Pale As Hail Is Halloween

Halloween is my very favorite holiday. I love dressing up and decorating and trick or treaters. I love haunted houses and scary movies. I love pumpkins and fall and seeing kids jazzed about being whatever they want to be for the night. I’ve always taken pride in my Halloween costume ideas, and have often taken them way too seriously. In October of 2004 my little brother and I were in 2nd and 4th grade and we knew exactly who we wanted to be for Halloween. President Bush and President Elect John Kerry. As a bizarrely political 10 year old, I had already broken family ties and declared myself an avid Democrat. I informed my younger brother that I would be John Kerry because he was taller than President Bush so it made the most sense for me to portray the Senator from Massachusetts while he would be the cowboy-boot wearing Texan/President. Although I did favor the left side of life, my true intention was a completely holiday based scheme. I would get the most candy. We were trick or treating in downtown Salt Lake City, Marmalade District. A magical land full of liberal intellectuals and happy homosexuals (don’t think as a 10 year old I didn’t know who they were and who they would be voting for.) And boy was I right! Had my Halloween candy bag been any indicator of who was going to win the election, Kerry had it by a landslide! Each house we would go to would see our costumes, ask if our parents put us up to it, we’d respond enthusiastically that it was our idea, and I’d shout out, “Because I wanted to be John Kerry!” then they’d give me an extra candy, or two or three. My bag was too heavy to hold by the end of the night and I glowed with politically apt satisfaction. Until I went home and saw my brother’s lighter bag. It was then that the true socialist within me shined and I evenly distributed my extra candy with my little brother.

It was that same desire to bring together cultures through holiday fun that lead me to my Halloween costume choice this year. Initially, I figured some typical current costume choices would suffice. With supplies limited to what I could find in my closet and on my couch, I grabbed a yellow rain coat, two IKEA pillow cases and came up with these…

Although Christian being Jon Snow makes about 80% of my dreams come true and even though back home everyone and their dog and their baby is a Minion, I felt like sticking my husband's arms in pillow cases and tying my jacket too tight might not be enough for Iceland. Halloween has never been a part of Icelandic culture. Over the last five or so years, they’ve acknowledged the existences of Halloween and tried to nurture the idea onto the island. Occasionally there will be a vampire on a candy bar in a back isle of the grocery store and it’s even possible to see a child in a costume but it’s either Anna or Elsa and it’s not for Halloween, Iceland is just still really into the Nordic princess situation. This lack of interest in All Hallows Eve left me distraught, and determined. I had to find a better way to make Iceland understand what Halloween is all about. I racked my brain to think of something that thrived in Icelandic culture that I could turn into couture. What I ended up with was golf. 

Iceland has the highest number of golf courses per capita. In the world. The small country has 66 golf courses which equates to 1 golf course per 4,825 people. And the locals are using them. You know that midnight sun we have over here? Apparently it’s just so they can get in more tee time. There are several websites dedicated solely to midnight sun golfing. midatalatic.icelandair.com puts midnight golfing right beside swimming in blizzards under Icelandic leisure and sports. Golfing comes up in casual chat and competitive conversations. Golfing, I decided, is the way to an Icelandic heart. And an Icelandic Halloween. 

It was the perfect plan. I would dress up as a golf ball and all the Icelanders would love it and love me and love Halloween! The plan was foolproof. The first step was where I got creative. I’ve spent the last month “creatively” coming up with ways to celebrate Halloween without anywhere to buy real decorations for the holiday, or even a Walmart for that matter. Our bathroom sports the traditional halloween orange and black of the holiday as we have far more black clothes than the average witch hunter and our laundry cord is the kind of neon orange that is the only shade in the 50% off bucket at the mall. The very same shade of orange that’s marked up in The States from September 1st-Oct 31st because we know celebrating means consumers will spend more money to be festive. Our white laundry draped across the radiator makes for excellent ghosts. The common laundry room has that whole House at the End of the Street/Blaire Witch Project vibe that’s all the funs on Halloween. It’s the kind of room that makes you sneak around the corner waiting to see whose’s standing still facing the wall waiting to demon-creep you while you grab your colors. It’s festive.

