PUFFINS!

So glad I didn't eat one of these little creatures! Seeing them in their natural habitat has been the absolute highlight of this journey, and I am thoroughly indebted to Svenni for taking us to these cliffs. The Westman Islands, off Iceland's southern coast, are home to the world's largest Puffin breeding colony, but the past few years have seen a decline in the bird's numbers. An article in this week's issue of The Grapevine, Reykjavik's English language paper, reports a 25% drop in the Islands' Puffin population, qualifying it as an endangered species. Islanders haven't stopped hunting them, but the paper says that local hunters have at least agreed to cut back on the killing. In addition to hunting the birds, scavenging for Puffin eggs on the cliffs is another popular sport on the Islands. When I saw Svenni drop to the ground and land on his back, I assumed he'd been knocked over by the formidable winds (Heimay is apparently the third windiest place in the world, according to some official list from some official office). Turns out he was egg hunting, laying on his back, one arm shoulder-deep in a Puffin hole, expertly searching for a precious, sizable egg. He didn't find one. Did you know that Puffins lay only one egg a year? Yet another factor in their current crisis. But enough with the depressing factoids. Here is an adorable little anecdote: When Puffin chicks hatch, their mothers abandon them so they can learn to fly on their own. In order to fly, a Puffin must be able to see the ocean, for reasons I don't fully understand. Sometimes, the tiny Pufflets get confused and slightly hypnotized by the city lights beaming from Heimay, and they mistakenly fly into town instead of towards the water. This happens every year in late August, prime Puffin season, and I can only imagine what it might be like to stroll down a street crowded with bewildered Puffin chicks. It's become a tradition for all the children on the island to go around and collect the chicks in baskets, bring them back to the shore and set them free. With the ocean back in sight, the birds are able to fly again, a ridiculous sight that everyone should witness in their lifetime. Puffins are terrible at flying, so awkward and clumsy, but so cute. Moral of the story: Don't eat Puffins!

The Sea Baron

The man who supplied us with our shark fix. He's famous!

Shark Bites!

Rose and I had been anticipating this moment, our hearts full of dread, since we arrived in Iceland. The timing couldn't have been worse- it was 10 in the morning and our bellies contained only a meager breakfast. Regardless, this was something we had to do. As I wrote in a previous entry, the shark delicacy, called hakarl, is not cooked, but rather dried, cured and finally frozen, a process that can take up to six months. I expected the meat to reek of poison, but thankfully it emitted only a potent, fishy odor. I assume the freezing serves to quell the stench of ammonia and acid, chemicals that accumulate within the kidney-lacking sharks and would surely kill any fool attempting to ingest the fish raw. As for the aftermath of my video, I couldn't manage to swallow my hakarl, mostly because of its unbearably rubbery texture. I would've been chewing that teensy bite for hours, a prospect that I'm even shuddering at right now, hours after the experience. My fingers are still perfumed with fish smell, and I pity the sucker who will soon be sandwiched between me and Rose on our flight home. Smell and mouthfeel aside, the hakarl didn't taste as ghastly as I expected. It was very salty and spoiled, but my body had prepared itself for the flavor of rotten fish, so fortunately for you, the viewer, you were not forced to watch me projectile vomit all over the Reykjavik harbor. You're welcome.

