Back to School

Chapter 10 of Search For a Dancer, a serial memoir about a week I spent in Iceland in 2022.

“ …sometimes you are called to do something that you may not even enjoy all the time, but that compels you in both internal and external ways to take part in… ” ~ Maria Alva Roff, Iceland Eyes

Maria is another sprakkar.

I had met her (virtually) through my early blog, and then in person in Reykjavík on three other occasions. At times I had consciously emulated the style of her Iceland Eyes blog but hers was far more refined than mine back then: she featured illustrative pictures, insightful essays and ruminations on her life in Iceland. Maria also has a site that features short stories and memoirs. She went on to publish two books, one a picture book of Reykjavík, and the other an intensely personal account of 88 days in her life; she spent an hour with me on one of those days!

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I woke up Wednesday morning completely refreshed. Any lingering traces of jet-lag were gone and by now my morning routine had been established: coffee, cereal with fruit and milk, checking email and the weather, then heading out to the pool for some laps and socializing. It was a bit colder that particular morning, the temps were just below freezing and there was a thin film of ice on the pond across the street from my digs. It almost made me wish I had brought a warmer jacket. The paving stone sidewalks were a bit slippery but I made it to Vesturbæjarlaug without managing to break my neck. At the pool I did manage a few laps and then I just indulged myself in trying out each of the different soaking pools before returning to my usual 38-40°c hot-pot.

My lunch date with Maria was at noon at the Reykjavík University building, 3 km from the pool. Fully warmed, I left the pool about 11:00, got dressed and headed out on foot, past the University of Iceland campus, through Vatnsmýri, past the city airport, and skirted some new apartments under construction before turning down Nauthólsvegur, the old road to Nauthólsvík, where the British forces had a landing site in WWII. It was a road I had been down before: on my first solo trip in 2004 I had been hijacked by a quartet of nurses who were drinking behind one of the boathouses there. It was a lonely and desolate place then but now the University of Reykjavík campus dominated the scene with its stunning new university building. I went in and took a few pictures while I waited for Maria.

I was a bit apprehensive, the last time we met she was in the midst of a personal crisis and when I left her on that day we were both on the verge of tears. Now she came walking down a corridor in conversation with a fellow student. Ageless, she seemed happy and glad to see me. She had to talk over a few things with her companion before we could get coffee so I waited, wondering what that young person with her would think of me: an odd and doddering old duck waddling in this ultra-modern pond.

When her conversation with her colleague ended she came over, apologizing for the delay. We got our coffees and found a window seat where we could talk without distraction. Maria is a different sort of Icelander, she grew up in California and moved back to Iceland when she was older. There are other people here that I’ve met that have had similar experiences. The Icelandic diaspora is real, many Icelanders move away with their families for years and then and return. The children grow up with two cultures imprinted upon them, perhaps many of them became bloggers to find a place where they can discuss and come to grips with this split reality. Maria’s California roots are expressed in her positive outlook on things; after talking with her a while her sense of being able to do anything was apparent. She talked about the publishing her books (“I have a book in this library!”), and she suggested that I should also become a published author (the internet doesn’t count.) I mentioned that I had been in California earlier in the year and told her that her short stories about her life there had piqued my interest about the area where she had lived near Monterey, a place that I had explored (in a rented Ford Mustang) last winter.

We talked about our families and how we both had two children. Hers were a bit younger than mine but also grown. We discussed the death of blogging, about what a glorious time that had been but how things had changed. She stopped posting after her blog was ‘scraped’: the content had been stolen and put on another blog. She had even found evidence that it was someone she knew! I’ve had images taken from mine in the past but no one has had the gall to copy mine verbatim (or is it that they had better taste?) I mentioned the idea of sprakkar, and how most of the Icelandic bloggers I had followed years ago could fall into that category. Recently, I had been thinking about what my objectives, if any, were in that strange new world of social media. I told Maria one of my theories: the reason I had followed so many younger women (and not just in Iceland) was that I was looking for a daughter that I never had. She gave me a look of surprise and then a smile of acknowledgement. I went on to say that since that time my sons have both married so now I do have daughters.

There was a lull in the conversation.

Out of the blue she said: “I’m 52.” Older than I was when I started my Icelandic sojourns. Maria had the appearance of a woman of 32, the spirit of a woman of 22 and the wisdom of a woman of 72. We had talked for about an hour when she said that she had to go—she had a project she was working on—and it had been great talking. I concurred and left her to her pursuits, with a good feeling about our meeting.

I sometimes feel as if I’m imposing on people with these odd tête-à-têtes.

Once in seven years isn’t too often, it seems.

                              i become what you want me to be

UPDATE: Here is a music video that was, in part, inspired by my various meetings with Maria:




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