By Oct. 15th exactly one store was selling exactly 3 Halloween decorations. I bought all three. Unsatisfied with the small hanging spider, pumpkin, and AA-battery jack-o-lantern lights, I vamped things up with a large skeleton made entirely out of travel magazines left here by tourists.

Finding a satisfying amount of success with those limited supplies, and with the added bonus of being married to the Industrial Designer who made a BB-8 droid in a day, I got the naïve idea that we could create an incredible golf ball costume in one night made entirely out of things we had at home. In case you were wondering, extreme naïveté combined with blind determination will successfully make a golf ball head out of nothing but tape and the white plastic cups you found in the back of your sink. And you can have it all in as little as 4 hours.

I was ecstatic that my golf ball costume was finished. That, coupled with intense sleep deprivation (we stayed up until 4am to make the freaking thing) gave me a confidence that got me out the door today in an overcoat, heels, and a giant golf ball head to show Iceland how Halloween is done. 

Golf Ball Girl strutting her stuff down the street thanks to a clever costume and complete anonymity.  

Initially I wanted to do a few things just for me. With my surprisingly supportive husband by my side (he’s had to deal with me being choked up without Halloween for weeks now) we headed to Reykjavik’s cemetery. Because that’s the Halloween I know and love. When you think “cemetery,” you have actually always thought of the Reykjavik cemetery without even realizing it. It has old weathered headstones with skulls and cross bones, covered in moss and mushrooms and un-raked fall leaves. The gravesides are protected by overgrown, overhanging trees and a black wrought iron fence that looks like it came straight out of a “How To” guide for making spooky fences. The cemetery is always quiet and cool, but it does not always have a girl walking around dressed as a golf ball. I figured the ancestors who made golf happen here would appreciate the gesture. 

Perfect spooky fence. Giant golf ball head. 

After spending some time enjoying the setting cemetery sun I knew we needed to treat the day for what it really was, a normal day just like every other. We had errands to run and a walk for fun and I figured that the best way to let locals know about Halloween was to be where the locals were on Halloween. They’d see my golf ball head walking down the street and getting groceries and they’d realize they forgot to put on their costumes! Then they’d realize how silly it is to be out doing errands on the best holiday ever! They’d go home, tell their families about how there was a girl in a golf ball costume and that they love golf and they could do it too! And then they’d have a surprise Halloween party! Halloween golf ball costumes for everyone! That was my intention. It did not play out as I had planned. 

I shared my holiday spirit while shopping…

Went to iconic locations to find locals and talk about golf…

I waited in unnecessary lines while quietly humming “The Monster Mash”…

I even showed everyone how fun Halloween is at the grocery store…

Eventually I got hungry. Focused on keeping the magic alive and not removing my golf ball mask we went to grab a snack at the only place I could eat…

Unfortunately, no matter where I went or how many people stopped to compliment the creative look, no one mentioned the clever connection to famous Icelandic golfing, which meant not a single local was feeling my intended Icelandic Halloween spirit at all! It was the tourists who taught me why. 

Next week is Iceland Airwaves. It’s a huge event where musicians from around the world will be performing in a globally known music festival here in Reykjavik. Many Icelanders come, and tourists from all over. It was these music-loving tourists who stopped me on the street. Again and again. Asking for my photograph. 

…Because they all thought I was Bjork. Or at least, dressed up as her. Having created a Halloween costume hoping to best connect with Icelandic culture I had inadvertently dressed up as the most iconic Icelander in the world. But really I was just a golf ball. 

Happy Halloween one and all! Here's the last shot from the cemetery of me and the ghostly orb who wanted in on the fun. 

