Legends of the Fall

Life sucks. Just not now.

Gabriele Arnoldi, Flúðír, October 2015

Yes, this is a blue iceberg

It's been busy around here. Not only has the number of available guides decreased disproportionately to the number of guests still wanting to go on a tour with us, but also the first wave of friends and family has travelled the Atlantic ocean to visit Frankenspouse and me. I'm still out riding most of the day, the groups have gotten a little smaller while the number of layers of clothing required to stay warm has increased. Getting dressed in the morning is a job in itself, I'm wearing underwear (two layers, because of the bounciness, not because of the cold), thermal underwear, t-shirt, jumper (1-2), winter jacket and rain jacket. On my lower half, I'm wearing underwear, thermal underwear, breeches, rain pants and full-length leather chaps. All these make it kinda awkward to get on a horse, of course, but they do keep me warm and dry (-ish). I also de-prioritised fashion and bought some fabulous boots that look like NASA invented them and that are keeping my feet both warm and dry, while also fitting the stirrups. Such a luxury.

As to the visiting friends and family, we had an absolute blast showing people around. If you live here for a while, you are no longer caught off guard by the landscape's stunning beauty, so seeing it through the wide eyes of a first time visitor to Iceland is heart-warming. We did some magic stuff like hiking up to Reykjadalur to bathe in a hot river (where it hailed upon us, but that's just details) and boil some eggs in a natural hot spring, going whale watching, visiting Thingvellir national park (where among some serious historical sightseeing in breathtaking nature, you'll also find The Wall of A Game of Thrones and can go snorkeling between the  North American and Eurasian tectonic plates in Lake Thingvallavatn), visiting the Geysir and some kick-ass waterfalls, driving to Jökulsárlón to see blue fxxxing icebergs, building a snowman, eating hot dogs, going riding and soaking in the Secret Lagoon, while it's raining softly or not so softly in our faces. We managed to find some northern lights for everyone and while they were not the most spectacular ones ever witnessed, nobody had to go home without having seen them.

The first snow has come and gone and the days are getting noticeably shorter now, so when I get the herd from the field in the morning, I no longer see them. It's an eerie feeling to ride through the dark with silent shadows of horses moving by. During the first riding tour, we ride into the rising winter sun which stays low and casts everything in golden reddish light. If the sky is clear, that is, if not the landscape is hiding in veils of mist and gloomy shades of grey. The horses have fluffed up and look like teddy bears. It's getting easier to tell them apart, especially now that most of them are on winter vacation. By now I also know their individual characters better which means that both I and the horses are getting more out of working together than in the beginning.

The stable in late afternoon glow

The other day, we took a staff ride to a nearby restaurant on horseback through the pitch-black night. We were 20 riders of mixed levels of experience, since not all of the hotel staff members ride on a regular basis. However, we were able to keep good speed, had fantastic food and a great ride home, occasional swigs of the "happy flask" included (it's tradition, don't judge). After 5 months of small talk, telling stories and keeping the group together, it was absolutely amazing to go riding just for the fun of it and not having to entertain guests at the same time.

Do I wonder if this job is the right thing for all eternity? Yes. It comes with perks and disadvantages, like every job, but I have moments when I absolutely cannot wait any longer to get on a horse and go out riding and tell stories about volcanoes and vikings and things like that. I also have incredibly annoying people with me sometimes.

Have I regretted my decision to come here and do what I'm doing? Not once.

Seljalandsfoss

Travelling for work - Blessing or curse?

In my particular case, travelling for work implies multi-day riding tours, during which I get to take people away from civilisation and into the wild, take care of a whole herd of horses and sleep in cosy mountain huts, some of which have neither water nor electricity.

My first "long tour" ended yesterday and my body and spirit are broken. Think 18-hour working days without breaks, 16 people, 47 horses (each of them with four hooves, but we'll get to that later) and a multitude of issues, problems, minor catastrophes and critical situations, all of which need to be dealt with in a friendly, competent, trust-inspiring manner, ideally without anyone actually noticing that there was a crisis.

As this was my first tour of this kind, I did not have much of a clue what to expect, how to prioritise or, since we're at it, how to herd a flock of free-running horses. Other personal challenges included driving a trailer for the first time, telling the approx. 20 more or less identical looking dark bown horses apart and keeping the happy smile when baring my teeth would have been a much more natural reaction.

As to prioritisation and speed, this is something that I will learn as I go on more tours. I like to know what is expected of me, so that I can act rather than react, but I also understand that theoretical knowledge is not much good here. This will come.

