Iceland: The Sweet Sunny North
That title, “The Sweet Sunny North,” refers to a pair of Norwegian folk compilations by David Lindley and Henry Kaiser, though I thought of the phrase often while traveling through Iceland. I arrived in this subarctic country appropriately layered, anticipating the wind, rain, and mercurial weather shifts I’d spent months reading about. After the fifth straight day of sun, it was clear I’d landed during a fluke season. This was confirmed on my last day in Reykjavík by a pair of young Icelanders in a gift shop who proclaimed it their sunniest spring in years.
I came for the puffins, but fell in love with the common snipe. I yearned for the mountains, but was entranced by mossy lava fields. I soaked in the earth’s minerals, ate fresh cod and langoustine from the North Atlantic, climbed ancient walls of ice, and took joy in every spring lamb leaping across green pastures. Iceland is a place for people, but more so for the sheep, goats, and horses who seem to outnumber them. Its well-engineered roads, facilities, and infrastructure felt sensible and unobtrusive. It seems to take only what it needs, which was very refreshing to me. I may be American, but the Nordic blood in my body repsonded like a magnet to this strange volcanic island.
