I didnt think I would be in quarantine for the rest of my life, but I did worry that I might emerge from it with a terminal case of inertia. I wondered if I would ever travel again, or would anyone for that matter. Perhaps it would be time to retire my travel blog. But when my friend Adele called and asked, Iceland? my inner therapist gave me a sharp nudge and I agreed.
I thought of it as a kind of experiment titled Travel in the Age of the COVID. I had high confidence in my pair of Moderna vaccinations, but I wasnt so confident that the tourism industry would be ready for me. Would flights be cancelled? Were car rental agencies and hotels still operating? Did Airbnb succumb to the disease? In addition, the regulations for entering Iceland and changed weekly. Forms had to but no more than three days before arrival. I was asked if I was in an intimate relationship with a legal resident of Iceland? If so, how intimate? I should spare no details. If I was admitted, and there were no guarantees, I would be required to quarantine for five
days at an approved hotel. But there, at the bottom of the list of exceptions, in fine print: travelers with proof of vaccination are exempt. Getting back to the US would be a bigger problem, but more on that later.
Despite all uncertainties, St. Christopher delivered Adele and me to a guest house in Reykjaviks punk rock 101 district. We spent the day exploring. I was struck by how the city seemed. There were no grand old castles or cathedrals. Rather it looked like a city built to withstand harsh winters. (Judging by how cold we were in June, I can easily imagine the brutality of winter.) The citys landmark cathedral was modern and looked as if it had been extruded from a giant tube of wet cement. The statues scattered around the city were gratuitously modern blobs. We amused ourselves by trying to read Icelandic signs. The first half of a typical word begins with a promisingly of letters but then devolves into a jumble of clashing consonants, extra syllables, and letters. I cant imagine the grammar must be. (There is a movement to save Icelandic from being
replaced by English—which seems inevitable. For example, instead of the loanword, computer Icelanders should say tlva which roughly translates to number prophetess.)
To warm up we stepped into the Cafe. Adele ordered a bowl of tomato soup; I ordered a grilled cheese sandwich and a cup of coffee. The bill was $50! Its true that almost everything in Iceland, like coffee, is imported. But more significantly, in the 1990s Icelands government came up with the idea of making Iceland an international banking center where Russian oligarchs, Colombian drug lords, and the Bush family could hide their money. The scheme collapsed when the 2007 recession hit, leaving Iceland in crippling inflation that is still with them today.
That night I struggled to sleep, partly due to jetlag, but mostly because the damned sun refused to go down. At 2 AM I dragged myself into the bathroom to dig an Ambien out of my kit. I could tell by the light streaming in the window that it wasnt that the sun hadnt gone down yet, but in fact, the sun was rising. A voice in my head called for coffee.
The next morning Adele and I drove to the Blue Lagoon, Icelands famous thermal baths. I became a fan of European bathhouses when I lived in Switzerland. Theyre kind of like amusement parks for adults, although many of them also have fun waterslides and whirlpools for kids (like me). The approach to the Blue Lagoon is on a raised walkway that crosses a field of lava rocks covered with patches of yellowish moss. Between the rocks clouds of steam rise from bubbling pools of pale blue water. Through the steam, I could see the low profile of a sleek modern building made of concrete and glass.
Once inside we were given bracelets that we could use to pay for drinks at the bar and mud masks at the spa.
