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.