Monday, October 14
The plane landed in Keflavik 25 minutes early. Not only that, but according to the map, my gate should be practically right on top of that bus stop. Shouldn't be any trouble at all.
Predictably, it did take quite a while for the plane to empty out in front of me. And also predictably, there was a bit of a maze to navigate getting to the exit. But, still, it was pretty close. I was out there with plenty of time. I bought the city bus ticket.
It was quite a bit colder than Barcelona. I found a structure that looked like a bus stop, but it was really a smoking bench, for people to go outside and enjoy a cigarette without being too exposed to the elements. Smelled awful in there. But it did have a flat surface for me to set my bag down and fish out the sleeves to my jacket, and get them zipped on.
After a moment, i retreated back inside the building to wait.
When i'd checked Maps after the plane landed, it indicated that there was an earlier run of the bus i was waiting for, Route 55, at 6:15, over 20 minutes earlier than the 6:38 i was aiming for. I was down there by 6:10. I never saw that 6:15 go through.
Because of the anxiety that i keep bringing up every chance i get, i took another look at the map. Then i got kinda mad at Google, yet again.
It had switched back to the Flybus. This was not what i asked for. It keeps doing shit like this to me. I'll select a route, and then it will decide there's a faster option, and if i'm unable to respond within 15 seconds, or if i don't notice that it's vibrated or dinged or whatever to inform me it wants to change the route, it just switches automatically.
The stop for Route 55 is not here. I need to leave the building, walk across the parking lot, and grab it from a stop at the next lot over.
Fortunately, it was 6:28 when i made that discovery. I can get across this parking lot in less than ten minutes, no problem.
In the next lot over, i found a structure which looked much more like i would expect a city bus stop to look. It was clearly labeled for Route 55, and had the timetable showing all the runs that bus does to this stop. It turns out that the bus comes through at 6:45; 6:38 was when Google wanted me to start walking from the airport to the bus stop. Makes sense. This schedule also confirmed that it comes through every half an hour, until 6:45, and then the next run isn't until 8:45. So Google wasn't wrong about that, at least.
In Barcelona, i had been told that their metro system doesn't always provide Google with complete data, so many routes are not even listed on Maps. I'd wondered if that would be true here, too, mostly because i hoped for more options if i missed this bus.
Ironically, the bus arrived at the stop at exactly 6:38. I showed the driver the QR code for the ticket i'd purchased.
"Oh, no, that doesn't cover the trip to Reykjavik," he said.
"What?"
"Yeah none of those buses come out here. You need to pay the difference."
"I thought this code would be good for this bus?"
"Yes, but you need to pay the difference." So he charged me an additional 1800 ISK, about 12 bucks. Still cheaper than the Flybus, but not nearly as dramatically as i'd hoped. "Make sure you push the button to request a stop before i get to your destination."
It was already dark out, so i didn't even get to see much of the Icelandic countryside as we made the 90 minute trip into Reykjavik. But i did make it there, which is what counts.
I had already decided not to take the connecting bus the rest of the way to the hostel. The time difference was negligible, and for as fast as i walk, that might even be faster. The longer i was outside, though, the chillier i realized it was.
The bus had left me outside of a park, which Maps wanted me to cross. In the park, i found that there was actually snow on the ground. So i've already seen my first snow of the season.
The walk wasn't too bad, but i wished i had gloves. I was texting a few people for a while, but eventually my fingers got numb and i no longer enjoyed tapping on the screen. Definitely saw some cool street art, though.
I came to a spot where Maps wanted me to take a left and go around the block, just to end up right in front of where i already was. I looked at the road i was crossing, then at the space ahead, and did not understand why Maps wanted me to take such a long way around. I was gonna cross that road regardless, it was late enough at night that the traffic was extremely light, but there was actually a crosswalk, and a gap in the median to accommodate it. On the other side, this cross street did take a break, but there was a sidewalk connecting directly to where i was. Again, i would've tromped across a lawn anyway, but the fact that the sidewalk is already there? Why doesn't Google seem to know about this? They know every other little bit of personal data about everyone on Earth. They can't find a sidewalk?
This knocked six minutes off my arrival time. It had definitely been faster to walk.
Although, when i arrived where Google was taking me, i was sure that it had fucked up yet again. No way was this correct. I was at a construction zone, fenced off, with heavy machinery everywhere. The building seemed to be just bare concrete and studs, with work lights illuminating an empty floor.
I checked the address. Seemed correct. I was about to pull up the hostel information and make a phone call, when i realized that there was a clear path between construction fences, leading to a bare plywood door ahead with something spraypainted on it. I went to investigate.
The spraypaint said, "KEX." The name of the hostel. A sheet of paper was framed and hung below it.
"Welcome! We're undergoing the makeover of a lifetime! Reception is located 2 floors up!"
I pulled on the handle, a piece of bent metal. The door had no latch and swung open, revealing the staircase.
Okay then.
Felt weird, but i guess i was invited. Proceed.
Once i was in the actual hostel on the third floor, everything seemed pretty above-board. It's definitely an old building, kind of reminds me of an school or a hospital from when they used to make those things out of cinder blocks with ceramic tiles on the walls. The reception desk matched the style. It was unmanned. A sign hung on the back of one of the computer monitors read, "Our receptionist is having a short break. Thank you for your patience!"
