Home » Articles posted by Tarnmoor (Page 390)

Author Archives: Tarnmoor

I Am Blown Away

Posted on by | 5 Comments
I Thought It Was Curtains for me....

I Thought It Was Curtains for Me….

If you read about the places to visit in Iceland, you will hear about the bird cliffs at Látrabjarg, the westernmost point in Europe (if you except some of the lesser-populated Azores Islands far to the south). Some nine miles in length, the cliffs average over 1,300 feet in height.

It was not easy to get to Látrabjarg using public transportation. Three times a week, a Sterna bus left Isafjördur at 9 a.m., returning twelve hours later. More than half the trip was over bumpy volcanic cinder roads between Þhingeyri and Brianslækur and between Patreksfjördur and Látrabjarg. Along the way, it stopped twice for the arriving Baldur ferry from Stykkisholmur and Flatey. I knew it would be a bear, but I took the bus a week ago today.

Some days in Iceland are beautiful and clear. Last Saturday was not. As the bus parked at the foot of the cliffs, we all learned we had a mile to hike to the top. A gale-force wind was blowing with light rain, from east to west. As I climbed the trail to the top, I felt the wind tugging me toward the edge.

Twice, I was blown down by strong gusts—each time distressingly close to a plunge to my death over the cliffs. (It happened once last year to a German backpacker.) To protect myself, I dropped down, being unable to make any forward motion in the wind.

Eventually, I made my way back to the bus. The Icelandic driver obligingly let me in an hour before the rendezvous time and informed me that it was like this about half the time. Other times, it was beautiful; and the cliffs abounded with puffins and razorbills. Today, the birds knew better than to try to fly into the teeth of the wind.

Do I regret the trip? Was it a wasted day? By no means: I saw parts of the West Fjords that—in an entirely different sense of the word—took my breath away. And I got to see the wedding-cake-like Dynjandi Falls twice. Just for the record, here is my best photograph of it:

Dynjandi Falls in the West Fjords

Dynjandi Falls in the West Fjords

In all, I saw the falls three times. It was worth it. Sure I got tired out. When we rolled back into Isafjördur around 9 p.m., I stumbled into the nearby N1 Gas Station and ordered a pylsur (that’s hot dog to you) and skyr. Then I somehow tottered over to the Gamla Hostel across the street and fell into a deep sleep.

 

Girls Who Say “Yow”

Posted on by | 1 Comment
Icelandic Cannery Workers in Keflavik, Circa 1930s

Icelandic Cannery Workers in Keflavik, Circa 1930s

Actually, all Icelandic women say “Yow,” but only when they’re being positive. It happens that the word for “Yes” in Icelandic is Já, which is pronounced Yow. I repeatedly cracked up hearing conversations among women in which they kept Yowing back and forth to one another.

One day, while I was eating dinner at the Hotel Vestmannaeyjar’s Einsi Kaldi Restaurant in Heimaey, the Icelandic girls’ soccer team walked in, still wearing their field uniforms. (There had been a national soccer tournament in Heimaey, which complicated my getting a hotel booking in town.)  After swooning at the impact of the beauty of so many Viking princesses at one time, I was amused by all the Yowing that went on as they described the game just completed.

Where I Encountered the Icelandic Girls’ Soccer Team

Where I Encountered the Icelandic Girls’ Soccer Team

Ever since Quentin Tarantino made a famous comment about young Icelandic women in a Conan O’Brien appearance about “supermodels working at McDonald’s,” stories and myths have abounded about the legendary beauty of Reykjavík girls. (BTW, McDonald’s pulled out of the country because they couldn’t compete with the local hamburger restaurants, which are pretty good.) Much of what he said is about the party scene in Reykjavík—which can get extreme with young women becoming seriously drunk and (presumably) available—is uncomplimentary and not a little insulting.

With my advanced age and scruffy looks, I did not presume to partake in any party scenes. Instead, I dealt with numerous Icelandic women throughout the island and found them to have a great sense of fun.

When I was in Isafjörður, I met a young guide named Thelma (pronounced “Talma”) from West Tours, with whom I took a trip to Vigur Island (about which more at another time). All the time I was there, I kept running into her at various places—it was a village of only 2,000 or so—and she remembered me each time and stopped to chat with me.

