OK, check this out. It´s Good Friday, snowy and cold, and everything is closed. Restaurants, shops. Luckily this cyber cafe is open. My hotel attendant told me that as recently as five years ago the police would go around and shut down any shops that were open surreptitiously. Very different from the U.S., where even the Resurrection don´t trump the almighty dollar. Everything will be closed on Sunday, too. I should have booked the trip a week earlier.
First, before we get to the Lagoon, a few observations:
Icelanders don´t tip.
I have actually been mistaken for an Icelander twice already---by other Icelanders. One woman asked me in Icelandic what time it was, and a carload of guys asked me in Icelandic what I can only assume were directions.
Some notes on Icelandic fashion. The young women wear high-heeled boots, jeans rolled up at the ankles, wide belts, and leather jackets with fur lining. The young men wear all sorts of things, but skinny ties are most prevalent. The jeans that men and women wear are tight, unlike the baggy-pants look in the States. The young men seem to favor heavy bangs on their foreheads parted to one side.
I have been eating a lot of hot dogs since I´ve been here. The locals call them pylsurs, and they are very big with the Icelanders, the equivalent of cheese steaks in Philly. They´re pretty good; I had one for breakfast today, because I slept through the breakfast at the hotel.
We were driven to the Blue Lagoon through more Martian landscape (they should film sci-fi movies here). The day was beautiful but cold. The Blue Lagoon spa itself is located in the middle of a field of volcanic rock roughly in the middle of nowhere. There´s construction going on there which leads me to believe they´re expanding it into a resort.
I arrived and went through the same drill as at the swimming pool: shoes off, shower first, then proceed to the lagoon. As usual, in the shower, there is always the ever-present danger of inadvertently touching another dude´s genitals.
It´s hard for me to describe the Lagoon itself. The waters are turquoise and smell vaguely of sulfur from the geothermal properties. Certain areas are warmer than others, and the steam can sometimes obscure everyone around you.
Basically you walk around in the water like a crab. Some areas are deeper than others, and the floor of the Lagoon is silica and rock, so flip-flops or rubber shoes are advisable. There are these silica mudmask stations where people can dip a spoon into the slats of a wooden crate which contains the white mud-like silica, which people then proceed to wipe all over their faces, so that they look like certain African tribes during religious ceremonies. Some who overdo it look like they´ve been in a pie fight. The masks are supposed to make your skin soft or something. It was funny watching people of different nationalities wiping this stuff all over each other.
I soaked in the water for about two hours until hunger forced me out. I showered, dressed, and went for lunch (more pylsurs--hey, at least they´re cheap). While I was there I also made the acquaintance of a young French student (a dude this time) named Edouard. Nice guy, very friendly, knew a lot about 70s European prog-rock. We talked politics and travel. Then it was back in the Lagoon.
During the afternoon shift I discovered the waterfall. Pardon my language, but that waterfall made me its bitch. I just stood there underneath and allowed that water to pound me into submission. It was like a car wash. Then it was into the steam room. Then back into the Lagoon.
I estimate conservatively that I spent cumulatively 6 hours in the water.
The whole experience was weird and wonderful.
This was also the most international crowd I´ve been with since I´ve been in Iceland. Apart from the aforementioned Frenchman, there were Asians, Germans, lots of Brits, Americans, etc. And since I keep getting asked, especially by my co-workers, yes, there were many hot chicks there, and they were either clearly too young or with guys. But I tell you this, what with the swimming pool and the Lagoon showers, I´ve seen enough naked men to last me a lifetime. I mean, come on! Will someone please teach European men about manscaping?! For the love of God, Bigfoot doesn´t have that much back hair!!
So I´m going ahead and stopping in the local strip club (they call it "erotic club") this weekend so that, you know, I can look at some naked women for a change, and hopefully obliterate the images of hairy butt cracks from my mind forever.
After I managed to extricate myself from the water (and the showers), I had a quiet dinner in the local restaurant (grilled salmon with potatoes and cooked vegetables). For dessert I had skyr with blueberries. Skyr has been a staple of the Icelandic diet for about a thousand years. It´s essentially yogurt. It was one of the single best purchases I´ve made since I´ve been here.
After I got back to Reykjavik completely exhausted I agreed to meet Edouard for drinks at a local pub (he was leaving for the northern part of the country today), and then went back to my hotel for a good night´s sleep, which at the Hotel Metropolitan amounts to 5 or 6 hours, non-consecutive, interrupted every so often by the service elevator.
