A Sunny Perspective
You know that dreariness I first spoke of in an early reference to Reykjavik? I think I take it back. I think it was the jet lag, and the rain, and that I didn't have a proper coat, and that I saddled myself into subpar accomodtions, and, well, that I was a bit sad to be alone. In short, I was kinda grumpy -- and stressed. I needed the sun to come out. Not just light. Actual sun. It did. And when it did, it really changed the city's perspective.

I don't mean my perspective, although that's certainly true. (A good night of sleep also improved my mood.) And I'm not talking about the normal way that sunshine brings people out of their homes and onto the streets -- although that's also true. What I mean is, when the sun came out, it changed the way the city appeared. Reykjavik actually blossomed in the sunshine. I've never been to the Parthenon, but I've heard that some of the sculptures there were deliberately crafted to take advantage of the movement of the sun and the resulting shadows. That is, when the light approaches the statue from different angles, it creates the impression that the fabric of a robe, for example, is flowing. I think there's more than a bit of that going on here.

Have a look at the Solfar sculture at the top of this post. Solfar means "sun voyager," and the sculpture, in case you can't easily tell, is of a viking ship. There's much celebration here of Iceland's viking heritage, including monuments to Leifur Eiriksson (who, as people are quick to say, almost certainly discovered North America hundreds of years before Columbus), and, I'm sure, Viking Festivals. This is a beautiful sculpture on a few levels. It's elegant and understated and evocative. (reminds me of someone I know well, in fact.) I walked up to it -- actually, down to it, from the elevated centre of town. Two locals sat on the bench by the water. One barked Icelandic into his mobile while the other drank a Viking beer out of a paper bag. I sat down, popped in my earphones, and just looked. The most obvious thing about the sculpture's placement is the way that it almost seems to float on the water. That's very cool. And you can see the snow-capped Mount Esja in the background, which makes for an amazing backdrop. In guidebooks, you often see the Solfar with the sun setting behind it... a stunning photo. I was there at probably 4 o'clock. The sun was still, give or take, overhead, and it beamed off the sculpture in many directions. There's a lot to see in the piece: viking hats, viking shoulders, legs, oars -- or aliens, or any number of other things. But almost as interesting as the sculpture itself, I found, was the shadow beneath it, cast upon a white marble slab. It offered another dimension, evoking other images entirely. The shadow seems to have a head and the legs look more like a ribcage. It seems to have a different form and, in a weird way, as much life as the scultpure itself.

I won't go on about every photo I've put here. But indulge me another couple quick examples. City Hall, in the second photo, is generally noted for the way it seems to be almost emerging from the water. But it also attracts the light that's bouncing off the water. From the outside, it reflects and deflects sunshine -- back onto the lake, into the sky, at onlookers. From the inside, it absorbs it, incorporates it. Now look at the photo on the left. It's a pretty unremarkable shot of rooftops from the steeple of Reykjavik's prized volcano-shaped cathedral, Hallgrimskirkja. But look at the colors. Walking the streets, looking at the houses of the city, you see bright yellows and deep greens and aqua blues. Every color seems to be a statement, a tasteful, thoughtful expression. That sounds strange or pretentious, even. But it wasn't. It just gave me a sense that people thought about what they were doing and how they were fitting into -- and complementing -- their environment. Look at the rooftops. Clearly, there's little functional value in having a red rooftop, and yet they're dotted all over, contrasting and complementing green and blue and white and turquoise rooftops. It's not something you'd really notice unless you were standing at the top of Hallgrimskirkja, and then only if the sun is shining.

I've read that everyone in Iceland is either an artist or a musician or yearning to be one of the above. My visit hasn't been long enough to empirically test that statement, but it does certainly seem to be a place that's heavy on creativity. And not just artistic expression; true creativity. That kind of thing doesn't happen by chance. It comes through exposure and education (and funding of the arts, of course) and by, in all other ways, fostering a culture that rewards such a thing. The country hasn't had much of an economy to rely on over the years. There's been fishing and, well, anything they can figure out a way to export, like wool. Usually when that's true of a place, political leaders decide to develop a service-based economy to attract tourist dollars. Which usually translates to importing all the comforts of home -- starbucks, 14 oz steaks, four-star hotels. Iceland has definitely been pushing itself to international visitors recently, and as a result has increased tourism by something like 75 percent in the last four years. They do this through some of the usual methods, taking out ads, and writing literature about how, yes, Iceland may go dark in the winter, but in fact, if you work it all out, the average day in Reykjavik gets more sunshine than the average day in Miami Beach. All that -- and the fact that Iceland Air allows you to stop over in Reykjavik for as long as you want, at no additional fare -- worked on me. But what's different about Iceland from other places of stunning natural beauty like, oh, the Bahamas, is that it actually has something to offer beyond its place in the world. There are no Starbucks here. And more importantly, you get a sense when you're here that Icelanders aren't exploiting their natural resoures as much as they're flourishing in them. You come here and you feel like you're somewhere else. And that's the kind of thing that makes a tourist like me want to come back.