The Kindness of Vikings

So far, Rose's and my interactions with native Icelanders have been exceedingly pleasant (save for the shuttle plane operator who pushed me off the stairs rather than verbally inform me that it wasn't time to board). Every time we've approached someone for travel tips, the stranger's response has been to not only answer the question at hand, but to take us under his woolen sweater-clad wing and nurture our struggling itinerary until it is strong and chock-full of rewarding activities. Truth be told, as a couple of young, female Americans, the men who have assisted us (yes, sadly it's only been men) may be taking interest in our plight for largely biological reasons. Still, these guys conduct themselves in a way that is neither creepy nor overbearing. In our travels thus far, I've not been oggled, whistled at or aggressively approached by one man (except of course for those American sailors). Despite the culture's Viking origins, the country doesn't seem to celebrate machismo like a part of me expected it to. I'm giving the World's Strongest Man competition a free pass here because it was Independence Day, and it was sooo awesome. Let us not forget that women have always played major roles in Icelandic society, even dating back to Viking times. The world's first openly gay female prime minister currently presides over the government. Perhaps more strides towards gender equality have been taken here than any other place I've been.
Back to my initial topic- There was Fridrik, the grandfatherly hotel manager in Skogar who gave us free breakfast, printed us weather forecasts from the Internet, and planned us out a two-day sightseeing excursion in southern Iceland after dismissing our original schedule for being pointless, and even a little dangerous. We ended up doing everything he said, praising his name all the way. Please, if you're ever traveling Iceland, stay at one of Fridrik's All Season luxury hotels, and tell him we say hi. I've also mentioned Svenni before, the convenience store manager who gave us a free tour of the Westman Islands (where we flew to on Fridrik's suggestion). After wolfing yet another delicious gas station sandwich, I asked him if he had any tips on Puffin sighting, to which he replied, " Wait 15 minutes and I'll drive you to the Puffin cliffs." And so began the most exciting adventure I've had in years. Seeing Keiko's old pen was interesting, but nothing compares to seeing Puffins in the wild. Being native to the islands, Svenni is a seasoned Puffin hunter, and knew exactly which cliff to look for them at. More about our amazing Puffin adventure will come soon, but for now, because I told him I'd do my best to throw some business his way, here is a photo of Svenni's shop in Heimay, Westman Islands.

Keiko's Story

When Svenni, our convenience store clerk/Puffin tour guide, was driving us around the island of Heimay, he made a point to stop at a particular nook of the main harbor where he regaled us with an interesting (albeit tragic) anecdote about one of the world's most famous whale's. The story stuck with me, so I'm sharing it with you. Keiko was a great Killer Whale, born wild in Icelandic waters in the 1970s. After being caught by a fishing boat as a youngster, transported to North America and doing a stint at Canada's Marineland, Keiko was selected by Hollywood producers to fill the title role in "Free Willy" (I know y'all cried at that movie, so don't act like you've never heard of it). No one knew quite what to do with Keiko after the film's release, so in 1998 the Icelandic government decided to purchase back the giant Orca, reintroduce him to his natural habitat and eventually set him free. This was a mammoth task, and ridiculously expensive, because Iceland had to enlist a U.S. Airforce Hercules plane to move the whale all the way to Heimay. Part of the harbor was sectioned off and whale-proofed to ensure that Keiko would have plenty of space to move around, but also so that he wouldn't be able to escape until he was strong, healthy and acclimated to his surroundings. Everything progressed swimmingly, and by 2002 Keiko, fitted with a tracking device, was released to the wild. He followed a fishing boat to Norway, where he instantly earned fame amongst locals and tourists alike. His friendly disposition and comfort around humans made him a hit with tour boats off the Norwegian coast. But the icy waters did not agree with Keiko, and after a year of freedom the whale succumbed to pneumonia. I'm sorry if this story totally bums you out, and also because it's not that relevant to our travels, but for some reason it just tugged at my heart strings. These are some pictures of Keiko's old house.

What the Hekla?

This area is so remote, and the terrain so rocky that I wouldn't advise that anyone with a similar vehicular situation to ours attempt to travel there. Sadly, we were unable to approach the base of the volcano because of our car's limitations (nothing against the Skoda Octavia, finest motor carriage the Czech Republic has to offer). But you can see in the photos just how bizzarre and martian the area is. If you must abandon your car and continue by foot, as we did, pick a good landmark to remember your parking spot. Though it didn't feel like we'd walked far, Baby Sko (as we lovingly refer to our wheels) somehow vanished in the black desert, and we wandered aimlessly for a bit, chasing mirages, until she at last revealed herself behind some ominous lava rocks. We promptly got the hell out of there.

