“So long, New York. Howdy, East Reykjavic.”—Bob Dylan
In the Summer of 1962, The Russians Were Coming. Oh, not here, just to Cuba, but close enough. President John F. Kennedy, an amiable man under most conditions, had become highly annoyed when Russia’s trailboss Nikita Khrushchev first secreted a few thousand soldiers wearing checkered shirts and posing as civilian agricultural advisors onto the island. When Kennedy discovered they brought Soviet nuclear missiles with them, he blew a gasket. The feisty Khrushchev pointed out that the United States had recently placed missiles near the Russian border in Turkey so all’s fair in love and cold war.
JFK announced that the United States would not permit further missiles from entering Cuba, establishing a military blockade of the island. More Soviet missile-carrying ships were already on the way and Khrushchev warned Kennedy not to interrupt them. Thus arose the famous Cuban Missile Crisis, a 13 day (October 16-28) test of nerves between the planet’s two preeminent powers. The End Of The World was at hand, or it seemed like it. If not The End Of The World, then at least hot times in the old town tonight. People were nervous, bordering on catatonic. What’s a body to do?
In Austin, Texas Ranger magazine art director Tony Bell knew exactly what he was going to do. “There’s a wee tiny town in the mountains of Mexico,” he told us, smiling, “which is full of lovely unattached blonde women. If it looks like the missiles are hitting the fan, that’s where I’ll go.” Now, the notion of a tribe of yellow-haired Mexican beauties was a surprise to us but who was going to question the verity of the well-traveled Tony Bell, a no-nonsense prophet of considerable weight? We all signed up on the dotted line to follow Tony. It was almost a disappointment two weeks later when the Russian ships turned around and went home. Hey, Tony—can we go visit Mexico anyway?
I”m not sure whether or not the Village of Marilyns still exists or even where it is, but in the days prior to the 2016 U.S. presidential election a few people may have been checking their maps. The notion of a Trump presidency had nervous Americans scanning the globe for a suitable landing spot, considering an extra-long vacation in Saskatchewan or checking the rules for Belizean citizenship. At times like this, however, a person discovers just how limited his options might be. No longer is Mexico such a juicy option, even with the siren song of the mysterious blondes wafting through the air. Our neighbor to the south is, after all, rife with drug cartel warfare with kidnappers popping up right in the middle of Acapulco restaurants and Guadalajara hotels. Guatemala and Honduras, once sleepy little third-world escapes, are now overrun with gangs of thugs. It’s a pity.
Used to be, a man could fly off to Paris in a crisis. Now the Champs-Ellysees is filled with Arabs shooting up the cutesy sidewalk bistros, turning over the flowerpots and drinking up all the Moet & Chandon. The same culprits are bombing the subways in London and buying up all the apartments in Brussels. Can we take a nice trip to visit the Sphinx, check on the Pyramids? Let’s not. What about Bali Hai, my special island? Stay out of the nightclubs. South America? Full of child bandits and cocaine cowboys. Antarctica? Belligerent penguins. It takes a lot of work to find a Great Escape, an island of sanity where seldom is heard a discouraging word and the skies are not cloudy all day. But, believe it or not, we may have uncovered one. It’s called Iceland.
Have You Ever Gone Across The Sea To Iceland….
….and seen the sun go down on Heradsfloi Bay?
Okay, I know it doesn’t sound too appealing with its visions of Leif Erickson and the Vikings navigating through giant floes, polar bears nipping at their heels, not an arable acre in sight. Do pterodactyls still slash through the skies, snapping up sheep and an occasional shepherd? Is there always ten feet of snow on the ground? Do the ice storms relent in summer? IS there any Summer? Why would any self-respecting exile ever go there? Well—consider this: it’s good enough for Khaleesi.