Pale As Hail Lives In A Shoebox

My husband and I like to think we are urban people. We have fantasized over living in a large city in a small apartment, probably in Korea Town, putting unframed posters on our exposed brick walls and sizzling in the smell of kimchee. We think we are cultured enough to be the people who go to gallery openings and rooftop parties and, I don’t know, hang loose with the street youths. We think that’s who we are. Or at the very least, who we are prepared to become. New York, San Fransisco, we gotchu. We get you. But no, actually, we don’t. We are both from Utah. A cupcake of a state. Where the most crime we’ve ever seen was when the local cookie store was sued by Pillsbury for using the name “The Dough Girl.” And even still, we assume we are the cool kids who swear by local breweries (even though we don’t drink) and we are totally unique because we wear thick framed glasses that other people wouldn’t (even though they all do). As we have moved from the comforts of Utah Valley we realize we may not be the urban dwellers we thought we were. What caused the double take? What made us think our plan might not fit our personalities as well as we thought? It’s that tiny apartment we had in our mind. Because we live in that apartment. No, it’s not the small apartment in Little Korea and we won’t be smelling any kimchee through the walls. But it’s in Iceland. And it’s 230 sq ft. 

I’m a worrier. And when an almost random trip to Iceland turned into a two year contract with an Icelandic school, my worrying became catatonic. Add that to the fact that we had exactly two months from Christian’s acceptance letter to the move-in date and my worrying became the envy of every actor in Masterpiece Theater. Really, Lifetime would have given me a made for tv movie had they seen my stress. To destress, I obsessed. I spent hours learning just enough Icelandic to find the word “rent” on Icelandic sites. I would wake up at 4am to see if any landlords would answer my desperate plea for a home. I wanted anything. I would accept any offer. Simply so that I could look up an address on Google Maps and start mapping my bus route to and from “home.” I panicked further as weeks went on with no apartment. I imagined moving into a foreign country with nothing but bags of belongings and no where to belong. I pictured heathens in hostels and losing my shampoo in public showers. Finally, while at the zoo with my 6 year old sister, a viking named Viktor came to the rescue with a 9 months lease for a basement apartment right downtown. 

After seeing photos of the apartment and talking the renter down to a price we could comfortably afford, Christian and I began to talk ourselves through the compromises.

“Who even needs natural light?” -Mallory Poulsen, 7/21/15

 “Yeah, It will be completely dark 4 months out of the year anyway!” -agreed a supportive Christian Poulsen, 7/21/15

“Not having an oven might make things complicated.” Christian Poulsen 7/23/15

“How many eggs do you think we could fit in that mini fridge?” said Mallory 7/23/15, who was guessing the answer was half a dozen, generously. 

“I’m not sure, maybe we should keep looking…” Mallory/Christian (on multiple occasions)

“If you want it, the apartment is yours.” Viktor 7/31/15

“OH MY GOODNESS THANK YOU IT IS PERFECT I LOVE YOU.” said Mallory, basically. 7/31/15…

“Christian. I don’t think the bathroom even has a door.” Mallory, 8/11/15

We moved seven days later. 

The apartment itself is pretty cool. It’s on the kind of colorful street where each house looks like a crayon straight out of the box. Exactly what Chris and I expected every Nordic street to look like. The apartment inside is white and bright and has an aesthetically pleasing radiator which will keep us all kinds of cozy in the winter and look fab in photos we send the fam. We’re also in IKEA territory so one hour after being handed our house keys we were sitting on sofas in IKEA’s miniature apartments smelling meatballs and making plans to nest the heck out of no square footage. 

The apartment has everything we need and nothing we don’t. We have a mini-fridge underneath the table/shelf that is in between the “closet” (a clothes rack against the bed) and the “kitchen” (a sink, a hot plate, and exactly three shelves). The fridge comes with enough space for a full 24 hours worth of meals. As long as most of those meals do not include refrigerated items. To our surprise, it even has a freezer! Obviously by freezer I mean a shelf the size of a pint of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream. That pint cost us $11 here, but we were so sure that was the exact size of the freezer we bought it anyway for the photo op. 

Our clothes fit in the dresser as long as you like that “so full you can’t close the drawers” vibe. And for the clothes that don’t fit we have the clothes rack that, when raised high enough, makes for an excellent make-shift wall to prevent me from stretching my arms while in the bed and grabbing that pint of Ben and Jerry’s while half asleep. Useful. We have just enough storage space under the bed to throw laundry and just enough storage under the stairs to throw a fit. There’s a hole in our wall that connects our apartment with the bottom of the building’s stairs. We’re embracing it. If the fumes from the paint cans left in there don’t kill us, it will make for a perfectly homey panic room. 

