Welcome to Iceland

The capital of Iceland, Reykjavik, looks like a small town in West Texas, where the settlers have not had time or money to build permanent homes. As in many cases, this impression is deceptive. Icelanders live in comfortable homes using local resources.

Since there is no local timber, one-story houses are built of concrete blocks with tin roofs. Iceland is volcanic, like Hawaii, with thermal springs providing hot water piped to all the houses for radiant heat. A second set of pipes supplies every house with ice cold water from Iceland’s glaciers. Houses have no chimneys. This gives the town its strange, temporary look.

In what otherwise would be a dreary setting, every house is brightened with windows displaying sheer curtains, dazzling white, many with white embroidered borders.

Along some streets there are a few spindly mountain ashes, the only trees I saw in Iceland. Too near the Arctic, I was told, like above the tree line in the mountains.

A few marigolds struggled to bloom in flower beds in front of the capitol. The capitol itself is a white, one-story building about the size of an elementary school. Coming from a state where every little county has an imposing Victorian courthouse, I had difficulty realizing this indeed was the capitol of a country.

One afternoon I waited on the steps in front of the capitol for Wally, who said he would meet me there after a meeting with the stamp collectors. The day was sunny, and my winter coat kept me warm in Reykjavik’s perpetual chill. I am pretty good about entertaining myself, but after an hour I was stiff from sitting on cold concrete.

Some stamp collectors came by and asked, “What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for Wally.”
“He went with some of the others to look for a wool shop. They went up this street.”

I started walking. I walked and walked. I found the wool shop. Yes, some men had been there, but they left. I was tired. Outside the shop, I stopped a woman on the sidewalk and asked where I could catch a bus to the hotel.

In perfect English, she showed me where to cross the street and pointed out the pole which marked the bus stop. Then she reached into her purse, and took out a bus token.

“You don’t need to do that,” I said. “I have money.”

“You take it,” she said. “Welcome to Iceland.”