Ever since Game of Thrones began filming in Iceland in season two, people in other lands have wised up to the island nation in the middle of nowhere. The “Game of Thrones Effect” is often cited as a key factor in the amazing growth in annual visitors to Iceland, from 566,000 in 2011, the year it premiered, to more than one million in 2015. And nobody is ever disappointed. Well, except for a single Japanese fellow. Jon Thor Benediktsson, who leads trips for The Travelling Viking around Lake Myvatn (better known to GOT fans as The Land Beyond the Wall) says the man was chagrined to discover he would not actually see any wildling people going about their daily lives. Benediktsson wants everybody to know the White Walkers and the dragons aren’t showing up on the tour either. Something about impossible contract negotiations.
Although it may be in the middle of nowhere, Iceland is surprisingly easy—and fast—to get to, a mere 5 3/4 hours from New York to the capital, Reykjavik, little more than half the time it takes to get to Hawaii. It’s less than three hours from London. Flights from the U.S. East Coast start at $550 if you’re flexible. People we know are going there left and right. Siobhan’s well-traveled niece Kathleen was there last month. And our gym pals, Bruce and Barbara Reissfelder visited during the summer. One thing about Bruce—when he goes somewhere, he takes pictures. Thousands of them. The photos accompanying this artice are his and we appreciate his largesse in sharing them, although we really would have liked a mammoth tusk.
Reykjavik and Beyond
If you’re flying to Iceland, you’ll be landing in the capital, Reykjavik, the world’s northernmost capital of a sovereign state. The first thing you’ll need to do is learn to pronounce the name. Since Icelanders are very free with their consonants and have a tendency to throw them around willy-nilly, outsiders must quickly discern which ones are superfluous. In the case of Reykjavik, that would be the “y” and, to some degree, the “j,” which is pronounced as a “y.” All together now—Rek-ya-vic—as in the popular college fight song: “I’m a ramblin’ wreck from Rekyavic and a heck of an engineer.” That’s it, now you’ve got it.
Reykjavik was founded in 1786 and is among the richest, cleanest, greenest and safest cities in the world. To keep it that way, the city fathers are considering making the place a Trump-free zone. The city is located in southwest Iceland and the area coastline is characterized by peninsulas, coves, straits and islands. It is not warm in Iceland—hence the name Iceland, right? It can get up to 78 degrees farenheit in July, but the average high is 55. The average low is 47. Let’s not talk about January and February, which makes the Upper Peninsula of Michigan feel like Phoenix. The population of Reykjavik is around 200,000 hardy souls who suffer through life without a Starbuck’s or even a McDonald’s. There are, however, over 100 bars in town, many of them open until 4:30 a.m. on weekends.
Not far from Reykjavik is the world-famous Blue Lagoon, a gigantic geothermal spa, the waters of which are thriving with minerals like silica and sulphur. The water temperature in the bathing and swimming area of the lagoon averages around 100 degrees and the site is used extensively by victims of various skin diseases, many of whom claim to be cured, including scores with the heartbreak of psoriasis. The lagoon is fed by the water output of a nearby geothermal power plant and is renewed every two days.
Grundarfjorour, in the western part of Iceland on the northern coast of the Snaefellsnes peninsula, is a fishing community surrounded by exceptionally beautiful mountains which draw photographers from across the world. Nature abounds, with vibrant birdlife, spectacular waterfalls and great hiking trails. Marine visitors such as seals and whales put in an occasional appearance. G-town is located near the popular Snaefellsnes National Park.
Other attractions for visitors include the scenic northern Iceland town of Akureyri, a major trading post for centuries which has grown to become the country’s largest regional town and the commercial center of the north. Lake Myvatn, mentioned earlier, is a 14 square mile body of water with an average depth of seven feet and contains 50 islets. Hverarond is the home of Iceland’s famous boiling mud pits, accessible via walkways on which you will be disinclined to bring your schnauzer. Skutustadagigar’s pseudo-craters were formed when water was trapped beneath flowing lava, boiling up through the surface and creating what appears to be a volcanic cone. It features a short walk of about 1 km up and down with an abundance of stairs. Godafoss (waterfall of the Gods) is reached by very uneven terrain dotted by impositions of rough lava. Bring your hiking shoes. Vigur Island is a private facility favored by birdwatchers, especially fans of puffins, which you can either watch or….um, hunt. “”Grandma! Grandma! Did you bring your GUN?”
