Food in Iceland: Weird? Yes! Disgusting? Neigh!

In front of Joel was a small cup of cubed flesh, a small cup of dried fish strips, and a shot of clear liquor. Behind him, from a wall-length mural, Loki looked out at us, the stupid tourists who ordered "The Icelandic Braveheart" at his namesake cafe.

Joel took a sip of the clear liquor: brennivín, a potato-mash and caraway schnapps. A strong burn followed each sip, but not an unpleasant one. This was not the type of drink to lose track of.

"Ready?" I said, phone camera rolling, as Joel picked up one of the cubes of flesh with a toothpick.

He smiled, popped it in his mouth, and chewed. I braced for gagging, hacking, choking, and maybe even vomit. But instead he made a weird face, chewed some more, took another sip of brennivín, chewed some more, and swallowed. I stopped filming.

"What did it taste like?"

"Rotten ammonia." He took a longer sip of schnapps this time. A true Icelandic Braveheart.

Since there wasn't a recurrence of Joel's lunch spewed all over the table, I picked up my own cube, popped it in my mouth, and forced the rubbery piece of hakarl - rotten shark - down my throat. I downed the rest of the brennivín and thought about how I would tell everyone I had eaten one of the world's most disgusting foods, and the rest of the food in my stomach survived. But I wasn't an Icelandic Braveheart: I'd held my breath.

Though most famous for its less appealing foods - ram's testicles, fermented shark, whale (which is less appealing for reasons other than its taste) - Reykjavík pleasantly surprised me in terms of their other offerings. Our first time at Café Loki, before the shark visit, we'd had lamb soup and mashed fish, which is just mashed potatoes, vegetables, white fish and cheese, in kind of a shepherd's-pie-of-the-sea crock. This was also the first time I had Icelandic rye bread, which is much different from what we serve a reuben on. It's more of a sweet, soft loaf, almost like banana bread, and is the perfect pillow for Iceland's delicious butter to lay its creamy head. We also treated ourselves to rye ice cream, which was a rich vanilla with the bread laced throughout.

The "unofficial" favorite food of Iceland is actually one also quite familiar to us: the hot dog, or pylsur, which, according to Trip Advisor, is commonly served with "ketchup, sweet mustard, fried onion, raw onion, and remoladi, a mayonnaise-based sauce with sweet relish." The most famous place to get one in Reykjavík is the aptly named Baejarins beztu pylsur, which literally translates to "the best hot dog in town." We stopped by on a drizzly day (which could have been any of them, to be honest) and ate in the rain, sharing a bit of bun with a little speckled bird who wouldn't leave the picnic area. Joel's first pylsur didn't impress him a great deal, although what could you expect when you don't like onions and most of the deliciousness is onion-based? However, we stopped by another stand after a dip in the thermal pools at the Laugardalslaug, and Joel's faith was restored. Hallelujah!

Another treat after slogging around in the drizzle and wind was a bread bowl, which also seems to be extremely popular in Iceland. I suppose they don't have Panera, but they do know how to make better soup. While touring the Golden Circle with Gateway to Iceland touring company, our stopover at Gullfoss waterfall included a bowl of lamb soup, which was - our guide Gunnar didn't lie - the best bowl of soup I'd ever had. I suppose for a country that has pretty much only raised one animal ever since it was colonized (around 850), they've had time to perfect cooking it.

Also brought to the island by settlers were horses - sturdy, small horses that are shaggy and hearty year round. They were not only essential for farming, but essential for eating, as the island's climate did not support cattle or much agriculture. After the forced adoption of Christianity in 1000, eating horse meat was forbidden, but the ban had to be lifted soon after due to starvation. Though we skipped trying whale for ethical reasons - and by extension puffin, since the only restaurants that served it also served whale - we did try horse. I'm only a little sheepish to admit that I would hoof it back to Vegamont for another helping.*

We also ate salmon smorgasbord at Jomfruin, drank Czech Budvar (the only acceptible thing Budweiser makes), gorged ourselves on salted licorice, marveled at how delicious and filling a roll with butter, ham, and cheese can be (especially when drunk), discovered how disgusting salted licorice gum is, tried crowberry jam on everything, and made glasses out of pistachio buns.

