Iceland in 56 hours

My trip starts auspiciously when I see the aurora borealis from the plane for several hours.  It wasn't as spectacular as some photos I've seen, but it was the first time I'd ever seen it, and it was entrancing -- beautiful waves and spears of pale green light.  It was so fascinating that I didn't sleep as much as I'd meant to.  See, the previous four days had been exhausting for me:  two meetings running concurrently on Friday and Saturday, business dinners Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday nights that sometimes went as late as 10:00 p.m., days starting at 7:00 a.m., and an all-day conference on Monday from which I had to leave early to get to the airport.  The flight left BWI at 8:10 p.m. and landed at Keflavík Airport in Iceland at 6:30 a.m. (a 5 ½-hour flight, plus a 5-hour time difference).

There was a dusting of snow on the ground when we landed, but it petered out as the "Flybus" drove up the peninsula toward Reykjavík.  So I wasn't surprised to get to my hotel and find that my dog-sledding tour had been canceled due to lack of snow -- nor was I entirely displeased, as it gave me the chance to get some sleep.  Hotel Esja, where I stayed, is one of the hotels owned by Icelandair -- I didn't have a choice of where to stay when I got this Midweek Madness deal.  It's a no-frills but clean place with "panoramic views of majestic Mt. Esja."  Unfortunately, my tiny room had a panoramic view of the majestic construction-equipment parking lot.  Still, it was comfortable enough, and I was unduly impressed with the geothermal heating.

I slept longer than I meant to, so I didn't get to downtown Reykjavík until 3:00 p.m.  On the walk from my hotel to downtown, I passed the Icelandic Phallological Institute, a.k.a. the penis museum.  It's like the Mütter Museum crossed with Spencer Gifts -- one side of the small, one-room museum contains jars of dismembered members floating in formaldehyde; the other has various penis-related tchotchkes that range from a joke 3-foot-long condom to handcrafted items that could nearly be called art.  The "scientific" side has 100 "penises and penile parts" from Icelandic mammals (no human specimens yet, although three are pledged, and one future donor thoughtfully included a cast of his donation for display).  Many of them are so decomposed that they're barely recognizable.  Others -- like the whale penises mounted on the wall -- are downright scary in their extreme pointiness.  The museum's brochure mystifyingly notes that "phallology is an ancient science which, until recent years, has received very little attention in Iceland, except as a borderline field of study in other academic disciplines such as history, art, psychology, literature, and other artistic fields like music and ballet."  Phallology is a field of study in ballet?

Visitor tip:  Certainly a worthwhile stop, especially since it will take you about 15 minutes to view the entire collection, and that's if you read all the little identifying cards.  Besides, telling people you've been to the penis museum generates envy and amazement the likes of which few other attractions can provoke, except possibly South of the Border.

Though I held out little hope that anything the rest of this trip could top the penis museum, I continued to the downtown area.  Reykjavík, incidentally, is a very walkable city.  Not only do they provide walking paths everywhere, even along highways, but it's on a small, intimate scale.  Plus, when you push the button at a traffic light that triggers the "walk" sign, it changes almost immediately.  People I'd spoken to made it sound as though my hotel was miles away from downtown, but I walked there in about 20 minutes.  The city has a fine municipal bus system, which I rode frequently, but you really can walk everywhere.  At first blush the city looks confusing, but it's quite easy to get your bearings.

Visitor tip:  Stop by the tourist information center and buy a "Reykjavík card" -- it gives you free admission to most of the museums around town, plus free rides on the bus system.

Iceland's Government House (the prime minister's office), ridiculously small, sits across from the tourist information center.  Further down the main road, Lækjargata, is the Tjörn, a small lake ("tjörn" is Icelandic for "lake") that the tourist brochure describes as "bird-infested," which I thought was a strong term until I actually saw the swarm of ducks, swans, and geese.  The city hall is a modern building cantilevered over the north end of the lake.  It was not open.

I walked down to the natural history museum.  It was closed for renovations.  Over to Norse House, a building designed by Alvar Aalto, meant to recall a Viking ship.  Closed.  On to the Árni Magnússon Institute, said to have an amazing collection of the ancient saga manuscripts.  Closed 15 minutes before I got there.

Visitor tip:  Get to all the museums you want to see before 4:00 p.m.  Most places seem to be open 10:00 to 5:00 at the latest, at least during the off season.

So I headed up the hill to the Hallgrímskirka, the giant cathedral that dominates the city.  It's meant to evoke the basaltic lava columns you can see all over the country, but it comes off a little too Albert Speer for my taste.  Out front is a heroically posed statue of Leifur Eiríksson, who discovered (and, some claim, settled) North America centuries before Columbus.  The elevator to the spire of the cathedral was -- you guessed it -- closed, but as I walked through the church, a wispy young woman in scruffy jeans set up a music stand underneath the impressive organ pipes at one end of the nave (I hope that's the correct term).  As her accompanist played the organ, she sang in an amazing voice that filled the building up to the high, arched ceiling, incongruous coming from such a slight body.

Visitor tip:  Try to visit the Hallgrímskirka when someone is singing there.  It will add immeasurably to your experience.

Down the hill a bit from the cathedral was a hotel whose restaurant had been highly recommended in some of the guides I'd read.  I think they were actually recommending a different restaurant, because the one I walked into bore no resemblance to the descriptions I'd read.  It was stark and ultra-modern and bore the name of its celebrity chef, Siggi Hall.  I nearly walked right out again, but I hadn't eaten all day, and I was ready to faint from exhaustion and hunger.  I almost did faint when I saw the prices on the menu -- but I was on vacation, and I figured I'd saved by not buying lunch.  So I ordered an insanely over-priced rack of lamb (Iceland is famous for its lamb -- also for its fish, but that didn't help me).  And you know what?  It was very nearly worth the price.  It was certainly the best lamb I can remember having -- tender and with a very distinctive taste.

Visitor tip:  Get the lamb.

I had more sunlight than I reckoned on.  The sun came up around 7:00 a.m., and it stayed light until 8:30 p.m. or so.  I was repeatedly told the fine weather -- cloudless skies, light though ever-present wind, and temperatures in the low 40s that felt warmer thanks to the brilliant sunshine -- was unusual for this time of year.

Before I continue, let me give my enviro-geek rave about Reykjavík:  because of the prevalence of hot springs all over the country, everything is heated geothermally (they even run hot-water pipes underneath the streets and sidewalks to keep them free of ice -- this means you frequently get whiffs of sulfur as you walk down the street), and nearly all their power comes from hydroelectricity or steam turbines.  The bus system is terrific and, as I mentioned, the city seems to encourage walking (not that there aren't plenty of cars).  The countryside has very few trees, because in medieval times, the Vikings cut down the birch forests and never replanted them.  Now, planting trees is a popular activity for company picnics, family outings, and teenagers' public service projects.

Since I started working at the American Institute of Architects, I've been looking more closely at architecture, and Reykjavík's is not especially... what's the word... good.  Their primary building materials are corrugated tin and concrete.  The corrugated tin that covers private houses and other small buildings can actually look pretty good (when it's not rusted through) -- they paint it in vibrant, saturated colors and add attractive trimmings.  But the large buildings are godawfully ugly -- depressing, Soviet-style blocks with no character.

Next: Day Two