A River Of Ice

Sleep was good. I managed not to worry about the tire most of the night. I found another thing to worry about in the morning though: The hotel had no food, and my supplies were low again.

I had a Prince Polo bar, so I chomped that while I moved my gear back out the window and reassembled the wheel. In inflated it to half the usual pressure, hoping to slow the abrasion of the tube.

Then it was back on the road, with some atrocious dried fish snacks and a small can of Pepsi for calories. Sure, the food ain’t great just now, but the views… Amazing!

For most of the day the wind was against me. The coast flattened out into a series of plains separated by arms of rock pushing the road close to the sea. Eventually I hauled myself around a curve and was rewarded with Fjallsárlón glacier:

For an hour or so I pedaled closer to the ice sheet, then alongside it. There was a tourist place around here offering boat rides up to the face of the glacier, with a restaurant attached to it. My stomach was churning by the time I rolled up: The Fjallsárlón Frost Restaurant. Packed buses and rented cars were streaming through the parking lot, but everyone was going for the boat tour, not the food. That was fine by me…

The food was overpriced of course but I was desperate. The server hid in the back, only peeking his head out every five minutes or so to check if anyone was in line. Next to the register was a big overstuffed tip jar.  That guy back in Keflavík would be appalled!

There was a salad bar (wow!) but all the lettuce had been plundered, except for a few bits floating in a half-gallon of water. (Boo.) Instead I heaped a plate with fish and meatballs.  The fish was impressively bland – no seasoning, and steamed for too long with no oil or garnish – and the meatballs tasted like ketchup and nothing else. Nevertheless it was protein and calories, and I cleared my plate twice.

On the way out I bought a slice of chocolate cake wrapped in plastic. It was almost eight dollars, but it would prove to be every bit as delicious as the previous meal had been bland. The dessert highlight of this entire stay in Iceland, in fact. (Okay that might have been the hunger talking.)

On my way out from the restaurant I looked back and took one of my favorite photos from this trip:

With the cloud cover, it looks like there are three separate horizons happening here. It really conveys the sheer volume of ice stacked up behind the glacier.

Lots and lots of slow pedaling in to the wind.  I put the phone on random play and it started playing They Might Be Giants, so I hooked up the speakers and belted out lyrics for a couple miles.

In time I arrived at a bridge, spanning the river that connects the Jökulsárlón to the sea. Lots of little icebergs were sailing around in it, broken off the tongue of the Breiðamerkurjökull glacier that forms the northern edge of the lake. Every now and then a chunk would get too close to the river and go rolling down it, passing under the bridge and into the ocean. Some of them would get marooned on the beach, or stuck on the riverbank. It was absurdly photogenic.  People were all around, waving cameras, festooning the bridge, walking in the sand, pulling their cars in and out of the gravel parking lots.

So of course I pushed the bike to the shoulder and joined them for a while!

I take some shots with the camera and then resume pedaling.  After a while I lose my voice, plus the air is too cold, so I put the speakers away and listen to Warlock Holmes in The Adventure Of The Unpleasant Stain, which is quite funny, though also gory.

Eating the candy bar, down to the banana and the fish snacks again.  Eat the banana.  No food now but I realize I have a pepsi.  I take little sips of that.

The wind is against me most of the time.

Amazing glacial plains hoving into view

Slowly crossing the plains, then going alongside the big glacier.  There’s supposed to be a restaurant here but I can’t see it.

I find the restaurant.  Lots and lots of people here.  Overpriced food.  Server who hides in the back, only peeking his head out every now and then to check if anyone is in line.  Big overstuffed tip jar.  Salad area with no lettuce, except for a few bits floating in a half-gallon of water.

I heap a place with fish and meatballs.  The fish is extremely bland – not seasoned in any way, and steamed to death – and the meatballs taste like ketchup and nothing else.  But the cake slice I buy – for almost 8 dollars – is very tasty and I take it with me.

Lots and lots of slow pedaling in to the wind.  I put the phone on random play and it starts playing TMBG, so I hook up the speakers and belt out lyrics for a couple miles.  Then I find the bridge over the river that connects the big glacier bay to the sea.  Lots of chunks of ice in it, very photogenic.  People all over the place, walking around, festooning the bridge, pulling in and out of the gravel parking lots.

I take some shots with the camera and then resume pedaling.  After a while I lose my voice, plus the air is too cold, so I put the speakers away and listen to Warlock Holmes in The Adventure Of The Unpleasant Stain, which is quite funny, though also gory.

Right now I’m at the Reynivellir guest house.  It’s halfway up the slope of the hillside, about a third of a mile from the road.

A steep enough slope that I had to push the bike for almost all of it, because of the sponginess of the screwed up tire.

This is the second time I’ve been here, actually, because the first time I couldn’t find the right building, so I wandered onto a property filled with trucks and campers and a guy came out, and he told me that though the guest house was here, I first needed to check in at the main building … which was another two miles down the road.