We got our small urban appeal. We have a unique and wholly unnecessary floral molding on… some… parts of the ceiling. Those are complimented by painted exposed pipes and new hard wood floors. We have a kitchenette and enough room for an IKEA couch with awkward bulky wicker furniture that came with the place (it’s being removed, my designer husband couldn’t take it). And we have an above average view for a below ground apartment. What we don’t have is a bathroom door. 

Now, I know my vows. I paid attention in marriage class. I’m cool with all that “in sickness” and “in health” business.  But it’s the “in a 200 sq ft apartment sitting on the toilet with explosive diarrhea and no door” part of the intimacy contract I think we may have skimmed over during the ceremony. This particular scenario has not happened yet in our new home. But isn’t a healthy marriage prepared and focused for the future? And I'm telling the truth. There is nothing but a thin, stained sheet blocking the toilet from the kitchenette/bedroom/living room. It’s held up with zip ties. It must come down. 

The bathroom is the coolest part of the apartment. It’s what really sold us on the place (back when we were younger and niave-er and thought there was a door). The bathroom is solid concrete with a small sink, those exposed pipes all us 90’s kids think is the coolest thing on the block, and a cantilevered toilet. Rad. Forget the fact that when I sit down on this hanging toilet my feet don’t touch the ground and ignore the fact that we have to squeegee the floor after we shower because the shower is just a spout in front of the toilet. It’s okay that there is no toilet paper holder because showering would only ruin it anyway. I can put it on the kitchen sink. The bathroom looks COOL and I’m way into multitasking! Who doesn’t need to pee in the shower occasionally? I CAN, the toilet is in the shower! And if I was feeling particularly productive I could stretch my arm out and make breakfast while I shower too. All those things are cool things! But the door, man. I really could use a bathroom door. 

Our Icelandic friends warned us about living in the city and having to deal with noisy people. “We ARE those noisy people!” We thought out loud (very loud, because we are noisy). Christian and I were excited for the city being up all hours of the night with dance parties and surprise events and for all those cool urban neighbors up late listening to interesting music. We were like that, for sure! Because one time in Utah I came home late and ran into my upstairs neighbor who had come down in pajamas with a blanket wrapped around him. He asked if I would have my husband turn down the music because his wife couldn’t fall asleep… see? We ARE those loud urban people! (For emphasis on our delinquent behavior I will leave out the fact that it was only 9pm and his wife was 8 months pregnant.) But city noise is different, guys. It’s not High Violet played on medium before the sun has totally set. It’s drunken men smoking outside your window laughing about who will pee in your windowsill first. That’s life in the city. (This is happening IRL while I type.)

This place is small, it’s loud, and because I am a confused kid in my early 20’s, I think it’s all awesome. Because really, who wouldn’t trade a bathroom door for a mini fridge that’s in the bedroom? Oh, none of you? That’s okay. It’s just because you aren’t as urban as us.

Pale As Hail Gets Sassy About Sulfur

I like eggs. Some of my fondest childhood memories were spent at my aunt’s house in an oversized T-shirt (spill proof, I was a messy eater) watching Disney movies while drinking hot chocolate and eating scrambled eggs. I’m not picky about how my eggs are cooked either. If they’re poached, over-easy, hard boiled, soft boiled, not boiled, etc. I’m into it. In fact I clearly remember watching Runaway Bride as a well-versed child of the 90’s and declaring it my favorite movie. In part, because even as a 7 year old I knew Richard Gere was easy on the eyes. But even more desirable was the scene where Julia Roberts cooked eggs, over easy. What Maggie Carpenter knew better than any Rom-Com heroine before her time, was that food was the way to really discover ones self. More specifically, eggs. Eggs are a gift that keeps on giving. And yet, after all that build up about my awkwardly positive relationship with eggs, I can’t stand the smell. And my shower? In my home? It smells like eggs. 

Sulfur is inescapable in Iceland. It’s great really, having the ability to get lava hot spring water straight through your faucets in no time at all. I’m not being cute or creative in my description here, it is lava water coming through my bathroom faucet and into the bathtub. Iceland has two water temperatures. Glacier and lava. And the lava? It’s as sulfuric as all get out! 

