all manner of other interesting things, so I was really thrilled to check the place out.
Unfortunately, despite the door prominently displaying the opening hours, I found no sign of life within or without, and after inspecting the many mysterious machines lying silently under an increasing blanket of snow, I retraced my footsteps idly. As I wandered back the way I came, I passed the Akureyri museum, a short hill-climb behind an old church. Despite my skepticism that it would actually be open, I climbed the hill anyway, to find the door open and a cheerful youth inside at the desk. He proffered the guestbook, saying that until Christmas it was free entry, so I shrugged off my coat and plunged into the history of the area through three thoroughly documented rooms of photos. My favorite photo series was that of the Italian fruit vendor who introduced some skeptical farmers to kiwis ("what are these, fuzzy potatoes?") in the 80s.
Opposite the photo rooms, the main galleries displayed artefacts and stories from the earliest settlements through the mid 20th century. I learned about soap manufacturing, the area's days as a trading post, and the style of houses enjoyed by the wealthy and endured by the poor. By then it was nearing 4 and I felt conspicuous as the only visitor, so I thanked the desk fellow and headed back to my guesthouse.
A few hours later, dressed in holiday best, I met my colleagues at the evening's venue, an old storage building for one of the early stores in the area that I had just learned about in the museum. The place has been refurbished elegantly and can be hired out for receptions or meetings, and in the wintry gloom, candle-lit and set for dinner, it was a great place to celebrate what has been an amazing year with the company. It's been a year of exploration and new experiences, both at work and in this small fjordside town. Akureyri was a delight the first time I visited in 2005, and it has only become more firmly rooted in my heart since then, even in the depth of winter.
I woke late on Saturday after the boisterous next-door neighbors partied late in to the night, and with the persistent December darkness, I wasn't in much of a hurry anyway. The day, when it finally dawned, promised to be snowy but much warmer than Friday's -14c - just right for a nice long walk. I'd planned to visit the industrial museum which listed a 2-hour window it was open, only on Saturdays.
First essential stop was of course coffee, at the bookstore café, where I added a muffin to my cappuccino, browsing through the knitting book collection as I finished off my rather lazily late breakfast. I then buttoned into my magically impervious vintage American military coat and headed south, deeper into the fjord and towards the industry museum. Along the way I passed my old office and the grand old theater building, then descended into my new favorite part of the town, the old seaside village where the houses are tiny, low-ceilinged, and cheerfully painted.
The lightly falling snow meant the day never fully broke through the clouds, but in the dim blueness, the holiday decorations were all the more festive. Every house had something on offer- ropes of lights hung in heart shapes in windows, white fairy-light wreaths, a snowman newel-post, or a glimpse of a decorated tree inside the house. At the edge of the old town, I took a snow-rutted footpath beyond the skating arena to my ultimate destination, the Icelandic industry museum. My colleagues had been telling me all week about how Akureyri had been a bustling production town, with a soap factory, locally produced shoes, and all manner of other interesting things, so I was really thrilled to check the place out.
Unfortunately, despite the door prominently displaying the opening hours, I found no sign of life within or without, and after inspecting the many mysterious machines lying silently under an increasing blanket of snow, I retraced my footsteps idly. As I wandered back the way I came, I passed the Akureyri museum, a short hill-climb behind an old church. Despite my skepticism that it would actually be open, I climbed the hill anyway, to find the door open and a cheerful youth inside at the desk. He proffered the guestbook, saying that until Christmas it was free entry, so I shrugged off my coat and plunged into the history of the area through three thoroughly documented rooms of photos. My favorite photo series was that of the Italian fruit vendor who introduced some skeptical farmers to kiwis ("what are these, fuzzy potatoes?") in the 80s.
Opposite the photo rooms, the main galleries displayed artefacts and stories from the earliest settlements through the mid 20th century. I learned about soap manufacturing, the area's days as a trading post, and the style of houses enjoyed by the wealthy and endured by the poor. By then it was nearing 4 and I felt conspicuous as the only visitor, so I thanked the desk fellow and headed back to my guesthouse.
