Ice #4 : Grettisgata

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GRETTISGATA

It was a glorious four days at Snussa. We left the cabin
as clean and tidy as we found it, and under brightening
skies waved good-bye to the wide valley and the sweet
escape it offered.

Our last night at Snussa, a full day and good meal
behind us, we hooked up the television wires to watch
the national finals of the high school talent contest.
It is a competition they hold each year with one kid
from each school across Iceland, and they get up
and sing with backing from the show´s house band.
It's broadcast live, nationwide, and is a big deal.

Disa wanted to see the girl from her school in 101,
One of the boys stood out, and four of the girls
had good voices, but Bjork needn´t lose any sleep
over these young ones. Disa pointed out that all
schools had to send someone, that in a few cases
kids with little talent were sent as a kind of joke.
That explains the Goth-looking girl in the neon green
leotards and Elvira makeup who sang a composition
consisting of variations on two four-letter words
we all know and love, one beginning with S and one
with F. It was a kind of scat-cuss Yoko thing, her
tongue firmly in her cheek.

The drive back to Reykjavik. Disa chose a route
to the south coast of Iceland. I said my good-byes
to the Icelandic ponies en route. Near the turn for
Skalholt, we pulled off into a farm to visit an elderly
woman Disa knows, recently widowed. The two of them
shared hugs, held a lively discussion. I could see how
much Disa´s visit meant to this woman. I had the sense
that she could pull into any driveway in Iceland, walk
in the door and be welcomed.

Off we drove. The sun came out. We stopped in at
Selfoss to fill the tank with gas. From there, on to
Eyrarbakki, an old town on the coast looking out to
the Vestman Islands and the open Atlantic. Eyrarbakki
is the national prison. It must hold a maximum of 40
convicts. The houses here are old, brightly-painted.
Children ride bicycles and skateboards through narrow
winding streets with what appears to be a kind of
idyllic and carefree joy. We park and walk along the
sea´s edge, reading a sign that says from this point
you have unobstructed sailing directly south to the
South Pole. Build me a boat that can carry two...

A breathtaking drive over a mountain pass between
Eyrarbakki and Reykjavik. This is where Disa´s claim
that Iceland and Greenland were mistakenly named
appears to hold water. The hillsides are covered with
a mossy green. Some travelers have even scaled a
few of them to carve their names, thirty feet high.
At the summit there´s a little coffee house. Inside,
the walls are covered with photos of Iceland´s soccer
teams, including one photo of a scoreboard at the end
of a match between France and Iceland, the score
reading 1-1. This result was a source of great pride
for Icelanders, as France were reigning World Cup
champions at the time of the exhibition match.

I ask Disa if she´s ever seen baseball played here.
She looks at me like I´ve taken LSD. "Baseboy..."
and she doesn´t even finish her answer. They do
have two ice arenas, though, and hockey is on the
rise here. A team went to Canada last year for
exhibitions, she informs me. I don´t need to ask the
scores. Maybe Elvira girl in the electric neon leotards
has inadvertently written the Icelandic hockey team´s
theme song...

We come down out of the mountains into Reykjavik.
I am driving as the road widens to three lanes each
way. The sun blesses the city with afternoon gold.
The spire of Hallgrimskirkje, the great church and
city landmark, rises above the town. It is a few blocks
from Grettisgata, Disa´s home street. "Gata" is street.
"Grettir" is a character from The Sagas, the most
famous book in Iceland, a collection of mythological
stories upon which the country´s folklore is founded.

Disa is talking about trolls, giants of low intelligence
who live in the mountains and come out only at night.
She tells me also of the twelve Santa Clauses who
tease children in the days leading up to Christmas.
They don´t wear red, but instead are dressed in
ancient Icelandic apparel. One of them, Skyr, has
his name on the delicious yogurt-like drink they love
here. Gryla, the mother of all the Santas, is nothing
like dear old Mrs. Claus of North American mythology.
Gryla is the feared enemy of children. Misbehave?
She catches you and eats you for supper.

Reykjavik. Rake-yaw-vik. I like this city, its secret
avenues, the many cafes, cars parked at all angles,
kids running in and out of doorways, bright-eyed and
clear-skinned women, men all with a certain elan and
seriousness hiding subtle mischiefs. They love writers
here, appreicate literature.

We pack belongings and leftover goodies up three
flights to Disa´s flat and, after unpacking, decide to
go walking in the chilly winds of this sunny April day.
We go to the Thai restaurant near the waterfront,
near the police station (I roll up my collar and put on
my sunglasses, being, as I am, in the country illegally).
I am enchanted by the Thai girl who records our order,
listening to her speak fluent Icelandic with Disa. We
order two different curries, one hot for me, one milder
for Ms. Gudmundsdottir. Going back to Grettisgata,
we find a video store and choose a movie for later.
We pass her brother Sverrir´s place, but the house
is dark. "They have gone out to dinner, I think,"
Disa says. We stop in a corner shop for a newspaper.
I buy a pack of Camels. Disa gets a couple Icelandic
candy bars treats for later. "Don´t tell me the way
to Grettisgata," I say, wanting to see if I can find
my own way home without help. She is laughing as
we start walking again. I look up, and the very next
street, twenty paces away, is Grettisgata. "See," I
tell her, "I am a well-traveled man of the world...
I can find my way home from anywhere!"

This red-cheeked Icelandic woman, so filled with
girlhood spirit and energy, links her hand with mine.
The wind funnels along the street, ice-edged now
as damp-fisted night brawls in off the Atlantic.
We have food, wine, a movie to watch. We run
down Grettisgata to #151, and turn the key.

Love from Iceland,

DL