Ham n' Cheese on Highway 1

If you're ever in the neighborhood, this stop is about halfway between Reykjavik and Selfoss! They gave us free coffee because we were so jazzed about their sandwiches (at press time, we've each consumed about 5).

Gas Station Gourmet

In New Jersey partaking of any readily available hot food at a gas station seems like an easy way to contract a foodbourne illness. But in Iceland, gas stations offer everything from hamburgers and hot sandwiches (hot dogs included of course) to video rentals and yummy soft-serve ice cream. In some of our travels, gas stations have been the only place for miles to make a pit stop, and I have been very pleasantly surprised at not only the extreme cleanliness but the level of quality food choices.
So far, our agreed upon favorite gas station item is the hot ham and cheese sandwich. This seemingly normal sandwich comes on toasted white bread with a thin slice of ham, a thin slice of cheese (presumed to be of the Swiss variety) and is stuffed generously with lettuce, tomato, cucumber and a close cousin of thousand island dressing. This orangey, creamy sauce reminds us of the homemade thousand island dressing you could make as a kid with ketchup, mayonnaise and relish but missing some sort of zing. When we ordered this sandwich at an a la carte restaurant of sorts in the small coastal town of Vik, not only did the sandwich come complete with sauce, but we were given some on the side assuming itself to be used for dipping our paprika sprinkled french fries in. The hot, oozy cheese and grilled ham help to make this sandwich exactly what you need after a long travel and plenty of windy walks. Thanks to N1 and Olis pit stops for helping to make our stay more affordable and gas station gourmet.
-ROSE

volcano girls

there she blows

Gulfoss

Geysir!

To leave behind Reykjavik's bustling metropolis and enter the vast Icelandic countryside is to essentially beam up from Earth and land on a distant planet. For hundreds of kilometers today we saw nothing but sweeping, treeless landscapes strewn with menacing volcanic rocks blanketed by moss, with snow-capped cousins of Vesuvius chilling in the backdrop, nuzzling the clouds, waiting for us. The Geysir Rose and I visited today was the first to be discovered in history back in 1294. It's at the base of a volcano in the Haukadalur valley, where our accommodations for the evening are located, and is surrounded by dozens of smaller, but no less dangerous pools of bubbling, fart-scented water (of course by now we're both used to the sulfur fumes that hang thick in the air all over the country). Because we remain stupid Americans no matter how much worldliness we feign, Rose and I dipped our fingers in some of the run-off liquid streaming from one of the hot springs. Ouch. Walking back to the car we passed a couple tourists with an adorable puppy, off the leash and ecstatically running ahead of his owners towards the Geysirs, which are guarded only by anemic threads of rope. Bad recipe. "Dog soup, anyone?" I maliciously joked to my companion. Now I feel guilty, because as we were pulling away I swear I heard splashes and howling. But, moving on, here are some photos of Gulfoss ("Golden Falls"), Iceland's famous waterfall that we also saw this afternoon. Glorious, majestic, bad ass.

Independence Day Iceland Style

We woke up today planning to get on a bus and retrieve our rental car at the City Hostel. After missing our bus and realizing that many streets were closed for today's festivities, we said "what the hey?, let's stay one more day in this beautiful city and see some parades and what not". What we didn't know we were gonna get a chance to see was something miraculous. Something not often witnessed by our American east coast eyes. WORLD"S STRONGEST MAN COMPETITION. That's right, with the MET-RX sponsored shirts on and everything, we saw 5 large portioned men line up to compete in a "who can pull the ice cream truck the fastest" competition. The entire event was being announced not far away in Icelandic but I'm pretty sure the announcer said something like this" ahhh and here is Bjorn, he has been drinking 4 litres of milk every hour and eats 5 dozen eggs and thirty hot dogs a day for the past week to train for this celebratory event. He will be the fastest ice cream truck puller and become the best patriot in the country!"
-Rose

DIY Iceland: Necropants

A fun craft project for all ages!

