Castle House Tuesday Morning

Chapter 7 of Search For a Dancer, a serial memoir about a week I spent in Iceland. Mondays on Flippism is the Key

Ikea dominates the decor in The Castle House.

Universal, Scandi, neutral, Ikea’s greatest asset is that it doesn’t get in the way. Tables, chairs, kitchen utensils, bed and bath, its all there, the same as everywhere, Castle House is no exception. Even the little artistic touches in the room are inoffensive and forgettable. On the other side of the apartment door is Reykjavík in all its wind-swept glory, a mash-up of modernism, both early mid-century and post. Most of the buildings are less than than 100 years old; building booms in the 1920s, 40s, 50s and 60s shaped the inner city, while the outlying areas are more recent. It was Tuesday, my first morning in the Castle House. A breakfast of dismal English Weetabix and delightful European strawberries started my day.

I packed up my swim gear and left the apartment, walking between the National Museum and the church, then down to the path along the pond. I felt good, the air temp was in in the mid-thirties (3°c) and the sun was shining and the wind had yet to make its presence known. The mile-long walk to the pool was invigorating. Going past the cemetery, then alongside Grund, the senior residence (my room is ready) and then I turned off of Hringbraut and walked through the residential area, streets lined with pebble-dash and shell-dash stucco houses, mostly duplexes and four-plexes. They were old enough to be remodeled; construction activity was present in almost every block.

The Vesturbæjarlaug pool was a bee-hive of activity.

I did my laps, explored the various hot-pots, and finally settled in at the 40°c hot-pot. I saw Ingvar, the actor, make his rounds, and was soon joined by a man who recognized me from years previous. “You’re that guy with the Halldór Laxness website,” he said. I had recognized him immediately because he was a doppelgänger of one of my neighbors at home. We made some small talk, he asked why I was here. I mentioned the festival, and also said that I was going to meet up with some old blog-friends. “I’m having lunch with Silja A—, the writer at TMM, to talk about the new translation of Halldór Laxness’ Salka Valka. “Oh, you’re in good hands with Silja,” he said, smiling.

Everybody knows everybody here.

On the other side of the lap pool was a grass-covered earthen berm, it helped cut the wind and offered a bit of privacy. As I talked with my old ‘pal’ I noticed two men in swim suits lying on the side of the berm, feet up-head down. The air temp was warmer now, it had risen to 4°c (39°f) but it was still cooler than I would like when taking a nap in my Speedo. They must have stayed there for several minutes, I stopped watching after a while, when I looked up later they were gone. I looked at the clock and it was 1230 hours. My luncheon date was at 1400 hours, and on the other side of the city from the pool, about a half mile from my apartment. I said goodby to my tub-mate, and headed back to the apartment to prepare for the afternoon’s adventure.

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