Herding is actually quite fun. It's a 2-person job, one in the front and one in the back of the herd. The front rider shows the horses the way and once they have figured out what is expected of them, generally, they will follow in a nice orderly line. Unless they get excited or one of the other myriad exceptions. However, they will behave as horses do and their behaviour can be predicted to a certain extend, which gives you a bit of a head start, at least. The challenge here is to keep the herd behind you and stop them from running past you as, even if they are excited and at full speed. The person in the back collects any horses that have dropped out of the line to wander off on their own, have stopped to graze or are not keeping the general direction. As in the front, as long as the herd keeps in line, this is not a hard thing to do, but, again, as in the front, the problems start when the herd spreads out horizontally and you have to run back and forth to collect horses on both sides. Both jobs really depend on the horse you are riding, some of them will do a great job, understand the situation and will actively make your life easier, others prefer to make it more interesting by adding to the struggle.

Let's not kid ourselves though, even on the nicest, softest and most compliant horse, a whole day on horseback is physically demanding, especially if you also take Icelandic weather into consideration. It took us around 8 hours a day (including breaks) to reach our next location and this would have been plenty. However, as our horses could not always stay in the same place we were, in some cases, the other colleague taking care of the herd and I had another 2+ hours  of pushing the horses towards their destination for the night.

On the last morning, I found myself in the unfortunate situation of having to drive a trailer for the first time, it was a huge 4x4 car with a huge trailer attached. Let's say it did not go so well. I fully expected to end up in a ditch somewhere, and of course, we were already late as it was. I did not end up in a ditch. But I did get lost and had to reverse the bloody thing for 150 meters around a bend. I tried for 15 minutes and gave up when it was waving to me through the driver's window. It truely does behave like a worm. So instead of backing it out, I drove over a field to turn it around and hoped that nobody would come out and yell. Nobody did. But had they, I wonder if I could have claimed denial of assistence, seing that more or less every person in the countryside can drive these things, so instead of yelling, they could have just lent me a hand. Here's to hoping I don't have to do that again anytime soon, at least not before I have had some time to practise.

So, for better illustration of the general craziness, a typical day in the life of a guide might look something like this:

07:00 Wake up, brush teeth (if you can find the toothbrush), get dressed, pack all your stuff

07:30 Eat breakfast standing up while packing saddle backs and solving last minute problems, make sure you have everythng with you that you need for the rest of the day, check you have the horse list, or else hell will break loose

08:00 Start catching horses and hand them out to people, realise that some of them have dropped a shoe and need shoeing before we start. Start cursing the day. Hit your thumb with a hammer and continue shoeing with the blood running down (get extra credits for badass-ness)

08:15 Get yelled at by some cottage responsible because some of your guests forgot to take their shoes off when going to the bathroom

08:30 Help people prepare their horses, make sure the saddle is not on backwards, the girth is tight and in the right place, the noseband allows the horse to breathe and the reins are clipped into the right place. Look up and realise it might rain, recommend rain gear, put on rain gear yourself

09:00 Get people on their horses, introduce them to their particular horse's needs and character

09:03 Realise that you need a horse, too. Quickly throw a saddle on said horse

09:05 Start riding

09:30 Sky has cleared up, there is no rain. instead the sun is coming out. People start complaining about being too hot in their rain gear and blaming you for the inaccurate weather forecast. There is no grass, so it's almost impossible to stop the herd, people will just have to deal

10:15 You shed liters of sweat and are now about as wet as if it had rained, only from the inside. You are slowly stewing in your own juices, painfully aware that last night's hut had no shower

10:45 You stop to let the horses eat. Nobody takes off their rain gear, because a light drizzle has started

11:00 Everyone gets back on their horses, you continue the tour

11:30 The sun is back, people are complaining about being too hot again, you start praying for Hekla, the volcano in sight, to erupt and make everything evaporate in molten lava

12:30 You stop for lunch, shoe some more horses. The fxxxxxx shoes are too big, so you have to bang them smaller. Alas, no hard surfaces around, all grass and soft lava stone. Also, the hammer breaks. You improvise by using the car jack (thankfully the kitchen car has met you for lunch today) and start wishing the ferrier a slow and painful death

13:10 You're already late and you haven't eaten yet, because you have been busy with the shoeing and general craziness, so you shove half a sandwich into your face while catching new horses. The guests sit around and enjoy the sun, they have taken off their rain clothes. You are still wearing yours, no time yet.