So, cursing my fate, I went back down the hill and up the road, and saw the main building, which was on the opposite side of the road at the bottom of a big slope.  I parked the bike at the top and walked down, not wanting to push the bike back up again.  On the way I passed a museum that also had a restaurant built into it.  Half a mile down the slope I entered the guest house and checked in, and the attendant handed me a tiny hand-drawn map, indicating which building I should go to.

They’d obviously had trouble with this before, because next he held up a large laminated photo of the building, and from that I was able to identify it.

The guy said “We have key boxes at the guest house now, and you put in a code to get your key, so usually people don’t have to come down here.  But since you booked through Expedia it looks like you didn’t get all the information.”

Then he wrote a code down on a post-it and stuck it to the map, and handed both to me.  So I walked back up the hill and walked my bike down to the museum.  I was a bit startled to hear a loud voice talking in Icelandic on the front lawn, seemingly from nowhere, and discovered that it was coming from underneath a massive rock next to the front door.  Weird.  The wait for a table inside was 20 minutes, so I bought an “Iceland” sticker and stuck it on the bike.

Then the waitress said it would take even longer, and apologized, and then she and a couple of other staff pulled a small table out from the back of the restaurant and plopped it in among the others, then decorated it with cloth and silverware, making me an instant table for 1.

I had asparagus soup and buttered bread, then breaded fried lamb steak, with chutney and potatoes.  Too full to get dessert.  I paid the bill (something like $80, damn) and got on the bike and rode slooowly back the way I came and up the hill again.

I park the bike in front of the guest house, and go to open the door.  It appears to be blocked on the other side by a small table, which I shove out of the way.  In the small foyer is a row of lockboxes, one per room.  I find mine and put in the combination, and inside is my room key.  I grab my backpack off the bike, then try to shut the front door and realize it doesn’t shut.  That’s what the table had been for.  So I wedge it back in place.

Around the corner is a kitchen area, with about a dozen middle-aged men and women sitting around, all talking and laughing loudly in Italian.  I go upstairs and unlock my room, then ferry up two more bike bags from outside, and arrange the bike by the wall, trying to get it as much shelter from possible rain as I can.

Back in the room I unpack everything, then grab the towels and head for the shower, which is at the end of the hall.  I lay one towel on the floor because it’s unpleasantly wet, then place the other on the sink.  Then I discover that almost all the hot water is gone.  But I’m impatient and tired, so I take a tepid shower, and dry off standing on the towel.  I pick up my bundle of dirty clothes and head back to my room, and discover that it has automatically locked.

So I’m standing in the hall, locked out of my room, with a bundle of clothes, but no shoes or socks, and no phone or wallet.

First thing I do:  Go back into the bathroom and put my dirty clothes back on.  Then I drop the towels outside my locked door, and walk downstairs, and step into the kitchen area.  I walk up to the closest person – an Italian man in his late 50’s – and ask, “are you all part of the same group?”  As soon as I speak English at him, the rest of the room falls silent, since they’re interested in what this American stranger has to say.

The man nods and says “Yes!  All one group!”  I say “I’ve accidentally locked myself out of my room.  Do you happen to know who I should talk to?”  He says, “Me!”  He walks over to the foyer and points at the row of lockboxes.  “There is a spare room key in the box!  You just need to enter the combination.  What room are you in.”  “I’m in 59.”  He finds the box for 59, then starts messing with the combination dials.  It looks like he’s expecting them to be only one digit off from opening, which is what they all were when I first saw them.

“Actually I already got my key from there,” I say.  “Oh, you mean you got the second key too?”  “No, there was only one key in there.”  “Yeah but it’s the spare key,” he says.  “Didn’t they give you a key when you checked in?”  “No,” I say, “They just gave me a combination to open that box.”  “.. Ooooh,” he says.

He shrugs.  “Well, there’s a number you can call.  It’s here on the instructions.”  He points to a sign by the boxes.  “That’s good,” I say, “And I’d call it, but my phone is in my room.”  “No problem; use mine,” he says.  And he wandered into the midst of the crowd in the kitchen, then comes back with his phone, which he unlocks and hands to me.

I call the number.  A woman picks up and says something in Icelandic, to which I respond, “Hello, I’m here at the Reynivellir guest house and I’ve locked my key in my room.  It’s the one I got out of the lockbox, with the code I got at checkin.”

She says, “Oooooh, well okay, here’s what you do.  Go to the service panel at the bottom of the stairs.”  I walk over to the stairs and spot a rectangular outline in the wall, with a tiny handle sticking out of it.  “I see it.”  “Okay, now open that up and you’ll see a master key hanging on a peg.”  “You mean this key with a pink tag on it?”  “That’s the one yeah.”  “Got it.  I’ll unlock my room and put this back on the peg.”  “Good; thank you!” she says.  I end the call, and the man walks over to reclaim his phone.

“Did you work it out?” he asks.  I point at the peg, inside the little closet.  “Master key,” I tell him.  “HAH!” he shouts.  “You are one lucky guy!”  “I know it!  I’m also very lucky that I talked to you!” I say.  He grins, waves his phone, and then walks back into the crowd.

So, yeah, it’s been one of those “now what?” kind of travel logistics days.

But, as usual, keeping a cool head and being friendly has been EXTREMELY useful.