Original image: Art Bicnick, Reykjavík Grapevine
Discovering and being part of the pool culture in Iceland has been one of the great joys of my life. Here are some impressions from various times I’ve enjoyed it over the last twenty-one years:
~ 2004 ~
Some vacation trips are family affairs, others are romantic getaways for two.
Then there is the third type, the solo excursion. Traveling by oneself has some
unique advantages. You only have to please yourself. You can set the pace,
either fast or slow, according to your mood or disposition.
So you
can imagine my slight consternation when, during my carefully planned solo trip to
Iceland last spring, I was “befriended” by a somewhat clueless and flabby college
counselor who was the tour leader for a group of teachers-in-training from a
state school in Michigan. He had done no homework about this trip, none about
Iceland in general, and none about Reykjavík in particular. My schedule was
complete, I had about twenty hours of things to do each day. I was not a
slave to that schedule but I didn’t have any time to babysit.
Nevertheless, I mentioned to this chaperone that I was going to
Laugardalslaug, and he was welcome
to come along. “Do you have a car? How far is it?” Well no, I didn’t have a
car and it was about 1.5 km to the pool from our
guest-house on
Bólstaðharlið—not a really long walk but far enough to tax the
feeble. In other words, my accidental companion. We did make it there, he was complaining all the way and we had to stop a few times to rest. We showered and
changed into our swimsuits; he felt the need to wear a shirt into the pool. I did
my laps, then soaked a bit to get the travel kinks out. I think my ‘pal’ spent
the whole time wondering what he had gotten himself into.
Finally, it was time to go (the pool was closing), and we headed back. He had to
stop at the
American Style restaurant, where we drank Cokes while he
complained about his time in Iceland. Some date. When we got back to the
guesthouse, he went straight to bed but I stayed up and talked with some of his charges, the students who were far more in tune with the idea of Icelandic
exploration. Over the course of the evening, one of the students was complaining about being stuck with such a dud. I thought about this for a while and then said: “Yeah, but I had to see him naked!”
I returned to Laugardalslaug later in the week, this time I made the mistake of mentioning the film of Hallgrímur Helgasson’s
101 Reykjavík to a fellow ‘hot potter’. He had not been amused by it and let me know it. Evidently I still had a lot to learn about pool culture.
~ 2006 ~
“The water has memory, you see, the water has memory.”
When a man who has spent his life on the ocean speaks poetically of water, I
will give him due consideration.
I was sitting in a hot pot at the
Vesturbæjarlaug pool, sharing water with a
retired trawler captain, a Spaniard, and an elderly woman, the conversation was
as warm as we were. It was another unseasonably fine October day in Reykjavík
and I was taking a final visit to the neighborhood pool. The conversation
swirled like the water in which we soaked; moving between politics, economics,
wool, music and water. Always water, this rock in the North Atlantic, surrounded
by water and the fish in it which generated wealth, the heat from the geothermal
water making living comfortable here, and the electricity generated from the
hydroelectric plants making modern life practical. I mentioned
Halldór Laxness
and his novel
Kristnihald undir Jökli, wherein the "fallen" pastor
Jón Primus
declared his only theory: “… water is good… one doesn’t even have to go by my
theory unless one is thirsty.” Everybody laughed. Water is good, especially when
one is in it with congenial company. When I had finally become thoroughly cooked
I reluctantly left.
BEST MUSIC OF THE DAY: The speech of an Icelandic coquette in hot-pot 3 at the Vesturbaejarlaug thermal pool (13:00). She was in an animated discussion (about working hours I believe), but I could appreciate were the beautiful cadences and inflections of her voice.
Did I mention how much I enjoy being here?
~ 2009 ~
I haven't had any deep conversations in the “hot pots” this trip as yet, but there have been moments, like the one
Sunday with a mother and father and their ten year-old daughter. The daughter was resting her head on her father's massive chest, talking to him quietly and sweetly. She then started to croon a plaintive children’s song- a very touching and tender scene.
Monday: I was in a pot with three older people when some young men from from the U.S. came in and started taking computer repair. Talk about a mood killer! They left soon enough; the ensuing quiet was most welcome.
Tuesday: I was in the same pot. The sun was shining so you could bask in it while the hot water swirled all about you. Then a trio of young bikini-clad teen-age girls came in. From the sound of their conversation I surmised that they were Swedish. One had a waterproof camera (normally forbidden in the pool—but who’s going object to some girls snapping pictures of each other?) and I used that camera to take a picture of all three them together. The sounds of their voices were like singing as well.
Grace is real.
Wednesday: OK, I'm back from the pool, were I spent time listening to an old fisherman punctuate his monologues with Icelandic poetry. He evidently was well known to the regulars who, like me, enjoyed his performance.