A few hours later, dressed in holiday best, I met my colleagues at the evening's venue, an old storage building for one of the early stores in the area that I had just learned about in the museum. The place has been refurbished elegantly and can be hired out for receptions or meetings, and in the wintry gloom, candle-lit and set for dinner, it was a great place to celebrate what has been an amazing year with the company. It's been a year of exploration and new experiences, both at work and in this small fjordside town. Akureyri was a delight the first time I visited in 2005, and it has only become more firmly rooted in my heart since then, even in the depth of winter.
29 febrúar 2012
outdoor essentials
One of the things that really surprised me about housing in Iceland when I first arrived was that balconies are considered a nearly essential feature of home life. In Boston, I never lived in an apartment with a balcony, and none of my friends had balconies either. What's the point when winter is so long and tedious, when you only get a few months of use out of it? And yet, when I first arrived, the balcony-free apartment was looked upon with a bit of pity despite being in a very charming old house.
The next apartment had a balcony but turned out to not be as useful as one might hope due to its northfacing seafront location. It was possible to do the occasional barbecue, well anchored with heavy stones, but wasn't really a comfortable place to sit and enjoy the day due to brisk breezes off the sea. Furthermore, it only received direct sunlight late on summer evenings when the rays were no longer particularly warming.
I've been through several other apartments since then, some with outdoor space, some frustratingly without, and I have to say that life in Iceland is definitely much better when viewed from a balcony. Where I live now, it may be a rather tiny space, a bit more than a meter square, but the southern exposure and genteel neighborhood views means it's actually almost useable. On sunny days when the breeze isn't too persistent, I tie open the door and let that marvelous Iceland air pour through the house, and on rainy days I press my nose to the windowpane and imagine the days when it'll be possible to sit out there again.
Plus, if you want to do one of the essential Scandinavian weekend chores when housecleaning, a balcony is a must. On dry days, the neighborhood blooms with duvets tossed over railings, and now I can do it too. For a while there was no railing on my tiny outdoor space, which resulted in a few mishaps where my duvet and drying rack ended up in the garden below, but I've mastered the technique now with a few well-placed clothespins. After a few hours in the sun and wind, the duvets take on the most marvelous lava-air scent that puts me to sleep instantly.
And on those winter nights when the darkness pins itself tight to the window, it's a ritual to step out into the frigid air while I brush my teeth, just to scan the sky in hopes of seeing northern lights. Somehow this is far nicer than looking through a window. Iceland's weather is always more interesting when you interact with it, and my tiny balcony is the perfect way to do that, in any season.
The next apartment had a balcony but turned out to not be as useful as one might hope due to its northfacing seafront location. It was possible to do the occasional barbecue, well anchored with heavy stones, but wasn't really a comfortable place to sit and enjoy the day due to brisk breezes off the sea. Furthermore, it only received direct sunlight late on summer evenings when the rays were no longer particularly warming.
I've been through several other apartments since then, some with outdoor space, some frustratingly without, and I have to say that life in Iceland is definitely much better when viewed from a balcony. Where I live now, it may be a rather tiny space, a bit more than a meter square, but the southern exposure and genteel neighborhood views means it's actually almost useable. On sunny days when the breeze isn't too persistent, I tie open the door and let that marvelous Iceland air pour through the house, and on rainy days I press my nose to the windowpane and imagine the days when it'll be possible to sit out there again.
Plus, if you want to do one of the essential Scandinavian weekend chores when housecleaning, a balcony is a must. On dry days, the neighborhood blooms with duvets tossed over railings, and now I can do it too. For a while there was no railing on my tiny outdoor space, which resulted in a few mishaps where my duvet and drying rack ended up in the garden below, but I've mastered the technique now with a few well-placed clothespins. After a few hours in the sun and wind, the duvets take on the most marvelous lava-air scent that puts me to sleep instantly.