Overall, we were sad to leave the culinary treasures Iceland had to offer, especially the bread. Like most of Europe, the bread in Iceland was baked daily, crusty, soft, and perfect. I couldn't pass up one more baguette on the plane on the way home, even if it did cost me 900 ISK (about $7). After all, as the menu said, "Long bread is more fun than shortbread. you can use it in many fun ways if you want. You could try balancing it on your nose or head, or even use it to poke your neighbor (only if you know them!) Or you can just eat it."

*You equine lovers might be delighted to know that the next day, when we stopped on the side of the road to say hi to some of the shaggy beasts, one of them obviously could tell that Joel was a traitor to its kind and bit him.

Where We Stayed: Cottage of the Dead Goose

The day before we arrived in Iceland, we received a message from our AirBnB host, Káritas, wondering if our flight that evening had been canceled. Canceled? We hadn't heard of anything, but our antenna were up for the rest of the day. As I packed and Joel worked, we obsessively refreshed the flight tracker, hoping the status would stay "Scheduled." A canceled flight would mean losing a whole day, as Icelandic Air only travels overnight from Boston.

Luckily, we were spared a cancelation, and arrived at the Keflavik Airport at 7:30am the next morning after a relatively easy flight, despite neither of us sleeping very much. After a lengthy FlyBus ride into Reykjavik through lava fields dotted with occasional, small huts near the angry ocean, we arrived on Óðinsgata - Odin's Gate - in the Neighborhood of the Gods. Our hostess Káritas's mother, Anna Maria, greeted us and took our luggage, apologizing for the dead goose in the back yard.

"We just found it an hour ago," she said, "in the middle of the road. I think it had a heart attack."Joel and I looked down at the wing protruding from the mound of snow. It was already almost totally buried.

"Worst winter we've had," she continued, leading us into the small cottage at the back of the house, where we would store our luggage until our apartment was ready. Lucky us.

When we came back a few hours later, we walked into a cozy, three-room ground-floor apartment, with the tiniest shower I'd ever seen, though I fit just fine. One thing I didn't notice when reading about Iceland is that their hot water is heated by geothermal activity, which means our showers were A. Heated by VOLCANOS, B. Always hot, and C. Smelled like rotten eggs. The third fact made us so nervous we went out and bought a bunch of bottled water, before we read in a cartoon book down the street at our local landmark bookstore (or "bookmark," obvs) that it's only the hot water that contains sulfur. (A quick check that night confirmed that the cold water is delicious and, to Joel's delight, egg-free.)

Our apartment was much like many of the others in the neighborhood. All the windows seem to have wide sills, and many residents decorate them with knick-knacks, lamps, and in some cases, pets. These decorations were fun to look at while walking around and in some cases, provided us with familiar landmarks.

We also had windows that flipped open from the bottom, to let fresh air in but not precipitation. We saw a lot of these windows cracked as we walked around and wondered why this was necessary, until the overactive radiators (also powered by geothermal activity!) had us cracking some of ours. However, we did not crack the one in the back, which is close to the ground - Anna Maria warned us that if we did, we'd have visiting cats for sure.

Cats are everywhere here, and we've seen some beautiful ones. Most are friendly and come up for a pet. Their presence is well-known and celebrated with t-shirts and postcards proclaiming, "Cats rule this town." Seeing them helped stave off the homesickness for our hairy babies back home.

Overall, we were very happy with where we stayed. The kitchen was stocked not only with tea and coffee, but also with butter (oh god the butter), bread and jam. But the best part of all was the bed: memory foam with a cushy comforter on top. We both had trouble leaving it every morning. It was like sleeping on a cloud, if a cloud felt more like it looked and not like cold water vapor. If I remember literally nothing else from this trip (which is impossible), I will always remember how it felt to sink into that bed.