I milled around a bit. I found a bathroom a few doors down the hall. No urinals, one stall showing red, the other green, but the door wouldn't budge. So i went back out and waited. I could see the kitchen at the far end of the hallway; i could see a few people inside, they seemed to be having a good time, so i wondered if it was a bar as well. i didn't investigate at this time, though.
I waited near the reception desk. Another traveler with a backpack came in, and took a seat on the couch behind me. I leaned up against a wall and puttered on my phone.
Then, another person came in, looked around, so i know she saw us, and then stood right in front of the desk. The receptionist came back in right then, so he greeted her and helped her check in first. Which would be annoying enough, but made all the worse by her asking a ton of questions, as if she's never stayed in a hostel before. Maybe she hasn't. The receptionist said she was in a two-bed room with a shared bathroom. She said she'd had a phone conversation with (name drop) about upgrading to a private room, which the receptionist explained, yes, it's a private room, but there are two beds, and it does not have its own bathroom. She seemed perplexed by this.
Then he got into recommending restaurants to her. He explained that food is quite expensive in Iceland, and gave recommendations for two nearby places that would likely be the most reasonably priced. His main recommendation was an Arabic place; he gave prices for some items, and it did indeed sound like they were fairly reasonable.
Eavesdropping on all his recommendations kind of made getting cut in line worth it, i guess? Although in the end, i did not take any of them. I'd love to not get charged a ton of money for dinner, but also, i didn't come to Iceland to eat Arabic food. I'm only in the country for 22 hours, i'd like at least one authentic meal.
They also got to talking about options for getting back to the airport the next day. I had meant to come back and ask about that, but i forgot. Their options sounded expensive, anyway.
Once she was gone, i got myself checked in pretty quickly. When i made the booking, i'd selected a 42-bed dorm, which sounded absurd. I had contemplated picking the 6-bed for just a few dollars more, but honestly, i was kind of curious what a 42-bed dorm would even look like, and if that would be an interesting experience to round out the trip. I obviously wasn't that enthused, though, because when the clerk saw which room i was in, he said, "Hmm, i have some availability tonight, i can upgrade you to the 6-bed dorm free of charge," and i said, "Alright."
My room was at the end of the hall, just before the kitchen. I opened the door, and a young man was standing in the middle of the room, pulling things out of a locker. There were three bunk beds in a line down the left side, and six enormous lockers on the right, with a desk beyond them. These are the kind of lockers they had in high schools in the 50s. The kind you could not only shove one entire nerd into, but possibly even two whole 98-pound weaklings. I actually have a set of these in my garage at home, of spurious origin.
"Hi," the man between the room's two main features said, extending his hand. "I'm Sebastian."
"Trevor," i said.
A head poked out from the furthest bottom bunk. He introduced himself as well, but i forgot his name immediately. I think it was something very French-sounding. Could be wrong.
Sebastian and i chatted for a bit. He correctly guessed that i was American. He's from Houston himself, been in Reykjavik for almost a week, heading to Europe tomorrow. More or less getting started on the same kind of thing i'm just finishing up. He said he's had a great time in Reykjavik, seen so many cool things, eaten a lot of good food. I asked him for food recommendations that might still be open, as it was about 8:30 and the desk clerk had indicated that most things would be closed. I said i was looking for authentic Icelandic.
"Icelandic Street Food," he said. "It's maybe a 15 minute walk."
"Icelandic Street Food?" i asked. "That's the name of the place?"
"Yeah. Most places close at 10, so you've got a little time."
"Guess i'd better go do that now, then," i said. I shoved my backpack into a locker that was labeled Bruce Wayne, with a sticker for a band called Amateur Ghosts on it, and left.
I found a fast food place right across the street from the hostel, and briefly considered abandoning my plan and just getting this. It's close, it's cold out, i'm tired, and it would ensure that i could get to bed pretty early. It's clearly Icelandic, so it fits my requirements; it has that je ne sais quoi that make it feel like a regionalized fast food chain, like a Whataburger, or an In-N-Out. It's called Aktu Taktu, and from the menus outside, it looks like it serves...drum roll...burgers.
Nah. I've got a good recommendation in my pocket already, i should stick with it.
Walking to Icelandic Street Food brought me down a street with many stores and other points of interest, like a theater (for stage plays, not a cinema), churches, and a couple of art galleries. I found a small park with several stone monuments arranged in a strange pattern, each with about a paragraph of Icelandic text etched into it. There were no plaques that i could find to explain it, in English or in Icelandic, and Maps didn't even have it marked. No idea what that was all about. Felt vaguely supernatural.
I walked into Icelandic Street Food. There were tables under the front windows, with bench seating along that wall and chairs on their other sides. They were all full. The room was dominated by a square bar, offering three sides for serving, and the fourth opening into the kitchen. A drink cooler was on the wall that connected to the kitchen.
The clerk at the register, on the side of the bar facing the entrance, greeted me warmly.
"Hi, it's my first time in Iceland, i've just arrived," i said, sounding so confident i surprised myself. "What would you recommend?"