I was a child raised on the belief that a long warm bath can cure all ailments. Move over, dōTerra, all I’ll ever need is a hot bath and just enough shampoo to make bubbles fill the tub. The last year and a half we were living in an apartment that only had a shower and it’s simply not the same. Apartments in Reykjavik are expensive enough that I knew a bathtub would not be part of our criteria. And sure enough, the apartment we are moving to has but a shower head to wash me down. Fortunately, we are not moving to that apartment until the 9th of September and will continue to live in our airbnb until then. And the airbnb? Bath tub city! By that I mean yes there is one bathtub. 

After our perilous transatlantic journey to our new home the first thing on my list of new experiences was to climb a glacier, hike a volcano, meet Bjork, take a bath. I woke up at noon and, not wanting to waste any more of the day, decided to take a quick two hour bath and then get going. I turned the faucet on and stepped out of the room while the water filled to the top. After a short wait the anticipation was too much (it doesn’t take much to make me happy) and I gleefully pranced into the bathroom! I then walked right back out and shut the door. Fast. Sewage must have come up from the toilet and begun to spread across the bathroom. Filling the air in the apartment with an acrid smell the closed door could not contain. I was sure of it. I was wrong.

That smell was the water. The fancy earthy water Christian was so pumped up about because he is confused. “It’s naturally heated” he would say while he googled information about Iceland before we arrived. “The water where we’re moving is supposed to be fantastic on your skin!” he’d bring up when I complained about my complexion. “All their water smells like the seventh layer of the fiery depths of hell!” Was something Chris did not say. He left that part out. 

Eventually my desire to cook myself in hot water overcame my gag-impulse and I once again ventured into the searing sulfuric bathtub. I do not use the word “searing” by accident. Now, I like my water like I like my men, hot. But this water is not hot. It is the Nordic Viking version of hot. I held my breath to avoid the smell, but there was no way to avoid the heat after plunging into the hot tub. The water came from the center of the earth, through my faucet, and began to turn my glow-in-the-dark white skin into a fiery red as bright as my copper hair. Maybe that description is not doing a good enough job explaining the heat. Let me try again with a story. By this point I had survived my first bath and braved the smells and sites of Icelandic water. Eventually I chose to have another go at it. I turned on the water to medium heat (which could be translated to “boil a lobster temp”) and expected the hot water to pour out immediately, as it always does. Nothing but freezy glacier came out. I had no answer for this. Iceland does not run out of hot water. There are no heaters being over-worked. It literally comes from the ground. The same ground where they bury bread to bake it. I told Christian about this who, true to form, didn’t believe me and had to google a possible cause. The hot water wasn’t gone. The city had turned it off. A pipe had burst near our apartment and it was releasing scalding water into the city streets. The kind that kills people, people! The big wigs had to shut down the hot water in the city so that pedestrians wouldn’t die. That’s how hot the sulfuric water is. 

I have this new friend and my friend is a Canadian geologist. She teaches me what’s what. After spending years using Aveda products and teaching others how best to care for their hair, spending around 1,600 hours in classes with professional stylists discussing the chemical processes hair goes through in minute detail, I thought I knew my stuff. Turns out I had to talk to a geothermal engineer to figure out how to care for hair in Iceland. If you like your hair brittle and dry then, perfect! Sulfur is for you! If you don’t, which you don’t, you have to buy specific products to protect your hair from being attacked by it. And it’s not just hair the sulfur is after. It wants your esophagus too. Pro tip, if you don’t want your water to taste like rotten eggs and prefer not to ingest a corrosive liquid, let the tap run for about 30 seconds before drinking the water. Trust me, a Canadian told me. And I learned it the hard way. 

It’s not all bad, sulfuric chemical reactions made me rich! I have three rings I wear at all times. My white gold wedding ring, a silver Sundance midi ring, and a silver ring with a moon stone center (also Sundance, I have consistent taste). After basking in the bath for hours longer than the recommended dose, I lifted my hands and realized my two silver rings had turned to gold. Thanks, sulfur! Now I'm rich! 

Moral of the story: sulfuric water is even better than scrambled eggs. It’s the best and now my rings are gold so I’m rich enough to stop blogging forever. See you soon!