If the dead goose was a bad omen of something, it must have been so subtle we missed it.

Thibaulstrop's Saga

I will begin this tale with three facts:

1. The Icelandic sagas (often called the first novels) are legends of the first people who lived during the Settlement Era.
2. The Saga Museum of Reykjavik is not in Perlan. 
3. The speed, in miles per hour, of a sneeze is approximately 55.

And so it dawned on the third morning in Reykjavik a promise of a day with less-than-perfect weather – even less perfect than the two days before. So less-than-perfect, in fact, that our travelers’ tour had been canceled. When our wary travelers awoke, they saw a deceptively calm, ice-colored sky, only to find their wireless Internet was no longer operational. The first few drops of frigid rain fell as they made their way to the C is for Cookie Café, where they dined on rye toast with butter, ham, cheese, and hummus while sending vital messages to friends, family, and the keepers of their inn’s wireless Internet. 

As they made their way into the world again, a cold rain had started to fall. A slight wind blew, though nothing, noted the travelers, tour-cancelation worthy. But the sidewalks – no less cleared than they had been the days before – had frozen overnight and were now slicked with a layer of rain, making their walk to the city center slow going.

Their first stop, the Settlement Expedition, pleased our travelers. Afterwards, they wished to learn more about these early settlers and their stories at the Saga Museum, so they caught a bus to Perlan. However, even though the buses were clean, fast, and many of them mustachioed (for men’s cancer awareness), the stop names were less than clear. While the timetable clearly stated a stop for Perlan, the stops announced on board did not, and thusly our travelers got off a full stop ahead of where they were to be.

Now, in normal weather, this would not be such a problem. Our travelers merely had to walk an extra ten minutes or so to reach the top of a hill where the museum sat within a glass dome with a blinking light on top. But the moment they got off the bus they understood why their aforementioned tour had been canceled.

In America, the travelers had heard stories of the rain being God’s tears, or God’s spit, or other bodily fluids of God’s. But on this day, in this Nordic land of ice, the rain that stung their cheeks and wind that shoved them along the path to the Perlan was nothing short of sneezes coming from the great nose of Odin himself. It was as if Odin had the worst cold in all of Valhala, and no one was safe from his torment. 

So the travelers leaned against the wind and icy mucous of the gods, trudging through slushy snow and wet ice to the top of the hill, that ten minutes feeling more like ten days. When, at last, they reached the top, the welcoming warmth and dryness of the Perlan – and the promise of the Saga Museum - was as comforting as a mother’s hug.

Except this was less like the comfort of a mother’s hug and more like the disorienting realization that this strange woman is not your mother, and your mother moved downtown last May, and how strange that it still says this address in all the guidebooks and websites. Pity. Care to see our cafeteria?

Our travelers sat next to one of the windows of the glass dome, listening to the wind whip over the building, watching the rain pelt the glass and the surface of the closed observation deck. It really was beautiful, this not-Saga Museum. There were lovely views of Reykjavik and the surrounding land, and a geyser-like fountain on the ground floor that erupted every ten minutes. Our travelers might have been more excited to be there were they not soaked, cold, and wondering how they were ever going to find the strength to walk back down to the bus stop.

They packed and bundled, ready to face the gods’ wrath, but got barely feet from the front door before turning back. The way was too treacherous – the wind too strong, the rain too sharp. Our travelers, heads hung in defeat, entered the Perlan again, greeted by the confused steward who, just moments before, wrested the door open for them to the harsh outside world. Embarrassed, they admitted their weakness. The bus stop was too far. They would need to call a taxi. 

The steward, our travelers’ hero, hailed a car that appeared in mere moments, which whisked them back to their inn in under twenty minutes and twenty dollars. Our travelers hung up their clothes on the radiators, settled down to relax, and celebrated the return of the internet…only to find out their tour for the next day, too, was canceled.

