Hot Fun in Vesturbær

Chapter 20 of Search For a Dancer, a memoir of a week spent in Iceland in November 2022

Friday morning and, for a change, I’ve nothing on my schedule—which means that is time to head for the pool and some extended hotpot time.

My Reykjavík pool of choice is good old Vesturbæjarlaug, about a mile from my apartment,  the walk to it always reveals new vistas. This part of town lacks the ‘shadow districts’ of the city center’s high-rises, there is plenty of sky here to help one contemplate their role in existence. Tjörnin, the pond, is right across the street from my apartment, that tranquil body of water always seems to soothe the savage beast, its ducks and swans gracefully ply the ripples in search of some morsel from the muck. A jarring electronic sign on the edge of Skothúsvegur reminds me of why I am here:

At the end of that street is one of the entrances to the Hólavallagarður cemetery, a place celebrated in the great Halldór Laxness novel Brekkukotsannáll (The Fish Can Sing), a quiet respite from traffic of the nearby Hringbraut highway:

The cemetery itself is a glorious place, insofar as a graveyard can be considered a delight. It bears an aspect of benign neglect, wearing its covering of vegetation and fallen leaves like fine clothes strewn about a rococo dressing room after a party.

Continuing on, I spotted this electric Jaguar, sporting a paint-job in FITK purple:

It was after noon by the time I entered the pool complex. In the locker room I stripped and showered before donning my beloved Speedo. There was a bigger crowd today as the weather was fine and several people had Airwaves armbands. I spoke with a few of them while we cooked in the hotpots, pleasant conversation but a far cry from the life-altering morning I spent with Ufuoma in 2015, or listening to a trawler captain recite poetry. in 2006. A few hours later, completely recharged, I headed back to the apartment for brief nap before the evening’s festivities would begin anew.


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