From Reykjavik With Love (And Dagger-Cold Drizzle)

It’s easy to romanticize this island. This Iceland.

My wife Summer and I caught a ride from Ísafjördur—the largest village in the West Fjords—down to Reykjavik today because all the flights were canceled due to stiff winds and lashing snow. Counting my first trip to Iceland back in September of 2005, I have now flown into the Ísafjördur airport twice and have yet to fly out (maybe next time, if the weather decides to be charming). Even though Iceland is reputed to have the best pilots in the world, the landing strip runs rights along the base of the fjord’s imposing cliff face. A slight misjudgment on the throttle—especially in ugly conditions—can earn a pilot the unfortunate post-humous nickname “Crashy McFireball.”

The drive was scary and scenic and, thank the Norse gods of highway safety, uneventful. In case you weren’t aware just how rugged and badass the Icelandic people are, a female musician who was riding in our car had to go to the bathroom so the driver pulled over onto the shoulder. She proceeded to take care of her business on the side of the road behind a rocky outcropping in the middle of a pretty severe snowstorm. A couple minutes later she pulled up her drawers, climbed back into the car, spewed some profanities in Icelandic (which our fellow travelers roughly translated as “devilish weather”) and we were on our way again.

The flight between Reykjavik and Ísafjördur lasts 30-40 minutes, but the drive took us 7.5 hours due to the crap conditions and the fact that you have to drive all the way in and out of every single fjord before hitting the main highway leading south to the capital city.

Thankfully, you’re treated to the most rustic scenery you could ever imagine—snow-capped cliffs and impenetrable fog and matted grass and lonely fisheries and pitch-black waters sloshing angrily off the coast. At one point we had to cross a mountain pass and were completely snow-blind, except for the reflective markers lining each side of the road. Take away those reflectors and we could’ve been floating through a cloud, directionless, thousands of feet in the air.

As soon as we got to Reykjavik, the car dropped us off at the Laugardalsholl sports hall where Björk was performing her first solo concert in six years, launching her global tour in support of her new album, Volta. Honestly, I had no idea she was performing until we got to Iceland this past Friday. She’s been my runaway favorite artist since I discovered her album Vespertine and this was my first time getting to see her live. The timing was a beautiful accident and the show was a beautiful thing of unaccountable beauty.

Björk had on a billowing gold dress and what looked like a gold headband across her forehead. (I wasn’t close enough to tell, but she may’ve just painted her forehead gold. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s painted her forehead for a live show, after all.) At stage left stood the electronic entourage, Apple insignias glowing faintly on silver laptops, bald men tweaking levels live onstage as thunderous, crunching beats poured from the speakers. At stage right was an all-woman brass ensemble, each player wearing a different-colored neon dress that glowed brightly, as if somebody had plugged the garments directly into the stage.

The Hotel Nordica in which Summer and I are staying is conveniently located right across the street from the venue so it only took us a few minutes to find our way there after the concert. We were both starving and the only place that was open was the restaurant in our hotel lobby so we sat down and ordered a bite to eat. While we were eating our salads, Antony (of Antony & The Johnsons) wandered in to order some takeout to bring up to his room. In the musical world I inhabit, Antony constitutes a celebrity sighting, which is wonderful. He should be a celebrity. Magazines should have pictures of him pumping his gas...JUST LIKE US NON-SHOULD-BE-CELEBRITIES! He looked endearingly paunchy and tired and wore a purple bag and I hated that I missed his opening set before Björk.

Then a few minutes later we watched Yoko Ono get up from a nearby table and leave the restaurant with a couple friends. Fifty bucks says she was dancing her ass off to “Army of Me” with the rest of us earlier tonight. I love good music, the louder the better, and unselfconscious dancing.

Speaking of good music, I flew here to Iceland on this occasion for the amazing Aldrei fór ég Sudur music festival, which takes place each year over Easter weekend in Ísafjördur. I didn’t discuss it much in this blog post because I’ll be writing a longer piece about it soon. Keep an eye out for that. Goodnight.