Pale As Hail Gets Festive

What’s fun is to move to a new country during a national holiday. We landed, slept in too late, and found out we were supposed to be celebrating. Last Saturday was Menningarnótt, Culture Night. It’s a holiday meant to combine modern culture and past heritage. We were told by our Icelandic friends that people would open up their houses on this day to show off their lifestyle and give you food. Intrigued by the discovery of new cultural traditions, and swayed by the promise of free food, my husband and I trekked downtown for our first Culture Night. 

Over 100,000 people, about 1/3 the population of Iceland, fills the streets of Reykjavik on Culture Night. There are concerts, art exhibits, and activities throughout the city. That all seemed great. But Christian and I found a listed event that was SO us: a music playing shed.  And that’s all there is to it. We had read about this shed in some backyard that was going to be playing music. And we had to go. The event page described a useful toolshed who did not seem to be spreading enough joy to the public during the rest of the year. And it was definitely not getting the recognition it deserved. It was literally a registered event, Music Playing Shed. We walked up and down main streets and through back alleys attempting to read our google maps correctly and find our music shed. We passed a DJ and dance space outside, complete with a disco ball hanging from a crane that was being used for nearby construction. We counted dozens of sweet smelling cotton candy stands, only choosing not to get one because the pouring rain seemed to be disintegrating the candy before it had a chance to enter your mouth. The weather did not deter us from our course. We closed our eyes to distractions like free coffee/cake stands, “real” American hamburger booths, and (for me personally) the sales at every vintage thrift shop, until we climbed a hill of colorful houses and guided by a skunk-like smell and reggie music, found our shed. We ducked under a small alcove and walked into a friendly neighbor’s backyard to find the event. A small 6’x6’ green shed with a boom box on top. The instructions said to go inside the shed. But there was a lot of smoke pouring out of the shed. We walked away.  

By 11pm all the concerts were winding down and the massive and overly-polite if not overly-drunk crowd moved to the harbor for the firework show. If I had chosen to move to Iceland just for that show, it would have been enough. It was “totally forget about the fact that your not-yet-paid-off iPhone 6 died in the rain that day” good. I am not a fireworks fan. I’m impressed by them, but typically from afar. I don’t need fireworks to feel like I’ve had a good New Years or 4th of July. But that’s because America has not yet figured out how to properly entertain fans with fireworks. Sure, holidays in the States have fantastic shows. They pour lots of money into an entertaining and large performance. What America is missing is something that Icelandic fireworks have mastered, the element of surprise. While we faced the harbor waiting for the sparks to fly over the ocean, the Art Museum behind us burst into flames. “Who would want to attack Iceland??” I think as my life flashes before my eyes and the building behind me goes up in flames. That is, until I see the flames shoot into the sky right over my head. That’s right. They were fireworks. And they go RIGHT over your head. They shot from the harbor, buildings, the under-construction parking lot, all to land so close to your head you think you’re going to lose it. That’s the other thing Icelanders have figured out in firework entertainment; safety is not priority. Fireworks are priority. 

Culture Night was the kick-off of Icelandic introductions. Since then we have found a magic in driving around and stumbling across small city fairs. Exactly a week after Menningarnótt we drove into Mosfellsbær and made a quick exit the wrong way out of a round about because we saw balloons. Because we are six year olds with a drivers license. Everywhere there were streamers and pink balloons. After following the decorations we saw the smallest main street with an old swimming pool. For those of you who know the band Sigur Ros, this is where their old studio was, in the swimming pool. We parked our car beside a nearby waterfall (you think I’m kidding) and walked to the town. Huge events like Culture Night remind me that I am now living in the capitol city of a country. But walking through the two dozen booths in Mosfellsbær filled with home made knitting, nature-made candles, and enough dried fish to feed a viking for a year, reminded me that I am in Iceland. A culture uniquely close. Small enough we are already starting to recognize people at events. With landscapes large enough to remind us how vastly unique this land is. And a people who are brave, because I saw a young kid eat a lamb’s face for lunch and he didn’t even hesitate.

Pale As Hail Is A Pasta-Eating Expat

There are a few things you should know before moving to another country. A few examples, and I’m just spit-balling here, are; knowing something about the culture, how the city is mapped out and, you know, how to speak the language.  I didn’t know any when I got here. But I am very good at figuring them out the hard way. 

