Iceland: Day 3

The morning of Day 3 started much like Day 2 did; an early, cold, and rainy climb on to a bus with some truly beautiful views. Today we ventured east through still more fields, under a beautifully streaked blue sky. Unlike the grassy fields of the day before though, these were the rough and shadowed textures of a young lava field. Maybe a few thousand years old, it was still considered young in the eyes of a countryside so accustom to their presence. 

At what appeared to be the side of the road, our bus slowed to a stop. Argnr told us that we would be visiting a cave today, but there were no mountains near by. Nothing but the jagged youthful lava on either sides from miles. Surely caves were buried deep into the hills on the horizon and not here. But as we waddled off the bus, warmly bundled and ready for our trip underground, there were our glacier guides from the day before; grinning and surrounded by dozens of brightly colored helmets. Well, I seem to have been mistaken. Somewhere around here, close by, was the Leidarendi Cave. Over 2,000 years old and NOT in a mountain. 

A short walk through the lava field brought us to the opening of the cave. What appeared at first to be a large, muddy crater in the ground, was actually the mouth of the cave. Here Argnr left us and, with the guidance of our other Icelandic pals, we switched on our lights to begin to walk down below. 

The cave was wet and dark as any of us would have guessed, but also jagged and small. At one point the tunnel got to small that our line of explorers had to army crawl in order to get past an incredibly large "boulder" suspended from the ceiling. The opening reminded me of the Cheshire cat's crooked smile from Alice and Wonderland. If only he would have laughed a little wider at the thought of all of us climbing through his front teeth. 

Our crawl brought us to a large open pocket, what could be considered the cathedral of the cave. A rock ledge ringed the outside of the space and provided the perfect place to stop and share some local legends. After making sure all of us were securely seated, the guides had us turn off our head lamps. In an instant, the world went black. Not the black that you experience when you first turn off the lights at night. Not the black of entering a movie theater or even of shutting your eyes in the dark. This was dense, solid, void of light, black. Dark enough to make you loose your balance if you were standing (even sitting for some of us). So black that you could place your hand on your nose and still not be able to see even a shade of difference as to where your fingers were supposed to be. Just a thick, velvety curtain of nothing that your eyes tried to convince you was not real. 

It was in this black that our lead guide told tales of people "saved by the bell" in graveyards after having been supposed dead because of being frozen in a storm, of lovers running away to the caves to escape unwanted marriages only to be pursued by an irate father or uncle. One of the guides then posed this question. When we all turned on our lights, would we rather one person be missing or one person be added?

Chilled by each option's implications (I believe most people chose to have someone join rather than be lost, but even that could be sinister), we moved on through the cave and eventually back up to the surface. The sky still blue, the cold still biting, we made our way back to Reykjavik for our free afternoon.

After a brief rest in the hotel, Emily and I decided to explore some of the sites Argnr walked us past on the first day. Armed with more breakfast buffet "sandwiches" and skyr, we trekked up to Hallgrímskirkja, the tallest church and sixth tallest structure in the country.

From the top of the 244 foot bell tower, you could see the entire capitol. Short, colorful buildings stretched out around the church as if it were the center of a clock. In one direction, expansive fields, sky, and faint mountains. In the other, the harbor and still more beautiful snow topped peaks. I can easily say that Midwestern me was confused and delighted to have such flat and spiked places all together. 

It was so peaceful up there. I completely forgot I was (am) afraid of heights and just stood there at the window's edge. Face pressed into the bars and leaning into the sky.

More wandering and some souvenir shopping later and it was time to head back for the night. Dinner at a local tapas place brought us to try some odd and all-together not that tasty local "catches of the day," bringing another wonderful day to a close. 

Iceland: Day 2

What better way to combat jet lag than waking up very verrry early on a Thursday morning? I, the perpetual sleeper in-er, was not happy about this. But with glaciers and waterfalls awaiting, I lumbered down to breakfast in our hotel. A cup of strong black tea and a sandwich of what I presumed to be Scandinavian deli meat later and we were on the bus headed south. 

Like the day before, this morning was a rainy, windy one. Clouds hung low over the horizon as our bus glided along the highway, enough to make you feel held between earth and sky. Quite like the feeling of waking up in the morning under a mountain of covers. Not wanting to move...only this was much colder. 

It was in that misty bus ride that Argnr said my favorite quote about Iceland, "if you don't like the weather, just wait 15 mins." And sure enough, we didn't have to wait too long though for it to prove true. The weather did change in those 15 mins and the rest of the 2 hour trip was a lovely mixture of rain, sun, and the largest canvas of clouds I'd ever seen. We passed fields and sheep, barns and greenhouses, which should all have struck a familiar chord with me, but instead pulled me further into awe with the countryside that stretched out before me. 

These fields were more expansive, the wind more twisting, the sky more colorful, and sun more dazzling than I'd seen at home. It was then that my inner fan-girl had an epiphany, this was Rohan. This was Guilder and Florin. True, Hollywood has carved them out of different physical places than this, but for my mind's eye, this landscape rang true. 