~ 2012 ~
Monday: At Vesturbæjarlaug the air temp was 4°c, a balmy 39°f but the sun had retreated behind leaden clouds, giving a somber look to the surroundings. There were only about a half-dozen other bathers in the pools; I had never seen them so empty. I did my laps then went into the medium hot pot, alone. The cricks and aches from my flight quickly were forgotten.
Tuesday: This afternoon I spent
close to three hours there: enjoying the sun, the 38-40° C. (100-104° F) warm
water as well as interacting with an interesting mix of people from various
backgrounds. The conversation was lively, the first half-hour was dominated by
an older gentleman whose non-stop banter kept the pool laughing. It was all
Icelandic, I could understand the laughter and when he referenced numerous
vacation sites (Costa del Sol, Sardinia, Crete, San Francisco) but otherwise I
could understand little. When he left a woman took up the slack for another
half-hour, also in Icelandic. The crowd turned over, and several of the new
arrivals started talking to me (in English) about a wide variety of subjects:
the destruction of the Reykjavík city center, Vikings in the new world,
Snorri
Sturluson, the
Kensington Rune Stone (they brought it up!), Shakespeare’s visit
to Iceland (?!), the spread of Icelandic pop culture, and music education in
Iceland (one of the men in the pool had been a music teacher of the
Ákadóttir Twins!!)
Eventually the crowd thinned out but two men (a nephew and uncle) remained and our talk
turned to
Halldór Laxness. We talked about the problems of translation, various
books, and the subtle ironies in Laxness' writing. Then it was only the nephew
who remained, he spoke to me about his life in Denmark, how he wanted to return
to Iceland permanently, and about the water. “God made the cold water, and the
Devil made the hot water, and the mixing of them is what makes Iceland such a
special place.” He also introduced me to the pleasure/torture of the 'cold
pot'—with water in the 8-10° C. range (45-50° F.) and the importance of drinking
lots of water when in the hot pots.
On
Wednesday I spent some time on the
Seltjarnarnes peninsula, and went to the salt-water pool there. My swimming pass wouldn’t work, the attendant laughed and said “That's for the city pools, you're in the country now!” The pool and the changing room were very nice indeed, one might call it ritzy, although I’m not big on the way salt water feels on my skin. I had a conversation with a couple of teen-aged boys about music, they were into “
Pink Floyd and
Led Zep.” Upon learning that I was from Minnesota, an elderly woman mentioned going to the University there in the 1950s, learning nutrition. I asked her about
Ancel Keys, but she didn’t remember him.
Friday found me back at Vesturbæjarlaug, in the hot-pot with Ufuoma, a vivacious woman from Nigeria (via the UK.) She had married an Icelander and had embraced the country fully—including hugging several of the pool patrons that knew her. There was a morning exercise group that morning that we joined; she was in a lot better shape than I was. Her performance suggested that she was an experienced dancer. Our conversation showed that she was highly educated (I later found out that she has translated Chaucer into Icelandic for a stage play.) Her name meant ‘peace of mind’, and she lived up to the moniker. The hot tub conversation we were having was interrupted when we were joined by Vigtýr, ‘The Banjo Player,’ as she called him. He was in his mid 30s, tall and handsome, with long blonde hair—a regular Viking. Ufuoma, who had been out of the country for the last few weeks, had to catch up on things and asked him how he had been doing lately. His answer was quick in coming and surprised me with its bluntness:
“I’ve been feeling kind of… I guess you could say I've been lonely…”
Ufuoma, expressing genuine concern, started asking questions. Vigtýr said he had always been self-reliant, but lately it had started to catch up with him. Ufuoma knew that he had some health issues as well, including surgery to relieve nerve damage in one leg, a condition which caused him to have phantom pain in his foot. Ufuoma nonchalantly picked up his leg and began to massage the offending foot.
“I know someone in London, he can help you, no surgery, you should go see him,” she said. She then lifted her leg above the swirling water and showed us the scars on her leg. She had gotten them from the exhaust of a motor scooter. They were interesting, two almost perfectly round spots. Had her healer friend helper her recover? Or did she just want to show us her leg? I didn’t have any interesting stories to offer about either of my legs.
The instant rapport we shared (based mostly on Ufuoma’s extremely engaging personality), was like a meeting between old friends. It would be hard to image in any other circumstance, but the leveling nature of the hot-pot made it seem natural.
It was with
great deal of reluctance that I finally took my leave to catch my flight back home.
~ 2015 ~
Monday: The pool was, as it usually is, sublime. It was sunny, with a light breeze, 8°C. air temp (about 46°F.) There are two new GIANT 'hot-pots', better for extended lounging, but not as intimate as the old ones (which are still there.)