We landed in Keflavik, Iceland at 1am and spent a short time roaming around the airport. The airport itself makes you feel like you are inside a new-agey IKEA. I was thrown by how modern the geometric ceiling and sleek cement walls were. How innovative it seemed to have open ceilings showing the constellations, and how the grab-n-go restaurants looked like the inside of a night club. Over all, I felt like I was entranced in a modern art museum… until our Airbnb guy apologized for how 80’s the airport is. Apparently, I am way behind. 

Certain cultural norms were pretty easy to pick up on after roaming Reykjavik for a day. The cool kids wear all black. Head to toe. It’s more a strict and unyielding uniform than a fashion statement. “Fortunate” I thought, picturing the all-black wardrobe I had acquired from almost 18 months in hair school. “Unfortunate” I thought, as I reminisced over throwing away my old black clothes in exchange for bright patterns that insisted on not matching with anything else I owned. As I stared down at my forest green and fuchsia floral dress jacket paired with a leopard print pencil skirt, I knew I would fit right in. Somewhere else. 

My sense of direction has been obliterated. In the states, I knew that the mountains were East, the valley was West, and North had the stores, so South must be toward nothing. Here, the ocean is East, the ocean is West, the ocean is also South. And the mall is North. Do I regret that I already use the mall as a sense of direction? Yes, slightly. It just says far more about myself than I want to know. Because I have lost obvious natural landmarks to guide me, and because the city is only a half hour walk from the Airbnb we are in for the next 2 weeks, I’ve been looking up. Toward the sky. The city’s most famous landmark is a Lutheran church called Hallgrímskirkja. And because I am a direct descendant of Martin Luther, I look to the church for direction. I also look to it because it is placed at the very top of a hill which marks the center of Reykjavik. If I’m lost, Hallgrímskirkja will help me find my way. Unfortunately, Reykjavik also has a lot of trees. And I’m pretty short. And that steeple is sometimes hard to find. That’s why I got lost in that cemetery earlier today. 

The food downtown is great. I know because I was a tourist here once. I say this, after having just stolen a bite of my husband Christian’s teacup full of Lucky Charms, because we can’t actually afford to eat the food here. So far our meals have looked quite like that of a picky six year old. Tonight we made hot dogs. I cut mine up to trick myself into thinking I was eating more than half the size of hot dog I am used to in America. I added a side of canned peas because they were also cheap, and to trick myself into thinking I was having a nutritious meal. Pro Tip; don't buy the canned peas. It will never be worth it. Pro Pro Tip; buy the canned peas if you are on a diet and want to remind yourself you actually hate food. Those will help. Twice before tonight, we have had pasta. Bowtie pasta, because we wanted to class up our dining experience. Also because we recognized the picture of the pasta on the box. 

Before I moved I wanted to learn valuable Icelandic words. But Icelandic is hard. All I learned was fruit. I’m not sure if you speak another language, but if you do, you would know how often fruit comes up in everyday conversation. The answer is not a lot. And when you are living in an desolate Nordic country? It never comes up. I also learned how useless knowing the word for “banana” was when I went grocery shopping for the first time. You can see fruit. If you are buying an apple, you just look straight at the apple and know, for example, that it is an apple. I was going through the produce thinking “banani, epli, citron” while my eyes were going, “banana, apple, lemon… you KNOW this stuff already!” Why I chose fruit over practical grocery words, things that are packaged like; shampoo, deodorant, or tampon is completely beyond me. But I know my personal hygiene is lacking because of it. And my cupboards. What are we having for dinner tomorrow? Pasta. 

I’ve gotten pretty good at googling words in Icelandic in order to figure out things around me. I’ve learned about habits here that I can’t wait to experience, like celebrating Christmas for months on end. I’ve also learned about habits I can’t wait to avoid, like having to shower completely naked in public bathrooms before using the swimming pools (really, they are not messing around with that one.) Either way, I have a lot of time to post about the new experiences I’m having and I don’t have much patience left to add it to this. Moral of the story, I love it here. It’s different. And it’s keeping me on my toes.