Okay, so maybe they saw “Yow” a lot, but Icelandic women are all right in my book.

A Flatey State of Mind

Posted on by | 9 Comments
Church and Tiny Library on the Island of Flatey

Church and Tiny Library on the Island of Flatey

In the twelfth century, there was a famous monastery on this tiny little island among many on Breiðafjörður in Northwest Iceland. It was at this monastery that the famous Flateyjarbók with its many sagas was written. Among these sagas are the ones dealing with the Icelandic discoveries of Greenland and North America, as well as many of the tales of Norwegian royalty that make up Snorri Sturluson’s Heimskringla saga.

What’s left today of that monastery? Nothing, except a single stone, which I was unable to find. I would like to think, however, that it was this stone:

Could This Be All That Remains of the Great Monastery at Flatey?

Could This Be All That Remains of the Great Monastery at Flatey?

Centuries later, long after the monastery stones were carted off to form shielings for the local sheep farmers, Flatey was a prosperous town with a large and active fishing fleet.

And today? Flatey has only four year-round inhabitants, though Icelanders from Reykjavík and the northwest of the country like to summer there. I spent the night in the old Hotel Flatey, the only one remaining, with a decided feel of the nineteenth century. (The restaurant, however, was quite excellent and up to date, with its delicious fish specials.)

After dinner, I took a walk on the tiny island in a vain attempt to look for puffins. As I left the “village,” I was immediately attacked by arctic terns for daring to venture near their nesting grounds. Terns are not particularly large, but they are aggressive and can cause painful beak punctures in the head. I had heard about them,  but did not know they were nesting on Flatey. It was only later that a hotel employee told me I should have taken a stick from a box near the entrance: Arctic terns tend to attack the tallest point of an invading person’s body, and they cannot discern the difference between a head and an upraised stick. It was an interesting experience, and a little scarey.

Overall, however, I felt a great sense of peace on this little island that once was the scene of great intellectual, religious, and commercial accomplishments—but now is just a peaceful place (except for the terns) where can stare across the fjörd at the countless uninhabited islands.

Some of the Thousands of Islets of Breiðafjöður seen from Flatey

Some of the Thousands of Islets of Breiðafjörður Around Flatey

Although I had to be on the 10 a.m. ferry from the dock on Flatey, I enjoyed my evening and morning in this place that once was a bustling center and is now only a place of isolation and tranquillity.

Why I Went to Iceland

Posted on by | 3 Comments
The Geyser Strokkur at—Where Else?—Geysir in Iceland

The Geyser “Strokkur” at—Where Else?—Geysir in Iceland

My friend Catina Martinez wrote, “I’ve had lots of friends and family traveling to Iceland lately. I hope you’ll blog about how you chose Iceland. Sounds lovely.” Well, now that I’m back, I thought I’d start with a summary of why I went and answer Catina’s request.

I suspect my reasons will seem strange to many people, but then I am a strange person. It all started with my reading of the medieval Icelandic sagas, beginning with the Njals Saga and going on to the other four principal works: Grettir’s Saga, Laxdaela Saga, The Eyrbyggja Saga, and Egils Saga. At the time they were written in the 13th and 14th centuries, they were the best literature that was written anywhere at the time in Europe.

Now how could that be? The Icelanders were, after all, Vikings. Didn’t they wear helmets with bulls’ horns on them and inspire the other Europeans with fear? Wasn’t a standard prayer of the time “From the fury of the Norsemen, good Lord, deliver us”? And yet they also created a great literature.

Oh, and along the way, they discovered and settled America. (And also Greenland, along the way.)

Of course, their settlement didn’t last; but the Icelanders were definitely there: At L’Anse aux Meadows in Newfoundland, archeologists have discovered artifacts proving they had been there for a time.

Evidently, there’s something going on in that little island whose total population is less than that of a one-mile radius around my apartment in West Los Angeles. It is the most literate country in the world (100%), and I have heard a strange statistic that even I cannot believe: Namely, that 10% of adult Icelanders have written and published books.

At the same time, Iceland is a country of stark and eldritch beauty. Mostly volcanic in origin, some 18 volcanoes have erupted—some multiple times—since the island was settled by Norwegians late in the 8th century A.D. Some of them, especially Laki in 1783-84 were severe enough to have killed off a quarter of the population and imperiled agriculture throughout the island. The eruption of Eyjafjallajökull (bet you couldn’t say that ten times) in 2010 led to massive disruption of air navigation throughout Europe for months. And during the Middle Ages, Hekla was thought to be the gate of Hell.