Taking a left after our second rainbow, Seljalandsfoss came into view. An incredible, 200 foot waterfall with water so pale blue it matched the sky. What I was not expecting, however, was the immense roar coming from the water. A display of pure power, it filled the air. (By the end of this trip I would become accustom to the incredible sound of waterfalls, but in this first time, it was particularly deafening.) 

Shielding cameras and phones from the heavy spray, our group followed the trail around the back of the waterfall. From there, you could see for miles. The brave among us crept close to the edge, bracing against the slippery, green rocks for a truly breathtaking photo opportunity. 

A 30 minute bus ride later and we were at the second waterfall of the day, Skogafoss. This one even higher and more impressive than the last. Sheep accompanied a few of us up the cliff side as we climbed to get a better view. From our perch at 200 feet, we could see Eyjafjallajökull, the volcano that erupted in 2010, who's ash circled the globe. The grass had already begun to peak through the top of the lava beds, a volcanic cycle with which this country was all too familiar .

Climbing back down, Emily and I decided to stray during lunch and take our picnic to the base of the waterfall. Lunch of diet coke, sandwiches we snuck out of breakfast, and skyr (kind of like yogurt), was hosted by a magnificently peaceful view.


Rain soon drove us all back on to the bus however and we headed towards are next and final activity of the day: a glacier walk on Sólheimajökull. The rain continued through our ice pick and steel spike foot-ware fittings, then changed to heavy sleet and hail as we made our way to the base of the glacier. (Side note, four of the gentlemen from New York City had seemed to have forgotten they were in Iceland, several without hats or gloves to fend off the onslaught of water. I pitied them as I shivered from inside my gloved, scarfed, hatted, hooded, and ski-jacketed cocoon.)

But just as it had started, the rain, sleet, and hail ended as we placed our slightly scared, hastily safety briefed, and cautiously forceful first steps onto the ice. Shuffling into a single-file line, we snaked past ice sculptures, ridges, and got far too close to several deep crevasses. The part I remember being the most surprising, though now thinking about it, foolishly so, was the amount of pebbles and rocks, dirt and silt the glacier picked up as it flowed through the valley. Black bands of AstroTurf-like grains not only showed the glaciers age and strength but also protected the ice from the heat of the sun.

There were several times on this walk where I had to stop (mentally, not physically, that would have slowed up the line. Once we all got moving, we did not want to stop until the next place the guides wanted to point out. Trust me) and remember where I was. This was not a snowed in street in the Midwest, I wasn't anywhere close to the ground. I was walking on ice, hundreds of years old. Kind of, wickedly cool.

The hour long hike ended far too quickly and soon it was time to get back on the bus to start in on our, now, 3 hours drive back to Reykjavik. Exhausted from the day and perfectly content to watch the countryside fly by, I drifted.

Iceland: Day 1

Tuesday was a very long day at work. Not because of the endless e-mails, or the training issues, or even the looping water cooler talk, but because that evening, I was going to Iceland.

A spur of the moment purchase landed me a 5 day, 4 night trip to Iceland through Livingsocial. The words, “airfare included,” made the deal too good to pass up for me and my friend, Emily.

An overnight flight to Iceland’s Keflavik airport had us landing at the pitch black hour of 6:30am on Wednesday and in proper Iceland style, it was raining. Our group of now DC, NYC, and Boston flights was greeted by a bright yellow parka and blaze orange hat. Her name I cannot spell, but sounded like the title of a pirate manning the cannons: Arrrrr-guuunner. (she shall now be known as “Argnr”)

In that early and beautiful morning, we raced through the darkness; past what Argnr told us were lava fields, on the way to our hotel in downtown Reykjavik. By the time we arrived, the black sky and rain were replaced by a light grey sky and rain. From there, we had two hours to check in to our rooms, eat breakfast, and, for some, take a nap. The rest of us, on the other hand, set out on a walking tour of the capitol city.

The hotel and center of town were located just a few blocks from the harbor. In no time we were walking past Icelandic coast guard ships and little fishing boats, clustered along the docks. In the distance you could see a pillar of light from the recently lit Imagine Peace Tower, a memorial to John Lennon by his widow, Yoko Ono.

But to me, the most impressive sight on that harbor was Harpa, Reykjavik’s Concert Hall. The massive structure of metal and glass seemed suspended over the harbor itself, past the edge of its pier. Inside, the massive foyer spanned all 3 floors with tables and cushioned chairs circling up to the ceiling.

From the back of the hall, out some fantastically geometric windows, you could see the entire bay and to the mountains beyond before it opened to the ocean.

After the music hall, it was back out into the rain and up to Hallgrimskirkja, the tallest cathedral in Iceland.

Once the tour came to an end and it was back to the hotel to book optional excursions for our free day and a happy hour with our fellow travelers. With our excursions booked and feet exhausted, Emily and I sat down to be properly welcomed to the country, a Viking beer and a shot of Brennivin.

The Color Run

I am not a runner. But some how my friends convinced me to sign up for the Color Run this fall in DC. And I cannot tell you how glad I am they did.