13:45 Everyone is back on their horses, you have been riding for 5 minutes, Somebody complains that their horse isn't doing this and that and that they don't like red horses because all red horses are bad. You give them your horse and take theirs

14:00 The apocalypse is upon you and it brings heavy, horizontal rain, so you rush to the nearest grass field to be able to stop the herd long enough for people to get back into rain gear

14:25 Everyone is back on their horses once more

15:30 It's still raining like there is no tomorrow. Your rain gear is waterproof, but the rain gets in around your neck, slowly soaking into your jumper. It also soaks your gloves and from there continues up your sleeves. You did bring extra gloves, but they are in the pocket of your rain gear. Unfortunately, since you are sitting on a horse, the rain has pooled in your lap and has run into the pockets of your rain gear, soaking your extra gloves as well the extra equipemt, almighty horse list and the afternoon snack you had stored there

15:45 Last change of horses for the day while we take a quick break to let them eat. Everything is soaked. People are starting to talk about hot showers. There will be hot water at tonight's place

17:30 You have made it to your destination. The guests and main guide are being picked up to do some sightseeing. The two other guides stay behind with the herd and push them towards the field they will spend the night in. Just another two hours of riding at high speed in torrential rain

20:00 You have made it to the hut and help with the final preparations for dinner. Herd is happily grazing around 15 km away, less that halfway from where you stopped the tour this afternoon. You will have to go pick the horses up early tomorrow, so they'll be here when the guests have finished their breakfast

20:30 Dinner. Friendly guest offers shot of whiskey

21:30 Evening entertainment: singing with the guests, teaching them À Sprengisandi, a traditional Icelandic folk song about riding through the desert between two glaciers

23:00 Guests are settling down for the night. Time to plan the horse list for tomorrow, which rider to match with which horses. Occasional swig of whiskey to help with exhaustion and motivation. Hum À Sprengisandi to yourself

01:00 Shower, Go to bed. Pass out

Everything hurts again, especially my brain from questions like "Can we drive somewhere with people tonight?" when we're about a 2 hours' drive away from electricity and running hot water, not even thinking civilisation. We also had one car with 5 seats for 20 people. Common sense is sadly lacking in some people. 

Why do you book a tour like this, away from everything, if you need some night life? How do you end up on a long riding tour in Iceland if you are not willing to compromise personal comfort and rough it for a few days? It's impossible to bring all the comforts of civilisation to such remote places, at least if they are supposed to remain remote. One of the saddest things I saw on this trip were the phone and electricity lines scarring the surrounding, wonderful nothingness.

All this said and taking into consideration that I'm still in the recovery phase, this was a fantastic trip. Some places were so exceptionally beautiful I felt myself choking up. I love the Icelandic wastelands up in the highlands and experiencing them on horseback was much more intense than on a bus ride with 50 other people.

I actually found myself weeping at some point and thanking the universe (or what-/whomever) for giving me the balls to come here. So this is good.

Was it a ton of work, painful, challenging, difficult and harder than I had anticipated? Yes.

Was it worth it? Hell, yeah!

Flying Too Close To The Sun

So this is how Icarus felt.

Why Iceland, they asked. It's cold and dark and rainy, they said. Won't you miss the sun, they asked. Well, frankly, I think it would do me good if said sun wouldn't do so much overtime. Unlike Icarus, I have actually been listening to my Daedalus, or in my case, my mother, though. With little to no effect. Like my mummy taught me, I have been faithfully covering all areas of skin exposed to daylight with sunscreen, LPF 50+ even, since I belong to the very pale, blue-ish translucent tribe. I have done so every day. And yet, I burn, every day. My forehead and parts of my neck, respectively covered by helmet and buff, have remained their original colour, whereas the rest of my exposed skin goes lobster on a daily basis. I have yet to find a way to avoid this.

The very considerate/concerned Frankenspouse has recommended wearing one of those:

This is a Chinese bathing mask, also known as Facekini. Not sure I'm into that. Also not sure my boss would be into that. However, it is quite apparent that my sunscreen is more of an accelerant than protection.

Any suggestions?

Working hard or hardly working?

Work is certainly eating into my blogging time, I start at 7:30 in the morning (brrr!) and sometimes, I'm not home before 7 in the evening. Next to the tours that I'm guiding, there is also a good amount of stable work as well as preparation and follow-ups of longer tours to take care of. Plus we need to move the herd occasionaly. Now this is a fun and really efficient way to get rid of all potential aggressions. One of us races all the way to the field the horses are supposed to go to and opens or closes all potential gates on the way, so the horses can really only go the right way. Then we get to collect and push a herd at high speed all the while screaming at the top of our lungs to keep them moving, hundreds of horses, sometimes over several kilometers. I have played more cowgirl in the past two months than as a kid with the boys around me.