Today all the restaurants are closed, so I´ll be eating lunch in Reykjavik, Iceland at Pizza Pronto.
John
First, before we get to the Lagoon, a few observations:
Icelanders don´t tip.
I have actually been mistaken for an Icelander twice already---by other Icelanders. One woman asked me in Icelandic what time it was, and a carload of guys asked me in Icelandic what I can only assume were directions.
Some notes on Icelandic fashion. The young women wear high-heeled boots, jeans rolled up at the ankles, wide belts, and leather jackets with fur lining. The young men wear all sorts of things, but skinny ties are most prevalent. The jeans that men and women wear are tight, unlike the baggy-pants look in the States. The young men seem to favor heavy bangs on their foreheads parted to one side.
I have been eating a lot of hot dogs since I´ve been here. The locals call them pylsurs, and they are very big with the Icelanders, the equivalent of cheese steaks in Philly. They´re pretty good; I had one for breakfast today, because I slept through the breakfast at the hotel.
We were driven to the Blue Lagoon through more Martian landscape (they should film sci-fi movies here). The day was beautiful but cold. The Blue Lagoon spa itself is located in the middle of a field of volcanic rock roughly in the middle of nowhere. There´s construction going on there which leads me to believe they´re expanding it into a resort.
I arrived and went through the same drill as at the swimming pool: shoes off, shower first, then proceed to the lagoon. As usual, in the shower, there is always the ever-present danger of inadvertently touching another dude´s genitals.
It´s hard for me to describe the Lagoon itself. The waters are turquoise and smell vaguely of sulfur from the geothermal properties. Certain areas are warmer than others, and the steam can sometimes obscure everyone around you.
Basically you walk around in the water like a crab. Some areas are deeper than others, and the floor of the Lagoon is silica and rock, so flip-flops or rubber shoes are advisable. There are these silica mudmask stations where people can dip a spoon into the slats of a wooden crate which contains the white mud-like silica, which people then proceed to wipe all over their faces, so that they look like certain African tribes during religious ceremonies. Some who overdo it look like they´ve been in a pie fight. The masks are supposed to make your skin soft or something. It was funny watching people of different nationalities wiping this stuff all over each other.
I soaked in the water for about two hours until hunger forced me out. I showered, dressed, and went for lunch (more pylsurs--hey, at least they´re cheap). While I was there I also made the acquaintance of a young French student (a dude this time) named Edouard. Nice guy, very friendly, knew a lot about 70s European prog-rock. We talked politics and travel. Then it was back in the Lagoon.
During the afternoon shift I discovered the waterfall. Pardon my language, but that waterfall made me its bitch. I just stood there underneath and allowed that water to pound me into submission. It was like a car wash. Then it was into the steam room. Then back into the Lagoon.
I estimate conservatively that I spent cumulatively 6 hours in the water.
The whole experience was weird and wonderful.
This was also the most international crowd I´ve been with since I´ve been in Iceland. Apart from the aforementioned Frenchman, there were Asians, Germans, lots of Brits, Americans, etc. And since I keep getting asked, especially by my co-workers, yes, there were many hot chicks there, and they were either clearly too young or with guys. But I tell you this, what with the swimming pool and the Lagoon showers, I´ve seen enough naked men to last me a lifetime. I mean, come on! Will someone please teach European men about manscaping?! For the love of God, Bigfoot doesn´t have that much back hair!!
So I´m going ahead and stopping in the local strip club (they call it "erotic club") this weekend so that, you know, I can look at some naked women for a change, and hopefully obliterate the images of hairy butt cracks from my mind forever.
After I managed to extricate myself from the water (and the showers), I had a quiet dinner in the local restaurant (grilled salmon with potatoes and cooked vegetables). For dessert I had skyr with blueberries. Skyr has been a staple of the Icelandic diet for about a thousand years. It´s essentially yogurt. It was one of the single best purchases I´ve made since I´ve been here.
After I got back to Reykjavik completely exhausted I agreed to meet Edouard for drinks at a local pub (he was leaving for the northern part of the country today), and then went back to my hotel for a good night´s sleep, which at the Hotel Metropolitan amounts to 5 or 6 hours, non-consecutive, interrupted every so often by the service elevator.
Today all the restaurants are closed, so I´ll be eating lunch in Reykjavik, Iceland at Pizza Pronto.
John
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