Marketed as the Happiest 5K on the planet, they couldn't be more right. At the Color Run, it isn't about your time or where you place, it's about the experience of walking or running or skipping or dancing the 5 miles through checkpoints of color with your friends. All the while for a great local cause, or in this case, Washington's Children's Hospital.

The end of each K was marked, literally, with an explosion of a different color. Orange, topped red, which was covered by yellow and blue, till you literally love like you stepped out of a crayon box.

Triumphant participants grin across the finish line and are greeted with even more color as an after concert dance party of powdered people celebrate their endorphin high.

The sea of white tshirts, bandanas, knee socks, capes, tutus, and yes, even wedding dresses turned into a canvas of color highlighting a thousand smiles.

I am so glad I was able to experience such an event and, even though I was getting green and orange powder out of my ears for days to come after, I cannot wait till next year's chance to run again.

In My Grandmother's Hands

My Grandmother is a beautiful, loving woman to whom I owe much of who I am. My Grandfather is a strong, lively man who has set an example of hard work his entire life.

Some of my fondest memories are with my Grandma, walking out to her in the backyard. Her arms covered up to the elbow in dirt as she tended to her garden. Lilly of the valley, roses, irises, and violets. Garden statues, stepping stones, and bird baths. These were what she used to create her world.

With time and age, some things had to change though. She can no longer kneel to the earth and prune and trim to make her flowers grow. Some days she can barely remember what birds she used to love to watch hopping at the back window or chase from a patch of seed newly bedded. But it was easy to see that when we set this dirt in her hands she remembered the feel, even if for just a moment before it flitting away.

It was there. That comforting known touch of earth in her hands. That familiar, lingering brush with countless memories before letting it all fall slowly into the wind. That moment of clarity dissolved into a determination to brush of her clothes from the mess we caused her. Curious in what we were up to, my Grandfather walked over. Took her fretting hands in his as he bent to sit beside her. There was a flicker in that too. A steady, creeping smile in his hands around hers.

On her face was a kind of calm contentment. Though fading once again, to realize that even towards the end, there will always be a touch that can bring you back.

Eastern State Penitentary

One of the highlights of my recent trip to Philly was definitely the Eastern State Penitentiary. Not only was it yet another aspect of a new city to explore, but it was one of the coolest compounds I've ever been inside.

The prison, which has been falling further and further into disrepair since its closing in the mid-20th century was dark and eerie. Dust from the crumbling walls clouded the air and coated streaks of sun breaking through the cracked ceiling. My penitentiary wanderings, directed by a self-paced audio tour was chillingly and creepily fascinating. Not only did the tour provide facts spanning the space's entire history, but they added a soundtrack and personal testimonies. Bring the halls I was walking further to life.

There were many times when I paused and a cold wave washed over me. While I didn't have a supernatural encounter there, the stories of prisoners and guests alike were enough to keep me on my toes and the back of my neck tingling.

With the active imagination of a creative writer, I will proudly claim the title of World's Biggest Wimp when it comes to the horror, thriller, or supernatural genres. My mind does not need any help taking a haunted possibility and turning it into a "What's behind me?! Hello?"

I admit that there were a few moments when the tingles on my neck turned into involuntary jerks of the head. Luckily, whenever the spook was getting too much, I could retreat to behind my camera lens and view the buildings for the great photography backdrops they were.

The shadows, the textures, the sheer expanse of each row of solitary confinement cells was more than enough to keep my composing eye and trigger finger occupied.

If ever you visit Philly, make sure you stop by for an unforgettable afternoon of sights, sounds, and chills.

Mount Vernon

While my heart truly and forever belongs to Chicago and the Midwest, I love living in Washington, DC. The access to history alone is enough to keep me busy for the next 10 years. I want to visit every monument, every battlefield, and every museum the city (region, eastern seaboard) has to offer.

A tall task, especially since my heart truly and forever belongs to Chicago and the Midwest. But I checked off another historical site on my ever expanding nerd list today with a visit to Mount Vernon.

Sitting a stone's throw from the Capitol and on the banks of the Potomac, Mount Vernon really is stepping back in time and pace. One foot in the gate and you can feel the second hand of the clock lag.

Armed with the Visitor Center's map and a full afternoon, my Dad and I laid out a plan. Wander down across the front lawns of the house, visit the blacksmith shop and the stables, hike to the grain storage bins and the far fields where the house grew everything from wheat to berries.

I am also just that brand of history geek where I love when the sites are living history sites. Volunteers from the area, eager to share all they know, dress up in period costume and roam the grounds. The blacksmith made nail after nail and answered question after question about the techniques used in that time. And the poor house maid had to deal with a million questions from my overly-time-period-committed father. Somebody get that made a three pointed hat, a walking stick, and call him James Madison.

The timing of this trip was also opportune for me personally. Aside from it being a beautiful, sunny summer day, I had just finished reading a biography about Martha Washington. The life, drive, and senses of her story can to life in front of me. Different facts from the book popped into my head as I collided my present with her past. This was her study where she managed the house during her husband's long absences.

George and Martha Washington were an extraordinary couple for their time and yet they were just the same as couples when we think of them today. It was truly a pleasure to be able to "step into their shoes" for an afternoon and wander the trails they knew so well.