3 October 2016

Return To Føroyar

3 October 2016

Octoberrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

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Monday 3 October 2016--I'm up for breakfast, but go back to bed after--not too surprising, after last night's overindulgence. My flight to the Faroes isn't until 2:00, so I can afford it. In fact, I still have time after checking out for a bit of shopping, and coffee at Café Loki.

Pick up my bag at the guesthouse and head for Reykjavík Domestic Airport. I might have called a cab, but I'm told it's only about a twenty-minute walk--the end of the runway is across the street from the Flybus terminal. A half-hour slog later, I walk into the lobby of the Icelandair Hotel, confused. I'm in the wrong place--small planes depart from here, but the main terminal is on the other side of the airport. If I sneak out the back door of the hotel and trot across the runway, I can probably be there in five minutes or so. I imagine that would be frowned on. I ask the hotel clerk to call a cab, and soon I am where I'm supposed to be. The actual terminal is tiny and cramped. The Airbus A319 we are flying on is considerably larger than the British Aerospace 146 I flew on from Aberdeen fifteen years ago, and it appears it will be quite full. The facilities here are overdue, I think, for a makeover. There is ongoing debate about the future of the airport as Reykjavik grows. Its proximity to the city makes it convenient for domestic service, but there are concerns about noise and safety.

The flight takes a bit less than an hour and a half. There is cloud cover all the way, nothing to see from the air, until we drop below the ceiling, and I get my first look at Føroyar in fifteen years. As the plane descends up the length of Sørvágsfjørður, I recognize Gásadalur, Bøur, and Sørvágur, places I saw in 2001. The British built a military airstrip here during World War II, which is why it's not close to Tórshavn--in fact. it was sited so as not to be visible from sea. It lay dormant from 1948 to 1963, when the Faroese decided that air links to the outside world would be a good idea. I don't really remember the airport from my first visit, but it was upgraded just a couple of years ago, the runway lengthened and the terminal expanded. Reykjavik would do well to follow suit.

The wait for our luggage is mystifyingly long, given that we are the one and only arriving flight. I think we are supposed to spend more time in the duty-free shop. The bags finally come, and I go to pick up my rental car. I'm in line behind a young woman from Toronto, who is dismayed to have been issued a car with a standard transmission. Automatics are as rare, or perhaps more so, in Europe as standards are getting to be in North America, and the rental car agencies charge a heavy premium for reserving one. I guess it's just a random thing, then, that I've been given an automatic, which I'm not really happy about, either. Out in the parking lot, Miss Toronto asks me to back her car out of her slightly uphill parking space--she's stalled it twice already. I don't find it so easy, either, as the clutch is set really high, and I almost roll into the car in front. I give some thought to offering to swap with her, but mine is a hybrid Toyota Yaris, a nice thing in a place where gasoline is very expensive. Besides, it would probably take half an hour to redo all the paperwork. On top of all that, hers has the name of the rental company printed in huge letters on both sides--it's a rolling billboard. I feel a bit bad for her, but not bad enough to change places. I offer some words of encouragement, and off she goes down the road. Føroyar is not a really big place, and I imagine I will cross paths with her again somewhere. Her car will be easy enough to spot, anyway. [In fact, I do not.]

I drive through Miðvágur and Sandavágur, headed for Tórshavn. It's an easy 45-minute drive now, thanks to the tunnel under Vestmannasund, under construction in 2001. It's a cold gray drizzly late afternoon, the sort of weather one expects to find here. I'm prepared for it, just hoping it won't get a lot worse. A big North Atlantic storm could make this a very long week of hunkering down.

I find Hotel Streym just outside the center of Tórshavn, looking out toward the island of Nólsoy, which shelters the town's harbor. It's another no-frills place, clean and comfortable, with a bit of a sense of humor about itself ("Room 113 likes music, crime novels and long walks on the beach"; "Room 204 is still single but dreams about becoming a double"). The white-haired gent who checks me in seems to share that humor, or maybe he is the source of it. I drop my bag and walk into town, looking for dinner, trying to remember what's what. Pass by Café Natúr, where I did most of my hanging out last time. Probably will again, but there's no serious food there. After wandering around a bit, I end up in Írska Pubbin, the Irish Pub. When I was researching places to eat and drink, I figured a standard faux-Irish pub was the one place I really didn't need to go to, but on my first night here, it's easy and convenient. The place is empty early on a Monday evening. I order a burger and have a chat with the barmaid, who, it turns out, is from Taiwan. She's a heart transplant--met a Faroese man somewhere, and followed him home. Føroyar, it seems to me, would be difficult for any immigrant, let alone one from the other side of the world; but she seems happy enough.

I return to Café Natúr to have a couple of pints and catch up on my journal. There was one brewery here in 2001, making fairly basic Scandinavian-style beers. Now there are two. The new one also makes fairly basic Scandinavian- style beers, or at least that's what there is on tap--apparently there are some more adventurous products in bottles. One of the dark malty drafts is nice enough. I retire early. Exploration begins in earnest in the morning.

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