Pale as Hail

I don’t know much about Canadians. Once while visiting my great grandmother in Washington my cousin and I decided to cross the small amount of ocean that separated us from the giant Canadian mountains on the other side. We trudged through the shallow water, determined to reach our goal and sneak into the foreign country with the focus of two fiercely independent and adventurous 8 year olds. By that I mean we got distracted by a purple starfish and turned our backs to Canada because we named him “Buckles” and he wanted to live at Grandma’s house in Seattle. The next close encounter I had with Canada was with my 5th grade teacher. She wasn’t Canadian, but her husband was. And she also knew the metric system so basically I was getting a Canadian education. I knew exactly one Canadian before I moved to Iceland. The Canadian I know is Kristen Homer. She and I went to Aveda Institute together. One time I asked her if she would make me a ball gown entirely out of caution tape, because I had an idea. She made it, it was perfect, and that is why I love Canadians. It’s also why I decided to go on a weekend road trip with three Canadians while I was on the dark side of a 48 hour flu. Let’s talk more about that.

For the most part, I blame Yoko Ono because if she hadn’t been hanging out in Iceland to light up a massive peace light on an abandoned Island off the coast of Reykjavik none of this would have happened. I’ll give that run on sentence a proper post next week. Until then, just know that Yoko Ono gave me a debilitating flu. I chilled with Yoko on Friday night and the road trip began Saturday morning. Friday night I lay in bed, sat up in bed, felt squeamish in bed, ran to the toilet, felt squeamish by the toilet, and lay by the toilet, on repeat, all night. I chalked it up to exposure from the long cold Beetles-filled night and told myself I’d feel better in the morning. Although sleep did not come, the morning did. I fought in an internal battle with my mind. By 6am I willed myself to have the courage to bail on the Canadians. I began writing a message to the lead Canadian, Julianna, letting her know I was just too sick to join in on the fun. The battle continued as my mind convinced my hands to delete the honest message and go on the trip no matter how I was feeling. I was not weak. I told my body to stop being so dramatic and to get over itself. And, because I spent three years of high school in debate and am a master manipulator, I got up, got dressed, threw up, threw clothes on, and left for our adventure. I got in the car with my road trip companions and kept my trap shut. Because I didn’t want to tell them I felt sick and have to miss out on the fun. And also because I didn’t want to throw up on the rental car’s upholstery.

Julianna and I have been friends since my first week in Iceland. She’s the kind of person who can start up a conversation with anyone and who is willing to turn even someone with my surly attitude into a good friend. She’s also a tough, no-nonsense scientist whose babies will definitely be at the top of the food chain. The flu would not slow this Canadian down…(*check to see if Canadians can even get flu*) Because of that, and also because we were going to the glacier lagoon and you do NOT mess up seeing the glacier lagoon, I decided to power through.

The girls were the most delightful strangers you could ever be asked to blind-date-friendship-make on a two day road trip. The two I had just met were related and knew Julianna before she moved to Iceland. They were traveling from Italy, to Turkey, and then Iceland. If that random assortment of stops doesn’t make you want to be their best friend, I don’t know why you even make friends. I loved it. They were funny and easy to talk to and so darn delightful they’d interrupted my internal battle which was saying, “Mallory. Sometimes you are very dumb. This is one of those times. Go home.” and they seduced me into staying with their charming Hosier ways.

By the time we were just outside of the city I knew I wasn’t going to make it. I was really sick and really not getting better. I started thinking of where I could get out and take a bus back home. It’d be at least an hour on the bus, but I had no choice. I was going to throw up. I finally racked up the courage and let the ladies know that I was sick. That I had been all night and was hoping I’d get better, but that was just not happening. They hesitated and said we could turn around after the first stop. I agreed. I agreed, because I didn’t realize what the first stop was. As the nausea hit me like a wave, a smell hit me like a ton of bricks. The first stop was a fish drying farm. Although the images should speak for themselves let me give you a little background. Iceland loves to eat inedible foods. These dried fish happen to be a part of that pallet. The smell of the drying fish is so bad these farms have to be placed far away from cities where humans might reside. While we stepped outside to take photos of the rows of dry fish, I dry heaved by the back of the car.

Because that experience wasn’t enough, I decided to keep going. Because Julianna asked me if we could hit one more stop before driving me back. I figured that if I could handle nausea and the smell of thousand of decaying fish, I could handle whatever was coming next. That’s because I didn’t know what was coming next.

I decided to run across the beach under this cliff to see if exerting energy would erase my nausea. It was a foolish idea because running makes me nauseous even when I'm not sick.

