Of Music, Pancakes, and a Cat

   

View of the end of the fjord

We made our way back to the two waiting cars in the isolated and unlikely parking lot there at the end of the swan’s fjord—so-named for the appearance from time to time of swans seen paddling together in the quiet waters. My rental came from the airport at Keflavik down on the south coast—a comically small 4X4 that nevertheless was more than adequate on the ice and snow that mostly made up the road on the drive through the many fjords. My two friends took off in their pickup to the small village along the swan’s fjord. The name of this little place is Sudavik—a town I think of fondly as I deal with the reality of life back in the USA. The honking horns, the harried and frazzled people, always in a hurry to get god-knows-where. At these times I think of two white swans paddling side by side over glassy waters with enormous time-hewn walls forming a valley around them.

DEEP RAVINE

I’ll skip around a bit. But first, pancakes. I’m on vacation and lose track of time and the order of events, but I know that pancakes fit in here somewhere. The previous evening I’d been invited by friends for what I thought to be an informal cup of coffee. Yes, there was coffee, but on the table was the most impressive stack of delicious Icelandic pancakes, hand-made by our Norwegian host. I hastily put together a plan, knew exactly what I had to do: Eat as many of those pancakes as I possibly could. With fresh whipped cream and blueberry preserves from the fruit of the surrounding fjord, I set about devouring them with a single-mindedness I’m rarely capable of. I answered questions and participated in conversation with muffled “mmphs” and “Uh-huhs,” since constructing full sentences would only slow my progress. I was every bit the glutton and no—I’m not proud of this. I do want to present a fairly unvarnished narrative, so I won’t spare you the details—unpleasant though they may be.

The visit of the previous evening was actually very pleasant—it having been some three years since I’d seen these friends. Some things had changed, but mostly the little town was as I remembered. On the same evening I went out with my camera into the dark of a clear-skied night in hopes of seeing the ribbons of colored light that appear at these times. No such luck. But the quiet and cold of the evening made me look at what else was up there in the sky: stars. At these times, when I see them— this vast celestial playground where the stuff of creation is on display—the thoughts I think are best left alone. Following them to their natural end would simply make me go insane. I was still on vacation after all: The insanity could wait until after I got home.

The flat and easy part of the trek up
 to the ravine

I think it is right about now that I headed over to the next big town where I was kindly put up by my friends during my visit to the westfjords. They are well-known musicians in the area, and were scheduled to perform that night. I wanted to join them, being a fairly “antsy” spectator—unable to be entertained for very long. Besides, I wanted to join in the fun. So, being somewhat adept on percussive instruments, they allowed me to beat on something called a “drum box.” It is not exactly my specialty, this box. However, I can keep a beat and—armed with my box—provided a more than competent accompaniment. I was even allowed a free coke, since now I was an official member of the band.

Drum Box

The gig ended around three in the morning. So I helped pack up, got things loaded, and headed home—which was right around the corner. Oddly enough, I found that the merriment was to continue back at the house. Several club-goers and of course musicians were now ready to prolong the evening. I held on as long as I could, went to bed around five in the morning. There being no incentive to stay up longer—such as Icelandic pancakes, for example, I felt it time to end the day. The others finally quit the “after-party” around five-thirty. One man I’d met during the evening became my best friend, shaking my hand repeatedly and thanking me and the others for the music. Being very drunk, he greatly admired and appreciated my efforts on the drum box. He would shake my hand some more and thank me, burying my nearly-crunching bones in a fist that looked like it could crush Icelandic rocks into volcanic dust.  He was a robust fellow. The next day I saw him wheeling his shopping cart through the aisles of the Bonus supermarket—oblivious to me who was now his old friend from the previous evening. I felt what a treacherous thing this alcohol is—to make him forget so quickly the good times we’d had the other night. And now it called into question his compliments regarding the drum box. I have my doubts.

I will bring up the pancakes again, because I have to collect my thoughts and they are not exactly falling into place. But one thing was jarred loose: The pancakes are NOT Icelandic. They may LOOK Icelandic, but they're not. They are actually Norwegian—same nationality as the friend who made them. And she’d corrected me when I first called them some other name, so I should have known better. In the USA we would call them crepes—and in France as well. There, glad I got that off my chest.

In this place is a beautiful cat—the mother of a few Icelandic cats. And she's kept me company as I write this, just as she did three winters ago in a tiny house solitary along a fjord. With the wind howling, and snow driving sideways against the outside walls, the place shook with the violence of the storms. I’d make some popcorn on the stove, set it in front of the sofa, and watch the one channel that somehow made its way to this remote place. Occasionally there would be a classic French film—something I’d never see in a million years if I’d been left to decide on my own. But there—in that little house, with my mouse-hunting friend curled up next to me, we’d watch the late-night film together. Does she remember the times from those winters ago? It wasn’t exactly a warm place, so I’d throw a blanket over myself in a way that I could get at least one hand to the popcorn. And often my white-whiskered companion would not object to sharing an edge of the same blanket.

Icelandic winter friend

Although I’ve disturbed the timeline of events, I’ll try to wrap things up here. I just wanted to write down my thoughts about the experiences I’ve had. If nothing else, they are meaningful to me personally. But I’ve had the good fortune to meet and get re-acquainted with many people from my previous times here--as well as new friends who share a fondness and passion for these wild parts. I will be leaving Iceland on January 8th—one day after a magnificent performance by the Icelandic Symphony Orchestra. I'd looked at the program before leaving--in search of a particular performance. And there it was: The works of Johann Strauss, Jr., often referred to as the "Waltz King." Yes, yes...this is me. It's what I...never mind. When something's perfect, words only ruin it.

I’ll check in again with hopefully brief reports about how it goes here.