So what if you lose your voice in the process? So what if you swallow half a pound of dust and are completely soaked when you get home? Riding at full speed while screaming as loud as you can is more therapeutic than anything I have ever tried before. Including yoga.

Photo courtesy of Google

Pony Tales - Diversity is the Key

My four-legged colleagues come in all shapes, sizes and colours. While the colour is more or less irrelevant and only matters to a certain type of people (think: Muuuuuuuuuuuuummmmmmmmmmmmy, I want the whiiiiite horse/Can I have this one, I think it goes well with my outfit and we have the same highlights in our hair/This one looks just like the one on TeeVeeeeeeeeeeeee), the colour variations are certainly nice to look at and Icelandic horses sport some unusual combinations, such as my personal favourite, the silver dapple black:

Shape and size however do matter in determining which rider to put on this particular horse. Some horses are petite and almost fragile looking, others are strong and robust, so this is a good starting point when trying to match rider and horse. But then, there are tiny little horsies that are incredibly strong and energetic, even with a heavier weight on their back, whereas there are also big, tall and feisty horses that cannot carry or run much.

There are two people at work who have made it a true science to match the right horse with the right rider or vice versa. Not only do they know each and every horse's personality (horsiality?) as well as its strengths and weaknesses in terms of endurance, ridability, reliability and so on, there is also a lot of psychology that influences the decision. Of course we have a horse for the girl who has been riding for 12 years. But, we also have a horse for her boyfriend who has only been on horseback twice before but is reasonably athletic and looks like he would like to be able to keep up. And a different one for the husband who is reluctant to get on, but will give it a shot in order to do his significant other a favour. We have horses for kids that do a better job at babysitting than most nannies.
I am quite in awe of the success rate my two colleagues have at match-making. For returning customers, each horse will be a new highlight in comparison to the one they had the day before. The amount of organisation and mental leg work required is quite impressive.

P.S. We also have the crazy ones, of course. But we keep those for the guides :-)

A Work in Progress - Settling in

Work and real life are seriously eating into my blogging time, it seems. As I don't have internet yet (bureaucracy, the reason you should never consider an international move) and spend my days off with boring things like opening bank accounts, buying cars (oh yes, I am the proud owner of an 18-year old Honda Civic), chasing plumbers and the like, there is not a lot of time and energy left to feed hungry readers, even though there is soooo much to tell.

I'll start with my apartment, after about 2 weeks of sharing a room with four colleagues, I was able to move into Frankenspouse's and my new apartment in the little town nearby. As Frankenspouse is still on the continent, I have neither fridge nor washing machine nor any furniture worth mentioning. I do have ample storage and wardrobe space, a matress, a sleeping bag and my own bathroom though, the combination of which made it absolutely worth to move early. The apartment is nice, airy and light and will be very comfortable, once it holds some furniture. On the downside, it has very large windows, so we will have to make sure to be extra tidy, as everyone walking by will be able to assess our level of commitment to housework. When coming home around 10 last night, a friendly elderly gentleman from next door asked if I needed anything; he had seen through the backdoor that the living room is empty and probably thought I couldn't afford any furtniture. Welcome to small town life, where neighbours look out for each other... both in the good and the bad way.

The home-to-work distance is about 2.5 km, eminently walkable, especially in the sun-lit evenings after a couple of beers. Alas, in the mornings, not so much. Leaving home around 6:20 am for a 2.5 km walk to be at work in time for breakfast (no fridge at home, remember?) was much less fun that the leisurely late-night strolls in the other direction. Clearly, I needed a car. I tried a colleague's car at a very comfortable price, but discovered it had automatic air conditioning (read: holes in the doors etc.), so I decided against that. On my next day off, I ventured into the next bigger town around 15 km away to check out car dealers there, but the one car they had in my price range had multiple problems to be fixed within the next two weeks. Having no idea of the system, not speaking the language, not knowing anyone who could help and having fairly rigid work hours, this wasn't such a good idea either. However, the nice sales man gave me a website where all cars for sale in Iceland are listed and I found one that fitted my needs (cheap, drives). I contacted the seller in Reykjavik and we agreed that I would pop by on my next day off. When I did go to Reykjavik on my next day off and phoned the seller, he had gone on holiday and his colleague informed me that the car had been sold three days prior. Along with all the other cheap cars the company had. Apparently, this happens every year on a Friday at the start of high season, car rentals circle car sellers like vultures and buy up all the cheap cars to rent out to tourists over summer. Bummer! Apparently, at the end of summer, you get really good deals when these rentals try to get rid of all the old, cheap cars again, but obviously, that didn't help at all at that particular moment. Anyway, seeing the chagrin on my face in view of having to walk to work for another week and having to shlep to Reykjavik again, the guy took pity on me, made some calls and managed to hook me up with my new ride, Frída.