And so ends this story.

New Joel Journey (Plus Kate!)

Greetings from Iceland! Kate here. Joel has tasked me with keeping the records for our journey to the land of ice and fire. We just arrived this morning, and I'm excited to share our day with you -- as soon as I have a full night's sleep! Red-eyes flights are brutal.

Check back, faithful JJ readers! Until then I leave you with a tidbit from our long day's wanderings. 

YES, WOMEN! WELCOME TO ICELAND!
BATHROOM HERE!

Home Without Pants But With Love

About a week before heading home, the zipper on my only pair of pants broke. This wasn't such a tragedy because it was generally warm enough for shorts, and I had several pairs of these surviving.  However, a problem loomed on the horizon: what to do when I landed in a Boston November?

Skirt by Lufthansa

While I had an amazing journey (and look forward to my next!) I got rather lonely at times, and missed everyone I left behind.  I was so happy to see Kate at the airport to welcome her monkey home.  <3

Trick or Treat: You Can't Go Home Yet

My five hostel roommates in Porto were all French women.  Not all part of the same group, as I eventually pieced together.  We started chatting a bit after I revealed that I could understand *some* of what they were saying.  :)  One in particular, Jennifer, really enjoyed practicing her English with me and asked me all sorts of silly questions about America.  Four of us were in the room without dinner plans, so we decided to go out in our neighborhood.  It was an area with lots of bars and restaurants, but so far a more laid-back vibe than Lisboa's Bairro Alto.  Vaguely reminiscent of Camberville back home.  But would this change, for it was both Friday and Halloween?

Do the Portuguese even celebrate Halloween?  We saw many costumed revelers, but were they locals or visitors like us?  At any rate, the party in the streets seemed to go all night.  This was mainly observed from the bedroom, as I had had a long day and needed to get up in the morning to fly home.  Leaving the hostel at 9, the area was filthy.  In addition to the bottles and other detritus, I saw early morning shamblers still in costume.  The gaits of these zombies seemed much less affected than earlier.  After breakfast and a minor hassle involving my Andante card, I was on the way to the airport (which is sadly not named the Airporto) with exactly zero euros in pocket.  I'm strangely proud of this.  Jennifer and Estelle were with me in order to catch their flight back to France.

Ah.  But.  It was not to be.

I'd been hearing rumors about a strike for a few days.  Nothing specific, and I'd also been hearing reassurances that it would be over by my flight, or wouldn't affect me for other reasons.  Doing my own research to back this up wasn't fruitful, and I received no communications from my airlines about this either.  What I did receive was the standard nag email about early check-in, however, so I assumed it must be fine.  Even in the departures hall, there was no indication that anything was amiss.  I had to check in at the counter before I heard the news that my flight was cancelled due to a strike.  Sigh.

The next available flight was early the next morning, so they set me up in a hotel room with meal vouchers.  It was easily the nicest room of my trip, because it wasn't like anything I would have chosen: a business hotel by the airport, far from downtown.  The location was initially disappointing, as I was hoping to use my extra day to see a few things I'd missed.  But then I realized I was close to the coast, which totally counted.

My first stop: Castelo Queijo.  Cheese Castle.  How could I pass that up?  It's an old fort on the coast that's fun to poke around in for a bit but it's thoroughly overshadowed by the might of the sea.  Waves are fierce here on the semi-rocky shore.  A fair number of surfers at the beachy parts.  Very interesting rocks here, and a helpful geology boardwalk to educate!  A little further down, I walked out onto a breakwater where I learned another lesson: a refresher on the purpose of a breakwater.  Thankfully my clothes dried quickly in the sun.

It turns out there's a very convenient bus downtown, so I headed back that way soon after getting friendly with the wave.  I finally took the Gaia gondola down to the river side and then I walked back up the hill to another port house: Croft this time.  The experience is remarkably similar to Taylor (which I would later discover is actually the same company) and I finished the evening at a cozy fado/port bar for additional tastings.