He did not miss a beat. "The lamb stew is our most traditional and authentic dish, i think it's very good. I would definitely recommend that."
"Sure. I'll get that, then."
"Would you like that in a bread bowl?" he asked.
"Sure. And a Coke Zero, please."
Another employee was busy stocking the drink fridge at that moment. I sidestepped over there and grabbed my beverage. "Excuse me, just gonna sneak by you there and grab this," i said, in full Midwestern.
"It's not cold!" she exclaimed, as if horrified by my selection. She reached up a little higher and grabbed a cold one, handing it to me. I put the warm one back and thanked her.
When i turned back around, my soup was sitting on the counter, waiting for me.
"When you're done, you can come back and get more soup. You can have as much as you like!" the clerk said. He was very excited about all of this soup.
A sign indicated there was additional seating upstairs, so i went for that. The upstairs had an almost hunting lodge quality to it. The ceiling sloped upward to a peak, letting the room open up to the roof. I'm describing this badly but i've rewritten that sentence a dozen times and i need to move on. First draft, baby, just make it exist! Ahem. Animal skins hung from the sloped ceiling. There was another bar up here, but it was unmanned.
The small tables around the room were mostly full, but in the center was one enormous table, carved form a single heavy slab of wood, with three tall chairs on each side. Only one person was sitting at this table, so i took a spot on the corner opposite him.
The soup was delicious. It wasn't heavily seasoned, but the quality of the ingredients spoke for themselves.
The bread bowl did absorb a ton of the broth from the soup. As i scraped the insides of it, bringing chunks of saturated bread out and eating them, i started to regret my choice, just a little bit. After all, my breakfast had been just a massive quantity of bread. Did i really need more? It was getting kind of heavy.
By the time i reached the end of my stew, i realized that the bottom of the bread bowl had already entirely come out and been consumed. I started ripping off the chunks of the side and eating them, wondering if i could even finish all of this. And if i could eat more soup afterward. I was definitely going to have more soup, one way or the other, so i'd better find a way to make it all fit.
I sopped up what little liquid was left on the plate with the lid to the bread bowl, which had been left to the side of the plate, and i headed back downstairs.
There was a table underneath the stairs with a sign indicating to put used dishes there. I left my plate and spoon on that table, and turned around to get back to the bar.
"Hey, you mentioned i could refill the soup?" i said.
"Yes. Did you bring your bowl back?" he asked.
"I ate the bowl."
"You ate the bowl?" he repeated, in a flat tone, as if in disbelief. "Wow."
I'll never forget the way he said "wow."
"Yeah," i confirmed.
"Well, let's just get you a new bowl. Which soup did you want?"
"Can i try the fish?"
"We don't do refills on the fish soup," he said. "Only the lamb stew and the spicy tomato."
"Okay, let me try the spicy tomato then," i said. Disappointing, i had been very interested in the look of that fish soup. Also, i've never been a huge fan of tomato soup. There's a whole thing about this in the story of our New Zealand trip.
I took my new bowl back upstairs, even though some spots had opened on the ground floor, and sipped it, spoonful by spoonful. It was too spicy for me to eat any quicker.
It was pretty good. All things considered, though, if i was gonna have two bowls of soup and only one in a bread bowl, i should've done that with this one.
Hold up, why was he surprised i ate the bowl? Am i not supposed to eat the bread bowl?? Then why is it made out of food???
I'd have liked to have gotten another bowl of soup, because i could, and because even with these two bowls i hadn't honestly eaten very much today, but i had reason to return to the hostel. I returned my bowl, and headed out.
I went past some more interesting statues on the way back, again, no plaques to explain themselves, though.
The bathroom at the hostel is pretty weird, to be honest. The stalls seem enormous from the outside, but they somehow feel smaller on the inside. The shower is absolutely enormous, but it has nine showerheads, so, in keeping with the "this place looks like an old school" theme, everyone showers together, gym class-style. I was glad i wouldn't need to bathe here. But the strangest thing, there's a desk set up in there, with a big, square mirror in front of it, and a smaller, round mirror mounted above that, high enough that you'd need to be Wilt Chamberlain to see yourself in it. A blowdryer is in a wooden box hanging from the wall. Next to all that was a poster, done in a vintage 1800s style, titled "The Barber's Manual," and showing a diagram of a man's face and which sections to shave. A set of very small wooden drawers was mounted to the wall under that, but all of the drawers were empty.
Too bad i didn't have two bits on me, i guess.
The other guys were in their bunks with their reading lights on. I made a little noise getting my chargers out of the locker, but then i bedded down myself, drawing the curtain around my bed. Always nice when a hostel has these, many don't. I don't think anyone else was in that room but the three of us.
The bottom of the bed above me has old newspapers glued to the wooden plank underneath it, for an interesting decoration above me while i sleep. There was also a small plaque on the wall that read, "Hello there! Just a friendly reminder: if you feel the urge to do a spontaneous pull-up, please resist the temptation to use the curtain rod. It's designed to hold curtains, not your impressive strength." Don't use the handle to get out of bed, got it.
This hostel sure does have a lot of personality.
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