So, I have a house, a car and a job, what else do I need?

Internet. Not because I cannot live without it, but because I cannot blog without it. Also, Frankenspouse is stubbornly insisting that he needs it for work. The internet is being equally stubborn and is somehow finding ways to evade me and seing that I spend most of my days without cell phone reception or time to call, I find it hard to apply the necessary stalking/nagging techniques that usually get me what I want in these circumstances. The current status quo is that they will call me back. Hmpf.

These are just some of the obstacles Iceland is throwing my way, don't even get me started on kennitalas, bank accounts and the like, I'll save that for another post. But aside from these minor blips on the radar, life is wonderful here and I'm really enjoying my time with people and horses. I get to make someone's day special, every day. That, in turn, makes my day special. I get hugs and thanks and beaming smiles while getting to show off this beautiful country. Life is good.

Daylight Delight at Midnight

Hotel Eldhestar at 10 pm

Paddock area just before midnight

Armour of pain

Reykjadalur - picture courtesy of Google

I have made it.

I arrived on Wednesday last week and started working on Thursday. I have been on a horse for at least four hours every day, not to speak of sattling around 80 horses every morning (the first 10 are ok, after that your arms get really heavy), shovelling metric tons of horse poop, mucking boxes and all the other joys of stable work. My body, which is used to siting all day and some mild exercise every now and then, is wrapping itself in protective layers of pain. There is the superficial pain of bruises and stubbed toes as well as the deeper pain of sore muscles and knots in areas where I should have relaxed more, but decided to tense up instead. My behind that had't been on a horse in around 2 months, was screaming for the first few days. 

But, it is already getting better. While the pain in my arms didn't let me sleep last night, legs and bottom, always my strongest area, are adjusting to physical labour and don't scream quite as loud as in  the beginning. I also no longer pass out around 8 pm, but can last a bit longer. So far, I have been on 6 short tours and 2 daytours and while I haven't memorized the routes yet, I start to recognise some waypoints. The daytours lead to this amazing valley in the mountains with hot springs and a warm river the guests can bathe in, but the road there is steep and narrow and unfortunately, I am not indifferent to heights. Hopefully, this will get easier with practice. I will hike it on foot one one of my off days, maybe that will ease my nerves a bit. I can't go panicking after all, I need to exude confidence and competence *insert giggle here*.

I'm also starting to sport the typical guide's tan all my colleagues are wearing as well, meaning the lower two thirds of my face are pretty burned (despite generous application of LPF 50+) whereas my forehead and neck, respectively covered by helmet and buff, remain gostly white. The weather ranges from beautiful, sunny and warm to horizontal rain and strong wind, leaving you soaked after half an hour on horseback and that is with heavy duty rain gear. 

Welcome to Iceland. What did I get myself into? 

A Taste of Iceland - Pickling Viking style

I might be pointing out the obvious here, but when Iceland was colonised, there was no infrastructure, no shops and no resources other than what you were able to take of the land or produce yourself. Food-wise, this means that most families would eat only what they grew and harvested, bred, raised and butchered themselves. Not everything is available all year round though and they had to find ways to make things keep that usually spoil within a few days.

But how did the Vikings preserve their food? With no refrigeration to speak of (insert your favourite joke about the "ice" in Iceland here) and salt being largely unaffordable, this leaves drying, smoking and pickling. Smoking also requires additional salt for long-term preservation and while lots of smoked meats are available, such as the yummy Hangikjöt (smoked lamb), these usually require additional refrigeration or will only keep for a few days, unless further measures are taken. 
One of the things they came up with is pickling in sour whey. This allowed them to store highly perishable foodstuffs such as meat for a year or longer, making it an efficient means of preservation.

Nowadays, we associate whey with athletes' diets and protein shakes, it comes in all kinds of flavours and colours and is generally non-threatening. I have tried multiple products over the years and have usually been quite pleased with the refreshing taste. Therefore, when I learned that there was an Icelandic midwinter festival involving lots of foods that were preserved in whey, I was looking forward to tasting them, being certain that I would like them. Before I go further into the sour whey thing, let me quickly introduce you to this festival. 