1. Identify a man possessing great wealth and fertility who you envy because you are poor and impotent.
2. Kill said wealthy man, preferably with a Viking axe or dagger fashioned out of a whale's tooth.
3. Skin dead man completely from the waist down, and hide skin in a secure location.
4. Attend man's funeral, sitting close to his widow so you can easily snatch two coins from her satchel.
5. Go to secure, undisclosed location and retrieve decaying man-flesh.
6. Place the two stolen coins in, ahem, the dead man's "coin purse," if you will.
7. Pull on your new pair of Necropants over your jeans, sit back, and enjoy all the years of good fortune and virility that are headed your way, courtesy of your jerky dead neighbor!
WARNING: Do not die in your Necropants. If you do, you will go straight to hell and burn for eternity. Please remove Necropants before demise.

Thanks to our Haunted Reykjavik tour guide, Oli, for imparting this ancient wisdom upon us!

"The Pearl"- not the Dharma station on Lost

Best deal in Reykjavik!

Did I mention that this video was shot at what a U.K. magazine voted "Best Hot Dog in Europe?" Well, it's true, but you certainly wouldn't associate such a prestigious title with the dinky shack, called Baejarins Bestu, that serves up the precious weiners. The stand, unpretentiously nestled in a parking lot behind a pizza joint, might go unnoticed by passers by if it weren't for the crowds of hungry patrons that are always lined up for the cheap, juicy "pylsars." Hot dogs here contain a good percentage of lamb, along with the standard mix of cow and pig lips and rectal tissues. I didn't notice much of a difference in taste compared to normal Oscar Meyers, but my culinary cohort was able to detect the subtle departure from typical dog flavor. If you're wondering what transpired after I took that first, extraordinary bite, then you'll be excited to know that in addition to the chopped raw onion, I discovered a hidden layer of crispy, fried onion bits beneath my pylsar. Delicious! Also, the "brown gravy" I so expertly identified was actually a thick, spicy mustard, which was the condiment of choice for Bill Clinton when he visited the stand years ago. Now, customers who order a "Clinton" will accordingly receive a dog with the mustard only. So boring if you ask me.

Sunglasses at night

We just polished off a delicious, and shockingly inexpensive five-course tasting menu at some highbrow establishment housed at the Radisson. My belly is gurgling sweet thank yous for the salt cod, lamb loin and wonderful homemade bread with thick, creamy brown butter. Have I failed to mention by now how truly soul-pleasing the bread is here? So fragile and crusty, so soft and comforting on the inside. I think I'm in love.
The Merchant Marines have anchored themselves in Reykjavik, so Rose and I have spent much of today avoiding the roaming pockets of overexcited, beefy boys in viking hats with the fake blond hair attached. We made the mistake of telling one of them we were from Jersey, not knowing that he and his shipmates were from Long Island. A raucous, and embarrassingly public East Coast reunion erupted, Rose and I being unwilling participants of course. We're trying to blend in here guys! Having wised up, we knew to pretend we were Icelandic the next time our paths crossed with other rowdy seamen. Just nod your head, give a condescending smirk and walk away. We are Ice Princesses now!

Rose's Top 5 Things to Mork (so far...)

5. Bonus- the incredibly awesome "supermarket" dowtown that has an amazing assortment of cheeses and spreads (Emelyne and I are eating a yummy "soft icelandic white cheese" and sesame crispbreads right now. Come on, it's brie and crackers).
4. Icelandic hats. They are cute and wooly.
3. Milk-somehow dairy here is much more delicious. I'm pretty sure they don't know or care about skim milk and for that I love Iceland with my whole heart. May I please have some heavy cream for my cereal?!
2. Caviar in a tube
1. Emelyne pronouncing Icelandic words.