And on those winter nights when the darkness pins itself tight to the window, it's a ritual to step out into the frigid air while I brush my teeth, just to scan the sky in hopes of seeing northern lights. Somehow this is far nicer than looking through a window. Iceland's weather is always more interesting when you interact with it, and my tiny balcony is the perfect way to do that, in any season.
06 febrúar 2012
for the love of knitting
One thing that people have probably noticed when visiting Iceland is that the lopapeysa really is taken quite seriously here. It was conceived as a very serviceable garment in thick unspun Icelandic yarn, only in natural sheep colors, and usable as a replacement for a coat, with the patterns on the yoke and openings serving a practical function as well as a decorative one. Adding a multi-thread pattern on the edges makes the design less stretchy so the cuffs and hem are more durable, and on the yoke, the double yarn adds warmth to the chest area. In more recent years, the choice of color, pattern, and yarn weight has exploded, and now you can find these sweaters with all kinds of crazy designs- I've seen pink background with skulls, animals, flowers, and the traditional designs reinterpreted in all kinds of thrilling color combinations. With lighter weights of yarn, they're more versatile too. If you want, you can now even design your own on the web, and the measurements will all be taken care of for you.
I started in on my first pseudo-lopapeysa a few years ago, going with the free vórmorgun (spring morning) pattern off the web, designed by one of the biggest names in Icelandic sweater-design, Védis Jónsdóttir. I thought that having no sleeves and a relatively simple color pattern would make this a good starter project, plus, it really is just the thing for Icelandic spring, when you want to wear light colors but the weather really just doesn't cooperate. It didn't take long to make and although I messed up the decreases and found the white wool I chose rather unforgiving to variations in stitch consistency, I wore it a few times before deciding the style really wasn't flattering to my body type. It's now clothing my friend H, who looks fantastic in it.
Round two of the lopapeysa effort was another classic, but again I was overzealous in the measurements and the result ended up rather long, and with curiously lacy underarm stitching. A second vórmorgun vest I made as a Christmas gift finally came out exactly how I wanted, so I moved onto a more ambitious multi-color pattern, the blockbuster Riddari design. I once commented that in Iceland you're more likely to see someone wearing the same lopapeysa pattern than wearing the same skirt, and with this design it's really true. In my choir alone I can think of 5 people that have some variation of this pattern.
This sweater came out perfectly and still looks fresh despite nearly two years of daily winter wear. I'm now on my fifth lopapeysa, this time finally for me, and I'm looking forward to the day I can wear it. I wrote once about the magical warmth of the Icelandic blanket- this is that same coziness in portable form.
I keep coming back to these sweaters because they are so fun to knit, especially in the winter during choir practice. While the sectional rehearsals are going, the altos and sopranos always have several projects going. There's K with her endless and unbelievably rapid sock knitting, A with her beautiful baby sweater, and in the back row of the sopranos before Christmas, smaller projects blossomed left and right. Silent interludes are often punctuated by the ping of a dropped sock needle, and whenever I need help I always know where I can get it. These ladies are endlessly helpful when it comes to sewing up the underarms, figuring out how to unroll a curling hem, or how to interpret some of the pattern abbreviations that are cryptic in any language.
Another reason I like making these is because the value gained by making them yourself is so great. You can see from the link above that in finished form, these sweaters aren't cheap. However, one visit to the Icelandic knitting association downtown and you can walk away with the material to make your own for about 3000isk. Although they might look terribly complicated, the design is really very simple, just three tubes that are merged to form one tube. All you need is familiarity with multi-color knitting, basic increase and decrease skills, and some practice with double-pointed needles. Much easier than lace knitting, and one of the most rewarding kind of sweaters you can make since there's barely any sewing-up that has to be done at the end.