Got into an extended conversation with a woman of 'indeterminate' age, the first topic always seems to be “Why Iceland?”
Tuesday: Earlier in the day, at the pool, the Icelandic author
Þórbergur Þórðarson came up in conversation. My companion mentioned
another book by this author which I will have to pick it up when I return home. In the book the protagonist pines for a young girl who “… still had a bit of God in her.” When he returns from fishing, the girl had grown up and the main character becomes disillusioned with the result. As we were talking, in the shallow wading pool near us, there were numerous young children getting rudimentary swimming instruction. Their shrieks and cries were, to my ears, akin to birds singing.
“Those children still have that little bit of God in them, don't they?” said my companion.
After this trip I received an email from Dan Kois, the author and New York Tomes writer. He wanted to know more about Icelandic pool culture and
I helped him out.
~ 2018 ~
Back again in
Vesturbæjar, this time with
The Weaver in tow. We came straight from the airport, going to a nearby bakery/coffeeshop for some breakfast then getting into the pool about 10:00. The hot-pots there were a perfect cure for jet-lag. Suitably refreshed, we left the pool and dressed and then were off to
Ólafoss and
Gljúfrasteinn, returning to our apartment mid-afternoon. We returned to the pool a couple of times during our trip, once getting into a discussion about
Independent People, the famous novel by
Halldór Laxness. The local in our shared hot pot was enthusiastic: “I read it in Icelandic and in English, side by side—it was a perfect translation.”
The Weaver, initially skeptical about going to the pool, warmed up to the idea after a few trips.
~ 2022 ~
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.
I spent Wednesday afternoon noon at the pool where I struck up a conversation with two
people, one was a thirty-something man that I learned was
Guðmundur Óskar
Guðmundsson, the bassist for
Hjaltalín! He was most surprised when I told him I
had a copy of one of his limited release albums. My other pool-mate was a friend
of his, a lively older woman who was 95 and proud of it (“I still drive!”) and
we shared travel stories and commented on the weather (not a cloud in the sky
again today!)
Thursday was another beautiful day at the pool (45°F, sunny, no wind). Had a long conversation with an Icelandic woman about Icelandic literature, music,
film and drama all the while soaking in a hotpot directly across from the noted actor
Ingvar
Sigurðsson. I reluctantly left her and the pool for it was time to officially
start Airwaves. I made my way over to the Iceland Airwaves check-in and got my
wrist band.
~ 2023 ~
The
Vesturbæjarlaug pool was a bee-hive of activity. I did my laps, explored the
various hot-pots, and finally settled in at the 38°c hot-pot. I saw
Ingvar again, as he was making his rounds of the pool. I 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 helps to
cut the wind and offers 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.
The next day I spent a long time in conversation with
Lárus Halldór Grimsson, an Icelandic music veteran who had been in the prog-rock band
Eik in the seventies. He was
full of stories: hanging out with David Bowie, writing music for plays, and he had even portrayed a young Halldór Laxness in a television production! Lárus seemed to know everybody in Iceland, and was full of arcane references, but I think I
surprised him when he mentioned
Baggalútur. I said that I not only knew of
them that I had seen them perform and I even had one of their CDs. I spoke of the
Ákadóttir Twins who comprised
Pascal Pinon and he knew their father well. We also talked about the late, great
Jóhann Jóhannsson whom he knew back in Jóhann’s days in the punk-rock group
Ham, which brought out me telling them about seeing them perform the previous night. From
Ham and
Jóhann it was only a slight turn in the conversation to
Hildur Guðnadóttir, the Academy Award-winning composer. He had given her a
stuffed Pink Panther doll when she was a small child!
Speaking of children, a young man with a boy came into our pot, the man
explained that the boy was autistic, and liked to take water-bottles! I moved my
$8 medical-grade water bottle away as the scamp cavorted around the pool as we
talked. The man wasn’t his father, he was just a friend of the family (and not
even an Icelander!) and had some free time so he took the boy to the pool to
give his parents a little respite. No big deal here, it takes a village to raise a
child. I managed to give the boy a side-eye wink that he caught and answered
with a shy smile. After the pool, I sauntered back to the apartment. It was a
bittersweet trip; by this time tomorrow I would be in the
Keflavík airport,
waiting to return home.
It’s good to live in the moment when on vacation.
No what-might-have-beens, no second guessing your itinerary, no comparing this
trip to another one. The weather, while still warm by November standards, had
turned a bit windy, so I spent most of the afternoon in the hotpots at
Vesturbæjarlaug swimming complex. There were a lot of people there with Airwaves
armbands, and even a couple of performers. Lolling in the shallow oval hot-pot,
laying back with my head on its rim, gazing at the wispy clouds floating high
above me allows my brain to stop, being one with them, a moment I will long
remember.