It's called Þorrablót and takes place from mid January to February, which corresponds to the old Nordic month Þorri. Every community has it's own gathering where people bring traditional foods and a committee is in charge of the entertainment, usually including speeches, sketches and making fun of the events in the community in the past year. There is lots of merrymaking, drinking, fun and dancing, along with the traditional food. 

Back to the food, there is a large variety of things people will enjoy during the festival and the whey preserves are just one kind, but these made a particular impression on me, so we'll focus on them. My lovely friend Judith brought me a plate of food samples from one of her Þorrablóts which included headcheese, hangikjöt, two kinds of sheep's paté (one of them preserved in whey), sour whale fat and jellied sheep's testicles preserved in whey. As I'd already had sheep's head, the headcheese wasn't a big problem for me to eat (apart from the fact that it was really sour and unfortunately not in a good, gherkin kind of way). The hangikjöt I really like and the sheep's paté was also quite nice, at least the one that hadn't been preserved in whey. The jellied sheep's testicles would have been ok-ish, had it not been for the sour whey taste. At that point I had definitely revoked my former opinion that whey preservation was a good idea and that I was going to try it at home. 

Do not try this at home.

This is another one of those traditions that is celebrated for the tradition's sake and as part of the country's history, not because everyone loves extremely sour food with a hint of ...well... semen.
Everything on that plate that had not been preserved in whey was really nice and I had already established that I wasn't too fond of the sour whey, but there was one more thing to go. A sizable piece of sour whale fat, also preserved in whey. Now this was a bit of a challenge, aside from the fact that I tried to avoid ending up with whale on my plate, who wants to bite into pure fat? I did eat it and I can honestly say that it was the most awful thing I have ever tasted. Gooey, chewy glibber with an extremely sour taste. 

Dear people of Iceland, I love your beautiful country, I'm about to make it my home and I enjoy pushing my own culinary boundaries, but this I.Will.Not.Eat.Again. Bring on the fermented stingray, bring on the sour whey stuff, if you must, but no more sour whale fat for me. Ever. 

Going through the change

No, not THAT change, of course. It's all happening, my life in Luxembourg officially ended last Saturday, everything is boxed up and stored away. I have said my tearful goodbyes and I'm now getting all my ducks in a row for my departure to Iceland on Tuesday. Every so often, I remember yet another contract that needs to be cancelled (today it was TV) or yet another thing I need to take care of and somehow shove into my suitcase. Today, it was a criminal record, an international birth certificate and a certificate that I am unmarried. Unfortunately, nobody seem to be in charge of me. I am a German citizen who is moving from one country other than Germany to another country that is not Germany while not married, surely I cannot be the only one or even the first? Birth certificate and criminal record were ok to come by, but this marital status thing proves to be a bit of a pain. Thankfully, that one's not urgent, so I can take care of it once I have arrived.

So here I am, in my hometown, juggling friends and family while not having enough time for either (plus I already miss having my own place) and struggling with the authorities. Originally, I had planned this as vacation time before starting my new job, but I'll file that one away under Wishful Thinking.

I miss my friends in Lux who gave me my favourite Kindle as a farewell gift (YAY!!!!!!!) and I'm looking forward to ending this Limbo period and diving into a new routine of guests, nature and horses. And guests. And nature. And horses.

I'm carefully optimistic about the apartment we have found and on which we seem to be closing the deal. As soon as this is done and I have a kennitala (a kind of ID number) I can get internet, which is the deciding factor on the date Frankenspouse will be able to come over. If I don't manage right away, it'll be another 3 weeks before he can take some time off again to drive all the way from Germany over Denmark to Iceland, so I'll bend over backwards to make sure he can come earlier than that.

Time is tight these days, so I'll keep it short but I hope to be back with more stories soon and I certainly owe you a few more A Taste of Iceland posts.

A Taste of Iceland - Rotten Stingray

Looks innocent, doesn't it?

Here is proof that I am not the only crazy person out there. The first section of this article is the translation of a post my lovely friend Judith wrote a few years ago. I laughed so hard that I asked for permission to share it with you guys here. 

Skata - the christmas skate

Everyone knows the shark.

The infamous "Hákarl", i.e. fermented shark, that is prominently featured in every travel guide on Iceland to be the king of tastebud killers of the traditional Icelandic cuisine. Admittedly, the shark is an acquired taste, much like beer. You won't like the first one, but you'll get used to it over time. I do wonder, however, why no travel guide ever mentions the stingray. Because in comparison with the stingray, the shark qualifies as mild gourmet cuisine. Maybe none of the authors of travel guides have visited Iceland around Christmas? Stingray ("skata" in Icelandic) is an indispensable component of Advent in Iceland and most importantly on the evening of December 23rd. For many Icelanders, if they don't get skata that day, it won't be Christmas the next. 

