The Beginning

It's about 9:30am in Reykjavik, and I'm sitting at the desk of my (upgraded to studio!) hotel room, trying to figure out how to get into the wifi. This is probably being posted much later than I'm writing it.

I didn't sleep much on the plane, or for the two nights before I left, so I'm completely exhausted, but I need to adjust to the new time zone. I'm trying to pretend that I just woke up, rather than just arrived. I took a shower, ate a breakfast bar, and now I'm drinking some coffee. After this, I'll dig into my guidebook and figure out what I'm doing for the rest of the morning. My brain is starting to play along, but my eyes are refusing to buy it. They don't want to be open anymore.

I'm also listening to Catatonia, but wishing I had some Sigur Ros on my iTunes. The in-flight system had a large selection of Icelandic music, which I've always loved, because it just doesn't sound like anything else. As we descended, I looked out the window at the big pile of rocks and glaciers we were heading toward, with Meo Blodnasir in my ear buds, and it just made sense. All music from this country has a strange and ethereal quality that fits the unique place the artists come from, but if Iceland has theme music, it's Sigur Ros.

My first photo of the trip was taken out the window of the bus between Keflavik and Reykjavik. I kept seeing these amazing scenes out the window, so I finally grabbed my camera, and ended up with a photo that could easily be the Washington coastline. It's really so different, and yet so much the same.

The main international airport for all of Iceland is only a few scattered buildings and runways in the middle of rocky terrain. The town of Keflavik is visible in the distance, with a backdrop of the sea. Turn around, and it's all mountains and plumes of geothermal steam. The smell of sulphur is in the air from the moment you step off the plane, but soon becomes so commonplace that your senses fail to register it -- until you turn on a hot water tap and the distinct odor again rises in the steam.

As you get close to Reykjavik, the rock and moss disappears, and it seems that you could be in any North American suburb. There are large houses with foreign cars parked in the driveway, and American fast food joints peppered throughout. Reykjavik itself is more like any European town, with narrow streets and quaint buildings crammed close together. It's clear the tourist industry has become huge here, seeing all the businesses catering to us. I'm sure I'll find out more about that as I venture out today.

I may be dead tired, my neck may hurt from 7 hours on a plane, but I'm so glad I'm here.