The geysers at Geysir, the active volcanoes, the glaciers, the thousands of waterfalls everywhere, and the lovely green valleys of the south of the country make it a land of startling contrasts.

And so it was for me. The place takes my breath away.

In the weeks to come, I will keep coming back to these subjects, with supporting photographs I have taken during the last three weeks, such as the one above.

Off to Iceland

Posted on by | 3 Comments
Hey, I Can’t Kick!

Hey, I Can’t Kick!

I’m off to Iceland early tomorrow morning. Because the medications I have to take with me outweigh even a fairly heavy laptop, I will not be blogging during my trip. I’ll be back around July 10.

Europe by the Threes

Posted on by | 1 Comment
I Guess It Just Worked Out That Way ...

I Guess It Just Worked Out That Way …

When Peter III became Czar of All he Russias for a brief while in 1762, George III —who apparently was at that time in full possession of his faculties—made note of the fact that the rulers of Europe were:

  • George III, King of England
  • Charles III, King of Spain
  • Augustus III, King of Poland
  • Frederick III, Duke of Saxe-Gotha
  • Frederick III, King of Prussia
  • Charles Emanuel III, King of Sardinia
  • Mustapha III, Emperor of the Ottomans
  • Peter III, Czar of Russia
  • Francis III, Duke of Modena

Germany did not exist at that time as a single nation state, nor did Italy. But for so many of the monarchs at one time to be the third of their various names was unprecedented in history. (Of course, it didn’t last because Peter III was assassinated, probably at the behest of Catherine the Great, his wife, after six months as Czar.)

This interesting fact comes from one of my favorite sites, The Futility Closet.

Kierkegaard’s Wayfarer

“Winter Landscape” by Sesshu Toyo

“Winter Landscape” by Sesshu Toyo

Imagine a wayfarer. He has been brought to a standstill at the foot of a mountain, tremendous, impassable. It is this mountain ….. no, it is not his destiny to cross it, but he has set his heart upon the crossing; for his wishes, his longings, his desires, his very soul, which has an easier mode of conveyance, are already on the other side; it only remains for him to follow. Imagine him coming to be seventy years old; but the mountain still stands there, unchanged, impassable. Let him become twice seventy years; but the mountain stands there unalterably blocking his way, unchanged, impassable. Under all this he undergoes changes, perhaps; he dies away from his longings, his wishes, his desires; he now scarcely recognizes himself. And so a new generation finds him, altered, sitting at the foot of the mountain, which still stands there, unchanged, impassable. Suppose it to have happened a thousand years ago: the altered wayfarer is long since dead, and only a legend keeps his memory alive; it is the only thing that remains—aye, and also the mountain, unchanged, impassable. And now think of Him who is eternally unchangeable, for whom a thousand years are but as one day—ah, even that is too much to say, for they are for Him as an instant, as if they did not even exist….

Anyone not eternally sure of Himself could not keep so still, but would rise in His strength, Only one who is immutable can be in this manner so still.

He gives men time, and He can afford to give them time, since He has eternity and is eternally unchanging.—Søren Kierkegaard, Judge for Yourselves!

Packing for Iceland

Posted on by | 2 Comments
The Lighter You Pack, the More Fun You’ll Have

The Lighter You Pack, the More Fun You’ll Have

I always shake my head when I see travelers with multiple large suitcases per person. Not only do they pay the airlines a small fortune in fees, but they are severely hampered as to where they can go. When I land at Keflavík Airport on Thursday morning around 6:30 am, the terminal will not be full of native bearers waiting to assume my heavy loads. If I am lucky, I will be able to grab a cart to go through customs. Then I will haul my bags to the Flybus to drive me across the desolate lunar landscape of the Reykjanes Peninsula to Reykjavík BSI Bus Terminal.

There, with my luggage still in tow, I’ll sit down at the travel agency there and obtain maps and bus tickets. Then I’ll take a cab to the Guesthouse Odinn at Óðinsgata 9, where my big bag will be held until check-in time at 1 pm.