Tonight, we had skata. The fish was still frozen when we took it out of its plastic wrapper but even then, the typical smell of ammonia bit our noses. Much like the shark, the stingray has to ferment for a few months. Neither shark  nor stingray are able to pee, they dispose of their urine through their skin. During the fermentation process, this urine transforms into ammonia and stays in the fish. Or this how they explained it to me. 

The stingray is cooked in water. Spices would be entirely obsolete, you wouldn't be able to taste them anyway. On the side, you'll get potatoes (surprise) and fat. You get to choose between molten butter (modern, non-traditional) or the more traditional molten, slightly rancid smelling lamb fat that is also used in western Iceland.

So tonight, the sour ammonia smell typical of Christmas slowly filled the house. I had the presence of mind to close the door to my room. Once the skata is cooked, you take it out of the water and everyone helps themselves to a piece. You peel off the dark skin and remove the meat from the cartilaginous fish skeleton. Tougher guys (like Gisli's father) eat the cartilage too because "it has such a nice crunch to it". You then proceed to mash the potatoes and pour the fat over the dish (a lot, because it softens the taste to a certain extent) and - enjoy. 

Once the steaming fish is on your plate and and the steam hits your face the right way, your eyes will start watering. I'm not lying here, even Gisli's dad had to blink a bit. 

The fish, once in your mouth, will kill all remaining taste buds. My tongue gingerly explored the insides of my mouth to make sure the mucous membranes were not detaching from the walls of my mouth. The skata's taste is extremely pungent and fights its way to even the most remote corners of your paranasal sinuses. On the plus side, your respiratory tract is completely unblocked after this experience. Even I as a lover of strong and pungent cheeses such as Appenzeller and Schabziger had some difficulty finishing my meal. 

Of course the smell had found its way into my room after all, so I lit a sea of  perfumed candles. Unfortunately, I had left some laundry on the rack. Oh well, so the bed linen will smell of "Christmas" when Gisli comes home.

[...]

P.S. Some apartment buildings do not allow the preparation of skata on the premises. Not everyone on  the block wants their living room to smell of rotten stingray, after all.

If you read German and would like to take a closer look at Judith's awesome blog, click here.

After reading her account, I felt that I needed to try this, come what may. I wasn't expecting to like it, of course. So on December 23rd, Frankenspouse and I set out to educate our taste buds. We went to the local shop, which also has a little self-service restaurant attached. Approaching it, we caught some whiffs of the smell and cocky as we were, thougt it wasn't that bad. That's until we were inside the building. Oh boy. There was a surprising crowd, 30+ people, feasting on skata. I even ran into the mail man, whose face was glowing with joyful anticipation. Frankenspouse and I helped ourselves to fish, potatoes, and bread. I also went for copious amounts of molten fat, Frankenspouse didn't like the idea, but while I didn't remember the details from Judith's description, I wanted to have it the way the locals ate it. We found two seats in the crowded restaurants, obviously being the only foreigners. Not only were fear and anticipation clearly visible in our faces, but in such a small community, people know who's new and who belongs. A nice lady next to me put her hand on my arm and asked "First time?" with a concerned look. When I confirmed, she nodded, smiled and recommended "Don't inhale". That was clearly insider knowledge and excellent advice I'll be forever grateful for! While smell and taste quickly unblocked all my sinuses (seriously folks, try this next time you have a cold, you'll scare it right out of your system), I quickly found that if you eat lots of potato and fat with a little bit of the rotten fish, you could get this over with and keep a straight face. Being the only foreigners there, people were watching our reactions with varying degrees of Schadenfreude. See, not many people, including the natives, actually like eating that stuff. It's a tradition and cherished as such, but apart from Mr. Postman who freely admitted to loving it, the more rotten, the better, I can't remember anyone saying that they liked the taste. Traditionally and before you could import everything from the rest of the world, resources were scarce in Iceland and having the skate ferment in its own urine was a way to made an inedible fish edible, albeit not quite palatable. 