A book came out before the holidays, a sort of Icelandic pattern book greatest hits in hardcover form, and I've been drooling over it at every visit to my local Hagkaup. Like most Icelandic books, it's a bit more than I can justify spending on a whim, but with the beautiful new photographs and the possibility to own all the best patterns in one book has me thinking it won't be long before it's on my bookshelf. I probably don't have long to decide though- these kinds of books are generally only published for one or two runs, so it's likely not going to be available for much longer.
Fortunately, whether or not I have the book, the Icelandic wool sweaters are a warmth that keeps on giving, and identifies Iceland-lovers the world over. Whenever I've just landed somewhere on an Icelandair plane, I can almost always identify a passenger or two who's likely to be Iceland-bound on the return flight. This is definitely one (unofficial) national costume appreciated by both tourists and natives.
I started in on my first pseudo-lopapeysa a few years ago, going with the free vórmorgun (spring morning) pattern off the web, designed by one of the biggest names in Icelandic sweater-design, Védis Jónsdóttir. I thought that having no sleeves and a relatively simple color pattern would make this a good starter project, plus, it really is just the thing for Icelandic spring, when you want to wear light colors but the weather really just doesn't cooperate. It didn't take long to make and although I messed up the decreases and found the white wool I chose rather unforgiving to variations in stitch consistency, I wore it a few times before deciding the style really wasn't flattering to my body type. It's now clothing my friend H, who looks fantastic in it.
Round two of the lopapeysa effort was another classic, but again I was overzealous in the measurements and the result ended up rather long, and with curiously lacy underarm stitching. A second vórmorgun vest I made as a Christmas gift finally came out exactly how I wanted, so I moved onto a more ambitious multi-color pattern, the blockbuster Riddari design. I once commented that in Iceland you're more likely to see someone wearing the same lopapeysa pattern than wearing the same skirt, and with this design it's really true. In my choir alone I can think of 5 people that have some variation of this pattern.
This sweater came out perfectly and still looks fresh despite nearly two years of daily winter wear. I'm now on my fifth lopapeysa, this time finally for me, and I'm looking forward to the day I can wear it. I wrote once about the magical warmth of the Icelandic blanket- this is that same coziness in portable form.
I keep coming back to these sweaters because they are so fun to knit, especially in the winter during choir practice. While the sectional rehearsals are going, the altos and sopranos always have several projects going. There's K with her endless and unbelievably rapid sock knitting, A with her beautiful baby sweater, and in the back row of the sopranos before Christmas, smaller projects blossomed left and right. Silent interludes are often punctuated by the ping of a dropped sock needle, and whenever I need help I always know where I can get it. These ladies are endlessly helpful when it comes to sewing up the underarms, figuring out how to unroll a curling hem, or how to interpret some of the pattern abbreviations that are cryptic in any language.
Another reason I like making these is because the value gained by making them yourself is so great. You can see from the link above that in finished form, these sweaters aren't cheap. However, one visit to the Icelandic knitting association downtown and you can walk away with the material to make your own for about 3000isk. Although they might look terribly complicated, the design is really very simple, just three tubes that are merged to form one tube. All you need is familiarity with multi-color knitting, basic increase and decrease skills, and some practice with double-pointed needles. Much easier than lace knitting, and one of the most rewarding kind of sweaters you can make since there's barely any sewing-up that has to be done at the end.
A book came out before the holidays, a sort of Icelandic pattern book greatest hits in hardcover form, and I've been drooling over it at every visit to my local Hagkaup. Like most Icelandic books, it's a bit more than I can justify spending on a whim, but with the beautiful new photographs and the possibility to own all the best patterns in one book has me thinking it won't be long before it's on my bookshelf. I probably don't have long to decide though- these kinds of books are generally only published for one or two runs, so it's likely not going to be available for much longer.
Fortunately, whether or not I have the book, the Icelandic wool sweaters are a warmth that keeps on giving, and identifies Iceland-lovers the world over. Whenever I've just landed somewhere on an Icelandair plane, I can almost always identify a passenger or two who's likely to be Iceland-bound on the return flight. This is definitely one (unofficial) national costume appreciated by both tourists and natives.
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