20 October 2015

from Saguenay to Øresund

20 October 2015

The North Atlantic Arc Home

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Tuesday 20 October 2015--It's a typically dismal looking Icelandic morning when I get up, and I'm not in any hurry to get out. My room is actually a complete one-bedroom apartment in what was formerly a garage, and I can't help thinking that it would make a nice little love nest, if only I had a partner to share it with. I don't, haven't for a good many years now, and don't have any particular intention of acquiring one. Mr Tattie Heid flies solo. A traveling companion is a fine thing now and then, though. That redhead would have done well enough.

I briefly consider turning on the television, just to see what Icelanders are watching. I haven't turned one on yet on the entire trip, though, and it seems a point of pride. Don't want to ruin my record now. Instead, I put on my outerwear and head out to Kaffihús Vesturbæjar, a ten-minute walk down Hofsvallagata. I read about this recently-opened neighborhood café a while back; it occupies space formerly used by the pharmacy next door. As I enjoy a croissant and an Americano, I take in the atmosphere, which is bright and organic, making use of the wooden shelves left by the old-style shop. These remind me of the Café Bohème in Tadoussac, and the Café de la Grave in the Magdalen Islands, both former groceries or general stores. It's an ambiance I find very appealing. I note that there are lunch and dinner menus, and taps for Einstok beer, which gives me motivation for a return in the evening.

The one thing I've had in mind to do here is to walk out to the end of the peninsula west of Reykjavik. Ron and I set out that way last year, but turned back in the face of a stiff cold wind. I haven't gone far before I think that I'm not going to make it this year, either. A spot of rain is even more discouraging, but I put on my rain pants, and realize that they provide protection from the wind as well as the rain. Cross into the community of Seltjarnarnes, which occupies the waist of the peninsula, and which seems to have resisted amalgamation with Reykjavik municipality. It's an attractive suburb, comprised of a variety of modern housing, detached houses and duplexes and handsome apartment complexes of various sizes. The tip of the peninsula is a fishtail of open land, exposed to the elements, and I am buffeted by the raw wind and occasional sideways rain as I circle the nine-hole golf course that covers Suðurnes, the southern point. Unsurprisingly, there is no one out playing today.

I walk along the beach to the peninsula's northwest tip. Here, a lighthouse stands on a tidal island called Grótta. There is the old keeper's cottage, along with a couple of buildings that appear to be used for educational purposes. The island is a bird sanctuary, off-limits to the public during nesting season. There isn't much sign of avian activity this time of year.

Head back toward town along the north side of the peninsula. A bicyclist flies past me, aided by the west wind; a few minutes later, another cyclist passes in the opposite direction at slightly better than walking speed. I stop in at Eiðistorg, the mini-mall Ron and I poked into last year. The state monopoly liquor store is closed, thanks to a public employees' strike. I've been told that the strike is affecting customs checks at the airport, which worries me for tomorrow's departure. Pop into Rauða Ljónið, the pub on the lower level. The door is open, but the place is completely empty. I take a few photos and sit on one of the banquettes. After a bit, the bartender emerges from the back room, and is startled to find a customer in his bar. I think he is somewhat alarmed by my sitting quietly after entering unnoticed, but I greet him cheerfully and order a beer, and shortly we are having a nice wee blether.

Stop back at the room to change my socks and dry out a few other things, then head down to Kaffihús Vesturbæjar. Dinner is tasty, if not really filling. I've pegged this café as a locals' place, hopefully untainted by too many tourists (like me), but I'm hearing a lot of English spoken this evening. The conversation I'm eavesdropping on, though, is between two Irish persons, a man and a woman, both living here, and evidently meeting one another for the first time, by chance.

Go for a walk after dinner, trying to wander through previously unexplored streets, and end up in a kebab shop on Lækjargata, where I top up my belly. While waiting, I peruse one of those weekly arts newspapers, and am reminded that there is a Mikkeller in Reykjavik. Mikkeller was our local in the Vesterbro neighborhood in Copenhagen; there are Mikkellers in Barcelona, Tokyo, Seoul, Bangkok, and San Francisco, as well. I go in search of it after my kebab, and it occurs to me that this is the first time I've ventured east of Tjörnin, Reykjavik's central pond...an odd circumstance here. Also odd is that Mikkeller is not open. I retreat to the west side and finish the evening in Micro Bar.

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