Vesturbæjarlaug, an open-air swimming pool, is my personal favorite. Its
proximity to the university insures that the pool’s population always consists
of a mix of backgrounds: a fair amount of academics, actors, students, tourists
and the usual neighborhood old-timers. Geezers like me (67+) get in free,
without a doubt the best tourist deal in the whole country. When I walked in and
went to the reception desk the clerk asked “Is this your first time here?” when
she heard my accent. The first time this trip, yes, but it is just one of
dozens—many fond hours I’ve spent here in the hot-pots, absorbing heat and
culture in equal measures. I even do laps— and my partaking in actual physical
exercise is a rarity. The clerk handed me my ticket and, after scanning it at
the gate, I went down into the locker room. I stripped naked and headed for the
showers to wash with soap (special emphasis on cleaning the germy bits) and then
donned my Speedo to head out to the pool complex. Four double lanes in the 25
meter lap pool, a large shallow pool with slides for children, and six soaking
pools of varying temperatures and sizes. The chlorine level in the water is
mercifully low which allows one to stay for hours and any traces are dissipated
by the fresh sub-arctic air (bring a water container to avoid dehydration!) If
you need even more heat there is also a steam bath and a sauna. In the hot pot
at
Vesturbæjarlaug the topic of Halloween in Iceland came up. “Not my cup of
tea,” said a woman sitting next to me with a temporary tattoo of a flaming skull
on the back of her hand, “The old Icelandic holidays are disappearing,” a man said, ruefully. He recognized me from a visit ten years ago! I commented that I had been in Iceland once before on Halloween and it was nothing then.
~ 2025 ~
Monday: I met
Ingimar in one of the hotpots where he told me interesting stories about his exploits in NATO. And of course he knew my old blog pal
Kristín. By the time I was thoroughly cooked
Ingimar had started to repeat his stories. The pool was crowded, with lots of families and kids. I talked with a couple of men: one a native, the other an ex-pat DJ from Brooklyn. Theatre, literature and even AI music generation were some of the topics of our conversation. I mentioned that I listen to my own AI augmented songs as a playlist, he did the same too.
Tuesday: Woke up early, at 06:00 it was still night. After breakfast I made my way to the pool and took my first lap under the stars. Dawn broke slowly and by the time I left the hotpot it was morning. In the shower I noticed a man who looked like
Langi Seli across from me. I asked if he was who I thought he was, and he was (I almost didn’t recognize him without his Gretsch.) I told him of the times I had seen him play, and mentioned
the video I made in 2006(!) of him and his band, Skuggarnir. We continued our conversation as we got dressed—our lockers just happened to be adjoining—about Airwaves, Minnesota music and what we were currently doing. When I left,
Langi was at the mirror, making sure his pompadour was looking good (it was)
Wednesday: When I was at the pool when one of a group of six ‘mature’ women smiled at me when she saw me entering the hot pot: “We were just talking about you—you are the one who goes to see plays in Icelandic when you can’t speak the language!” Talk about being felt welcome! We talked a bit about Icelandic drama and culture, including
Halldór Laxness, of course. One of the women was close friends with
Halldór’s daughter
Guðny who has an AirBnb near
Gljúfrasteinn, Laxness’s estate. Later, I sat with a gang of six Danish festival-goers (you can tell who they are by the wristbands) and we compared notes. They come almost every year for the last 12 or so years. We were going to see some of the same acts tonight.
Thursday: I was sitting in a hot-pot talking with
Anna Róshildur and she mentioned the very restrictive audition process for a local act to get into Airwaves
off-venue schedule, to say nothing about the regular venues.
Troy (from Texas) introduced himself and when he found out that I was from Minnesota mentioned that he was a Vikings fan, I looked for the incision when his broken heart had been mended. He laughed.
Friday: Was talking with a woman from Finland whom I had seen the day before, in the exact same spot in the large hot-pot. She was here for the Airwaves festival too so we compared notes (
Ms Obama!)
Troy showed up and when I told him of meeting a English couple the night before he said “
Barry and
Tina! They come every year!“
Saturday: A daytime moon was shining over Vesturbæjarlaug:
Had some lively conversations in the pool’s biggest hotpot with some fellow Iceland Airwaves attendees, a German and a Finnish woman were also very sociable. After a while
Troy from Texas left (to do laps) and the talk turned from music to horses, so I made my exit as well.
And when will I return? I’ve got a pool pass that is good until October…