Okay, so you get it. No Dunkin’ Donuts, no Disney Worlds, but plenty of natural wonders, a great retreat for communing with nature, reflecting on Life Under Trump and gearing up for an explosive future. Or, if you love the place, you can actually move there, buy yourself a fishing boat and never return. You get all the interesting weather you can handle, a front-row seat in the Game of Thrones bleachers and a life free of dermatological issues. Bring your coat (thick) and get your hat (furry), leave your worries on the doorstep. Just direct your feet to the Reykjavik side of the street.
World-travelers, puffin photographers, hail fellows well met, Bruce & Barbara Reissfelder somewhere in the bowels of Iceland. All today’s pictures gratis Bruce. Next year we’re sending him to Ecuador if Julian Assange is still around.
Post-Election Blues
Now that the ball is over and we’re saddled with a Brontosaurus-In-Chief, we have a few bones to pick. First of all, what happened to the goddam pollsters? In this, their ONE on-stage gig, the Super Bowl of pollsterism, they peed the bed, leaving the rest of us high and dry. My sometimes-crotchety partner, Siobhan, has been known to become livid over this type of shortcoming. Despite being no sports fan, she is galled by major-league baseball closers (average salary—$3 million) who come into a game in the ninth inning with a 2-0 lead and promptly give up a walk, a single and a three-run homer. Or a field-goal kicker in the NFL (average salary—$2 million) who misses a 20-yard chip-shot with five seconds left and his team down 20-18. Or an NBA basketball player (average salary—$2.5 million) who blows two foul shots with time expiring and his team on the short end of a 99-98 score. She thinks it should NEVER happen. “They have ONE stinking job,” says Siobhan. “DO IT!” Same with pollsters. Now, of course, we’ll get the inevitable pollster jokes:
Kid pollster is playing his first game of hide-and-seek. His brother tells him, “Okay, Johnny—you look the other way while we go and hide. Then you count to ten and come looking for us.” Ten minutes passes—a half hour—before the pollster’s brother remembers. Slapping himself on the head, he runs back to where Johnny sits with a confused look on his face. “I’m sorry, Johnny, I forgot. Now—when the big hand is on the twelve and the little hand is on the five….”
Pollsters believe there are three kinds of people in the world—those who can count and those who can’t.
What’s the difference between a pollster and a crocodile? One is in the Nile, the other is in denial.
“Errnie, you’re a pollster. How many Blue States are there?” “I’m pretty sure it’s 57.”
What do you call 100 unemployed pollsters? A good start.
With Friends Like These….
Every cloud has a silver lining, the recent presidential election being no exception. Our pal, Sherry Snyder, tells us it lightened her load of Facebook Friends by more than a couple. “I couldn’t read that ignorant, hateful crap any more. So I ditched a few,” she said. “It was good for my psychological wellbeing.”
We know the feeling, Sherry. It was the perfect occasion to set free a passel of screamers, to cull the herd, to hustle away the Julian Assange fanatics who write every day bemoaning the fate of their flawed warrior, now breathing the pungent if restrictive air of Ecuador. Where did most of these Facebook Friends come from anyway? Did they sneak in the back door when we weren’t looking? Did they suddenly appear in a puff of smoke, like Shoeless Joe from Hannibal, Mo.? Or the other Joe, the cotton-eyed fellow of “where did you come from, where did you go” fame? How did we get from 35 real friends to a hundred mysterious acquaintances with which we have little in common? Some people are Friend collectors, but not us. We’re establishing a screening committee for future applicants. It makes for more harmonious reading, less dissension, fewer migraines. We’re going to be very strict from now on. Although people who send us large Hershey bars with almonds will be given special consideration.
That’s all, folks….