Off-Season Misadventures do Douro

Don't visit the Douro valley in the post-harvest off-season, at least without both a car and an international roaming plan.  They're clearly not expecting visitors.  I had some lovely walks, but I had the hardest time finding information, and I couldn't book a cruise at all.  I decided to go by train instead, as there is year-round frequent service.  It was to be primarily a scenic journey, without too much thought as to what I'd do in the destination town(s).  Maybe tour a vineyard or do a tasting?

A common destination for the cruise/train combo trip I'd hoped for is Peso da Régua, but I'd heard Pinhão upriver was nicer.  My ticket was flexible enough for me to visit both.  It amused me to notice that we went by a factory that processed wood, rock, and brick.  I realized that I'd lose my undeclared game of Settlers of Catan against them and was about to give up until I spotted fields of sheep and wheat for me to claim.  Otherwise I was disappointed with the journey: not nearly as scenic as I'd hoped.  It could have been the hazy morning light, perhaps due to the smoke from the many fires we passed (??) or the simple fact that the grapes were no longer on the vines.

Arriving at Pinhão, I was one of the many disembarking with a clueless look.  After a brief fruitless search for tourist information up and down the deserted main street, a fellow train passenger spotted me and asked if I knew where to go.  Nope!  No plan at all.  (My research the previous night turned up nothing.  I now understood why.)  She at least had a printout of destinations and notes, and graciously allowed me to tag along.  I wasn't entirely sure whether we were aiming for a vineyard, winery, viewpoint, or some combination of these.  We asked for directions and got the answer "that way, 4 kilometers, uphill."  Hm.  Farther than we'd hoped but we had no better plan.

As we climbed, the valley opened up beneath us.  This really was a beautiful place.  Terraced vineyards in every direction, the Douro below.  Soon, far below.  Faraway signs touting Quintas (vineyards/wineries) or the port houses they supplied.  My favorites advertized the ubiquitous Sandeman, usually accompanied by their logo, a vaguely menacing cloaked figure holding a glass.  I wonder what the workers think with that image constantly looming over them.

About halfway to Quinta Godot our mysterious destination, my companion announces that the views we've already seen are quite excellent enough, and she's heading back to town.  I consider it, but I've still got a minimum of two hours before my first train option arrives, so why not keep going?  Before long, it gets considerably steeper in the hot sun, and I realize the wisdom of her choice.  Fine.  Back to town.

I'm in luck!  Lunch is good, filling, and cheap, even in this ghost town.  Some time remains, so I wander down to the river to find ... people!  Restaurants!  Even the damn tourist information booth.  I guess they're expecting everyone to come by boat.  Oh well.  I find my new friend again and we compare notes on what to do next.  Two basic options: directly back to Porto, or take another stab at this day by visiting Régua on the way back.  We both pick Régua, her choice for a cathedral, and mine for wandering off at random again.  Régua's a good deal bigger, so this idea seems vaguely plausible to me.

Lesson learned from Pinhão, I walk directly to the docks.  A cruise director points me to tourist info across town.  They are open!  And have map handouts!  With wineries on them!  However, most are many km away.  One that looks walkable is back by the train station, where I need to get to anyway, so my choice is made.  Ah, but it seems to be deserted as well.  I can just walk right in to a room full of vats.  Olá?  No response.  I finally find human contact at the shop.  There's no tour available, which I didn't understand at first, but I did stick around for a super-cheesy short film and a tasting.

...and then I missed my train.  Curses!  There was even a shortcut back from the winery that would have saved me, but it only became apparent once I was already in the station.  But you know what?  The sun was setting and there's an infinite number of less beautiful places I could have been.  My unintended extra hour went to good use by buying a snack for a walk across a few bridges, including the wonderfully named Ponte Metálica.  From there I saw that the Sandeman casts his shadow over Régua too.