Having recently visited the country for a short time, I have seen the light. (Of course, given the fact that the summer sun's up 23.5 hours every day, that light is hard to miss.)
It certainly helped starting off the journey in Icelandair's Saga (business) Class. I was properly greeted, cossetted in a comfy seat, sated with salmon, and delivered safely to Keflavik, a manageable little jewel of an airport with an extensive dutyfree shopping arcade. From JFK, the flight took less than five hours.
For the first 20 minutes en route from Keflavik to Reykjavik by cab, the land looks barren but the Nordic sky is luminous. There are no trees, just lava fields covered with velvety green moss. Soon enough I make out a pale blue body of water -- the Atlantic, of course -- then scattered houses, and mountains. As we drive closer to the city, I notice the mountaintops are dotted with snow.
Snow caps the mountains surrounding Reykjavik, even in summer.
It's mid-summer... New York is sweltering... and I'm seeing snow! (Later I learn that one of many Icelandic legends has to do with this summer snow. They say that if it all evaporates by August, something dire will occur. It happened in 1996... and there was a volcanic eruption outside the city.)
Anyway, there's snow up there in July, and the weather's a comfortable 55 degrees. I'm willing to pack a lot into the days, since it stays light for all but half an hour. The first place I visit is a community swimming pool heated entirely by underwater geothermal springs. Icelanders frequent these facilities every day of the year, meeting friends, debating politics, and simply luxuriating in the pool and adjacent Jacuzzis. No wonder they look so healthy and enjoy such longevity.
After the swim I experience two outdoor sculpture gardens accompanied by a learned guide. First was Asmundur Sveinsson's, whose creations call upon Nordic sagas for inspiration. Historic and heartfelt, his work provides a window into the Icelandic soul. Ainar Jonsson, a contemporary, may have been the more masterful technician, but his work lacks Sveinsson's warm emotion. Contemplating and comparing the displays with my enlightening guide is an aesthetic delight.
Touring outside the city is imperative, though. There's everything from geysers to glaciers to hold one as spellbound as a mid-season sale at Saks. Up north, adventurers can go snowmobiling, dogsledding, and experience other chilly adventures in an Arctic Jeep. Elsewhere you can river raft, sea kayak, fish, and whale watch.
Thingvellir National Park, closer to Reykjavik, is where the North American and Eurasian tectonic plates meet and stretch apart. One side holds grassy meadows and placid lakes; the other rough lava terrain. A place of great significance to the Icelandic people, the park is also where Europe's first parliament convened in 930 A.D. Today it's a magnificent place to picnic. And hike, if you must.
If you don't care to picnic, head back into the city for lunch at trendy Apoteka, a grand space that could easily pass for a SoHo boite. Dinner at Lakjarbrekka, where you can feast on a squadron of prawn-size Icelandic lobsters, is also not to be missed. And I like the sensible idea that patrons are handed a dinner menu in the bar, so they can order dinner before they get to the table.
Walls of waterfalls, volcanic craters, lava flows flocked with moss...
And hot springs hissing with steaming water, hillsides planted with blue lupine, and puffin perches are among the sights in nature's repertoire. One of the best ways to experience them is on horseback. The sturdy little Icelandic horses are so gentle anyone but a tenderfoot like me would feel at ease cantering across these magical landscapes.
The Blue Lagoon turns out to be my kind of place. Not a spa as Americans know it: No buff bullies to threaten one with corporal abuses such as a full body scrub or Scotch shower (in fact, they sell ice cream here, lots of it). The draw is the lagoon's therapeutic waters, surrounded by black lava fields. The opaque blue-green reservoir of mineral-rich H2O is heated to about 100 degrees. Since the air's only about 60 degrees, steam continually rises from the milky water.
I paddle around, peering through the fog at the old folks and kids, the lovers and the lonely, all bobbing in this ethereal human soup. Stress leeches away.
I start to think that perhaps heaven isn't composed of clouds but of Iceland's naturally warm, buoyant, healing waters. It's a real possibility. But you ought to visit -- and decide for yourself.