Surrounded by a curious and amused crowd, I think we did well and refrained from pulling faces. While we did not go for a second round, we agreed that it wasn't as bad as we had anticipated. Bad, but not as bad. That is until the smell kicked in later. After we left the restaurant and for the next three days, the smell was with us. No shower, no changing clothes, no vigorous brushing of teeth helped. We would smell it on each other and on ourselves, not all the time but in unexpected whiffs. So the taste lasts 10 minutes, what's ten minutes in comparison to eternity? It's the smell that gets you, the smell that attaches itself to your olfactory memory and will haunt your dreams forever after.

It was a great experience. Would I eat it again? Yes. I'm far from eager to repeat the experience, but it wasn't as bad as some other stuff I tried. Look out for the A Taste of Iceland post on þorramatur.  

Inspiration or Insanity?

Be careful what you wish for, lest it come true

After making it public that I was leaving my nice sensible life with good healthcare, a big apartment, a steady and pretty cool job and all the other perks of civilisation to move to the Icelandic countryside and work with horses, quite a few people came up to me to congratulate my decision. They found this a brave step, a motivation to think about their own choices and even used the word inspiration. Wow. I have never been called an inspiration before and feel terribly honoured by everyone's support and I'm so grateful that people would take to trouble to let me know how they feel about this. Because at least in my case, inspiration looks different from the inside.

Did I want to go? Yes.

Was I prepared to actually get what I want? Hell, no!

Ladies and gentlemen, ambivalence in its purest for, do observe the crystalline structure.

Inside, I'm not brave. Inside I'm actually hitting myself over the head with a baseball bat at 60-second intervals. I'm scared that this is a bad move in the game of life, that the costs (not talking financial here) will outweigh the benefits, that I should have made this move at 24, not at 34.

What if I can't do the job well enough, what if they don't like me, what if my body can't do physical labour for an extended period of time, what if something happens to my family and I'm too far away to be there in time, what if I actually do freeze some digits off? And so on.

I love the compliments and I'd like to keep the title of inspiration as long as possible, but please know that "brave" is the same as "putting on a brave face" as a kid. A conscious decision to squeeze your cheeks together and breathe through it. Face and cheeks aside, the rest of me is shaking with fear and I think this is normal in the face of major life changes. Humans are creatures of habit after all and if you are not scared at all, then there's a good chance you either

a) have balls of steel or

b) don't have too much to lose, if you fall on your face.

So why am I doing this again, moving to that distant, isolated place with some seriously crappy weather, seeing that it scares the bejesus out of me and doesn't feel like the smart thing to do?

I feel that I have no choice. I feel that I have to go and live this life and if I fall on my face, so be it. This is an experience I have to make, because the price of not going is too high. The price of that little voice in my head for the next 50 years asking me "what if?" and calling me a chicken.

It's feels better to try and fail than not try at all.

So here I am between a rock and a hard place, it's hard to go and impossible to stay. My apartment is mostly packed, I had a wonderful farewell do on Friday and have only two more days left at work. After that I'm off to live my dream, as they say. 

A Taste of Iceland - Draumur and family

I love chocolate. I love licorice. Never in my life would I have thought that these two love each other. During my first trip to Iceland, my friend and I bought a chocolate bar to test the local "cuisine". To my utter delight, I found it filled with licorice. I looooooooooooooooove licorice! It was then and there that I lost my heart to Iceland (the way to the heart is through the stomach, after all). What a wonderful, wonderful country! Intrigued, we went to a shop and bought all kinds of chocolate bars to stock up before we went up north. They were full of wonderful surprises. We had chocolate filled with licorice, licorice filled with chocolate, gooey licorice chocolate caramel, chocolatey gooey caramel licorice, caramelly licorice chocolate goo... I'm starting to hyperventilate, so I'll spare you further details, before I type myself in a frenzy.

Just know that the combination, as strange as it may sound, is simply wonderful. and you don't just get it in chocolate bars and candy, you get it in ice cream (saving the details on this one for another Taste of Iceland post), cake and who know where else....

Some aspects of the Icelandic cuisine are acquired tastes, to put it nicely, but chocolate and licorice is a most wonderful discovery for many people, including some who don't care much for chocolate and positively dislike licorice.

My favourites to date would be Draumur, Þristur (that's a th in the front) and the sublime, unparalleled Lakkrís Dúndur, in reverse order below:

Draumur (Dream, nomen est omen) is humble, chocolate-covered licorice, very straightforward and fantastic in its simplicity.

Þristur is similar to a small Mars bar, only with small, innocent bits of licorice as a welcome, unexpected surprise.

Lakkrís Dúndur has the same two straps of simple licorice as Draumur, surrounded by rise crispies and covered in a thin layer of milk chocolate to create utter magic.

A little less than three weeks to go, before we are reunited, my loves!