I will carry two blue bags, a big one with my clothes, medications, and toiletries, and a small shoulder bag with my electronics, guidebook, and various reservation confirmations. The blue bag is always with me, containing what I need through the day. The big bag generally stays in my room.

For a good guide to packing light, I recommend you check out OneBag.Com, especially their annotated packing lists. They quote a timely lyric from Johnny Cash: “I ain’t takin’ nothin’ that’ll slow down my travelin’ …”

Since I’m on insulin, I’ll have to take particular care packing my medications, especially my insulin, glucose testing supplies, etc. I’ll cut back severely on the nutritional supplements I’ll be taking. I’ll be eating plenty of fish, so no Omega-3. In fact I’ll just take a once a day multi-vitamin plus an antioxidant I’ve been taking for years. Oh, and I’ll be taking a letter from my doctor pointing out to all and sundry that I am a needle medications user.

 

 

The Japanese Garden

Posted on by | 1 Comment
The Japanese Garden at Huntington Library and Gardens

The Japanese Garden at Huntington Library and Gardens

Closed for over a year for a $6.8 million overhaul, the Japanese Garden at the Huntington Library and Gardens in San Marino, California, has recently marked its centenary. It had reopened in April looking as stunning as ever, with its koi ponds, ornamental trees, its moon bridge, traditional Japanese house, and scattered strategically-placed temple-like structures.

Now with the addition of the equally spectacular Chinese Garden, the Huntington remains one of the primo tourist attractions in Southern California. Sometimes, I wonder why people visiting here make the needless trek to Hollywood with its crumbling Walk of Fame and decaying footprints at Grauman’s Chinese Theater. My vote for the best tourist attractions in the Southland are, along with the Huntington, Descanso Gardens in La Cañada-Flintridge and the Los Angeles Arboretum in Arcadia.

Sometimes I think that people from out of town who dislike Southern California do so mainly because they have been badly informed.

 

The Boy Who Loved Maps

Posted on by
Somehow, I Had to Get Out of Cleveland...

Somehow, I Had to Get Out of Cleveland…

Ever since I learned how to speak and read English, I grew to love maps. We had an old atlas whose binding was falling apart. Whenever I had a few spare moments, I would sit down, page through it, and try to memorize the maps that interested me most. Not that I understood what I was looking at: I remember pointing to a Mercator projection map of the world and claiming that Napoleon cheated us in the Louisiana Purchase, as Alaska was so much bigger. And Greenland was gigantic! Was it not one of the world powers?

Even as a boy in Cleveland, I loved the whole idea of far places, of different cultures. In the 1950s, read such obscure books as the Rev. Harold W. Rigney’s Four Years in a Red Hell about the Catholic priest’s imprisonment in Red China, and another book, whose name I have forgotten, about Soviet concentration camps around Vorkuta. What interested me was not so much the attacks on Communism as the books’ exotic locales.

Baudelaire describes me to a tee in “Le Voyage”:

Pour l’enfant amoureux de cartes et d’estampes,
L’univers est égal à son vaste appétit.
Ah! que le monde est grand à la clarté des lampes!
Aux yeux de souvenir que le monde est petit!

Which can be translated as follows (though I prefer the French):

For a child in love with maps and engravings,
The universe is equal to his vast appetite.
Ah, how the world is great by lamplight!
Through the eyes of memory the world is small.

Here I was, simultaneously hooked on the idea of travel and, at the same time, stuck in Cleveland. We didn’t have much money to allow for travel. All I can remember are a few day trips in Ohio, a few days in lovely Detroit, Niagara Falls (but I was only five), and trips to Florida at the ages of five and fourteen. Why do you suppose I wanted to leave Cleveland to go to college? Not only was my parents’ marriage threatening to go on the rocks (it somehow held), but I felt stifled by Cleveland’s provincial ways. All those Hungarian-American homebodies!

But there was always that atlas. You know what? I’m still that way. My mind is a capacious geographic storehouse. I can sketch the outlines of many of the countries on earth and locate their capitals and major cities. And I can tell you what countries border them.

That knowledge has always stood me in good stead. When I go somewhere I have never been before, I make sure that I am prepped for it. Although my vacations only run about two or three weeks, I can s-t-r-e-t-c-h out the time so that the vacation and its preparation take half a year. I started in on Iceland in February, and it won’t be until July that I work it all out of my system.