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The Most Popular Restaraunt in Iceland is a Hot-Dog Stand… Seriously

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It all started with an August night. The three of us, friends since before we could spell our last names, sat around a bonfire in a southern-Ontario hamlet. The same-old scene: beer in hand, music playing, warm breeze sifting through the trees.

One of us, Sarah, was a day away from leaving the country to study in Copenhagen, Denmark, for an entire year. This was our last night together, and we laughed and talked about the summer we had had.

And it had been a good summer, filled with swimming pools and late nights and all-around carefree laughs. None of us were really looking forward to its end, to the beginning of a new semester where we would all be separated for months.

So, on this last night, after a fit of laughing at nothing in particular, Sarah turned to me and said, out of nowhere;

“At the end of the school year, you’re meeting me in Denmark, and we’re going to backpack around Europe.”

Travelling had always been on my to-do list, but it had seemed like a childish fantasy, not something I had ever known anyone in my small town to do. It seemed out of reach and dangerous and exciting and something that I was completely, utterly, hopelessly not prepared to do. A hurricane of excuses instinctively ambushed my mind; I was too young, I didn’t have the money, I don’t have a sense of direction, I had never been on a plane, I just flat out straight up would not know how to handle myself.

But the main reason I wanted to say no was because I was afraid. I didn’t know anything except for the towns I grew up in and attended school. I found comfort in their familiar streets, and in knowing that no matter where I walked in my town I would run into somebody I knew.

As I opened my mouth to voice one of these excuses, one single thought stopped me.
The thought of an adventure. A real one, like ones I had only ever read about in books. I looked at Sarah and nodded. We turned to our third member, Alex, a recent graduate with no current plans other than working at the local grocery store, and asked him if he’d be interested. He shrugged, and replied with a casual “Sure, why not?”

Fast forward one school year later, to May 28, 2010. Alex and I sit in the terminal at Toronto Pearson International Airport. He cavalierly flips through a magazine, I watch planes take off through the window and contemplate what to vomit into: my purse at my feet, or a garbage can at the end of our row of chairs. Having never flown before, I didn’t know what to expect upon boarding the plane. I thought of our backpacks somewhere out of sight, in the catacombs of the airport, being roughly handled by evil men with black handle bar moustaches and spider web tattoos. Those bags were our lives for the next three months, and I was terrified at the thought of something happening to them before we even left Canada. We had a million hour overnight flight to Keflavik International Airport in Iceland, with a day-long stop over before boarding another plane to take us to Denmark, Copenhagen.

I watched with dread as the seconds ticked by. Thirty-two minutes and forty-eight seconds before boarding. Forty-seven seconds. Forty-six. Forty-five. Every second that passed took a piece of my sanity with it. I was covered in a cold sweat and couldn’t stop fidgeting.  I was certain that I was going to lose consciousness and Alex was going to have to carry me onto the plane.

The change of heart came while we were buckled into seats 18C and 17C, second class, IcelandAir. The uncertainty washed away as I watched the sun set over the Atlantic Ocean from 32,000 feet. There was no leg room, bad food, and I was seated between Alex (who can sleep through anything, and who snores) and another passenger who had no sense of personal space. Still, I had seemingly left my fears and doubts in the airport terminal. I couldn’t sleep at all during the trip; I was high on adrenaline and excitement for the months to come. I couldn’t stop looking at the moon through the window, or playing with the tiny movie screens on the seats in front of us. When we landed at Keflavik International Airport at seven a.m (our plane took off at 9:10 the night before) I was wired and punch-drunk, and Alex was cranky from having slept sitting upright with his neck at an awkward angle.

The weather in Canada the day we left had been an uncomfortable high of twenty-eight degrees. We were wearing shorts and t-shirts when we set out for our day in Iceland, having never checked the weather forecasts. It was a rainy, windy high of ten degrees.

Amateur Traveler’s Tip #1- Research weather temperatures of future destinations, and dress accordingly, regardless of what the weather is like in the country of your departure.

Sadly, we were not prepared for the temperature change, and spent our day enjoying the scenery despite my frozen toes and Alex’s sudden desperation to purchase an authentic Icelandic wool sweater.

Our first impression of Iceland was: Is this it? The airport was deceivingly set in a wide field of volcanic rocks, a view which carried a continuous pattern in every direction as far as the eye could see. Our first hour spent in Iceland involved feeble reenactments of scenes from Lord of the Rings. When we gave up hope and headed back towards the airport, a string of taxi-cabs caught our attention. Now, keep in mind, our student budget frowned upon unnecessary luxuries, but since there was no available bus system and we thought we were in the middle of nowhere, and not having wanted our first stop on our adventure to be a bust, we got in a cab and asked the driver to take us into town.

Lo-and-behold, to our surprise, the nearest town (Reykjavick) was only a five minute cab ride away. Our cabbie was the sweetest 75 year old man. He had a soft spot for travelers and a very strong sense of patriotism. He gave us a tour of his hometown, free of charge, before dropping us off to explore on our own.  Reykjavik is a small fishing community. The population is low, with one person for every square kilometer. It is nestled on the Western coast of Iceland, surrounded by scenic cliffs and brightly colored houses.

Alex and I spent our time exploring the town. The scenery was breathtaking. Grassy knolls snaked down to rocky beaches. A deep green lake led the way to the ocean and cradled the girth of snowy mountains. When the clouds chose to part, coins of sunlight danced off the careful ripples of the water’s surface.  Abstract sculptures had been placed meticulously throughout the town to honor the local trade. One, a giant anchor, stood stoically on the shore as a memorial for fishermen lost at sea.

The whole place, despite the grey weather, had such a sunny disposition that one couldn’t help but daydream of renting a cottage on the waterfront just outside of town. The people were wonderful, and delighted by our accents. Storeowners frequently stopped us to ask how we were enjoying our vacation, and to inquire politely about our future travel plans. Every conversation ended with: Safe travels! Enjoy your stay in Iceland!

The sense of patriotism was respectful but profound. Upon leaving, when Alex and I both agreed that we instantly missed the country and regretted not having more time to spend there, I understood why. Sadly, all of our pictures from that day were maliciously wiped from the laptop by a demonic virus hell-bent on (figuratively) slapping me in the face.

Amateur Traveler’s Tip #2- Upon uploading any pictures/video, immediately save said documents to a USB key, flash drive, etc.

And so, the day ended, and we boarded a plane yet again to continue our journey. The sun was setting on the island as we left, and I can proudly say I fell asleep with naught a worry in my head, only thoughts of the beautiful place we were leaving, and the amazing places to come.