highlights of the journey

obstacles

This surely would not happen on a normal day. So we're all packed and ready to go, our hearts aflutter in anticipation of the world's most awesome vacation. Rose's lovely and generous mother has just picked us up for the long haul to JFK (why did there have to be so much traffic on a Sunday afternoon anyway?) and we're cruising down Cuyler like rock stars. A couple blocks from home and Rose realizes she left her shiny new Nalgene bottle in our apartment. Panic ensues, but is quickly squashed by the realization that we are merely blocks from home and can easily return to the dollhouse and fetch the bottle. I understand Rose's need for her precious vessel- nothing enhances one's wilderness cred like being seen sipping from a Nalgene, and one of our missions in Iceland happens to be embracing nature and getting dirty in the woods. So Rosalie sprints up the stairs to our home, inserts her key in the lock, turns it and, can you guess what happens next? The key snaps off in the door! Panic ensues once more, but this time the direness of our situation only seems to grow exponentially as the seconds wear on. Do we leave the key as it is, abandoning all hope of drinking water in Iceland, and worst of all resigning ourselves to being locked out of our apartment when we come home? This plan doesn't sit well with anyone. Fortunately Rose and I are able to track down our kindly landlord, who remains chill as Iceberg lettuce while he gathers up random pointy tools while his psychotic tenants follow him around hyperventilating. Like an old pro, he jimmies open the door just in time, and Rose bounds past him to retrieve what has at this point achieved a Holy Grail status in our minds. "Thanks Martin! Gotta go!" we say, fleeing the dollhouse and leaving him with the obnoxious task of either tweezing out the other half of the key or changing our locks altogether. You're in our thoughts Martin. Thanks man.

this is what we look like getting ready

Getting ready to take flight

Hello friends, family, co-workers and others! This is Emelyne, writing to invite you all on what is sure to be an unforgettable adventure in The Land of Fire and Ice. At this point I can't be sure how easily accessible certain technologies will be (i.e. Wi-Fi) in the Icelandic wilderness, but I can promise to try my best to regularly communicate what a crazy pleasant time Rose and I are having with sometimes scandalous, often disturbing, and always entertaining videos of our trip. I expect that most of these posts will relate to food and drink, seeing as we both have been obsessing over Icelandic cuisine for the past couple months. Here are a couple highlights I've stumbled across, just to tickle your tastebuds (I must warn you, however, that I have no clue how to doctor this text so it actually resembles the Icelandic language, so forgive me for all the crude spelling mistakes I'm sure to make in the next couple weeks):
Svio- a halved sheep's head, singed, sliced down the middle and laid on its side so the diner can easily scoop out the brainy, eyeball-y goodness. If Leatherface opened a Panera franchise, this would surely replace their soup in a bread bowl. Apparently this dish is common enough that you can order it from a drive-thru window at the Reykjavik bus terminal.
Puffin- Cute!! Iceland's unofficial mascot. Rose and I have been bragging to everyone how we're going to be devouring these adorable little creatures throughout the trip, but I honestly don't know if I'll be able to follow through. The availability and popularity of Puffin meat (which is pickled, smoked or eaten raw) is unclear, but I do know that we've just entered Puffin season, so I'll wait and see. My Frommer's guide does note that Puffin can sometimes taste like "burnt rubber marinated in fish oil." Folks, I am so on the fence with this one.
Hakarl: This is the legendary snack food that thrill seekers like Anthony Bourdain and Andrew Zimern have ingested for their viewers' entertainment and horror. It's putrefied shark meat, cured for months, cut into cubes and then munched on by Icelandic fishermen to put hair on chests and increase stamina. I read that it's traditional for the shark cubes to be chased with a burning, caraway flavored liquor nicknamed "The Black Death." Something tells me that this mini-meal will be hard to come by, but is that such a bad thing?

These are just a few of the traditional foods I've stumbled across in my research. As quirky as they sound, I must through some credit towards the historical people of Iceland for devising recipes that make full use of what limited resources the country had to offer. By the hammer of Thor, my mission isn't to hate on the diets of crafty Vikings. This is a mission of curiosity, love, and also hunger.

Welcome to our adventure!