If you’ve read my blog before (which I’m sure you have because I know that if you are reading this you are…

1. Related to me and know I’ll ask if you’ve read it yet.

2. My Grandma, also related to me but reading this because you’re the best Grandma ever and I love you.)

Which means you know how I feel about the smell of sulfur. Julianna said she wanted to show the girls Krysuvík before we turned back for me. She called it by name because she is a sneaky Canadian and because, “The place where all The Walking Dead zombies go to hang out in natural jacuzzis” might make you think it’s the set of a movie, instead of more freaking nasty natural hot springs that smell like the earth is literally cooking the flesh off of the living dead. In case my rant just now didn’t make sense, I knew this place. It was a hot spring Chris and I drove to back in our rental car days. While Chris and I waked through the valley and up the mountainside I heaved and curled over from the unearthly smell nature was expelling. And that was a day my stomach felt great. That’s why I knew that for this trip with these ladies, my view of Krysuvík was only going to get as far as the parking lot. In the car. With the windows sealed tight.

Believe me when I say you'd want to smell this about as much as you'd want to drink it.

The girls continued on and I waited in the car. I was enjoying being able to lie flat across the seats and feel the nauseous gurgling of my stomach in peace. Then things got less peaceful. I rushed to the rustic public bathrooms and pulled on a slightly open door. I then promptly met a woman washing her hands, having not shut the door all the way. I chose the next bathroom. I went in, was sick, and came out. After taking the three steps down to the parking lot I realized I was about to turn around and repeat myself. My newly Christened bathroom was taken, so I chose the one where my lady friend had been. I realized why she hadn’t closed the door. It was stuck. But nature was about to have it’s way with my intestines, so I pulled hard and shut the door all the way. I once again expelled my insides and grabbed the door to walk out. I pushed, nothing. I pushed again, thinking my worn out body was being weak and needed a second try. Nothing.

There is something briskly embarrassing about being trapped in a bathroom. I suppose it’s not the first time that’s happened to me, because I clearly recognized the feeling of mortification being locked in gave me. It’s like we are admitting to the world that yes, in fact, we do defecate. But that no, World, we can’t seem to do it without locking ourselves in and announcing to all around that it just happened. I shook the door and pushed my body against it, that rabid fear growing inside me letting me know that yes, I was trapped in here forever and yes, I was going to die in a smelly outhouse on the side of a quiet road beside repulsive hot pots. And that no, no one was going to notice the smell of my decomposing body over the smell of the acrid natural springs. Noting my inevitable death, I had a little weep. I had the flu, wanted desperately to go see the glacial lagoon, but because of both things, I was going to die next to a toilet. I knocked on the door. A concerned Icelandic man called out to me asking if I was stuck. I responded with an affirmative high pitched, “uh-sniff-huh.” And my rescue attempt began.

Spoiler Alert: I was freed. After much pulling on his part and pushing on my part I once again saw sunlight and could take a deep breath of fresh sulfur-infused air. I got back in the car and sprawled out just in time for one of the girls to say, “Feeling any better?” “I got locked in the bathroom.” I said. And I left it at that.

The road trip didn’t end there. Because I’m too stubborn to admit when I’ve had enough. Having survived my near death experience I was elated. The girls cheered me up and the glaciers were calling my name. I kept going, and kept feeling worse. To make me feel better, the girls told me stories of times when they threw up and then felt better. Hmm. They told each individual story in great detail while passing around a bag of mini cinnamon rolls. Who would have thought it would be the site of a cinnamon roll that would spark my one and only suicidal thought?

This is a gorgeous place to stop and watch the unique Icelandic horses graze. It is also a particularly stunning spot to stop and rolph out your Mama Chia Seed apple sauce.

Although the smell of the cinnamon made me want to jump out of the car, these girls were fantastic. They felt for me, kept me as distracted as possible, and didn’t complain in front of me when I finally told them to just leave me in whatever town we were in and I’d find my way home. Which is exactly what I did. I ended up getting dropped off in a town called Selfoss. The girls carried on to a town called “Hella.” Fat chance I was going to survive if I had had them leave me in a town named after Satan’s vacation spot. I found the local library. Or, more specifically, the library’s bathroom. And frantically messaged all the people I knew in an attempt to get myself back. I was very far from home, very sick, and very stressed out.

This is the part where I give a shout out to the unique kindness shown by Icelanders. Because my friend Shirah messaged her in-laws, who happened to be near me, who were willing to pick my sick self up, shoot me up with some essential oils, and get me home safely to Reykjavik and bed. Here’s the thing. I was in the middle of far away from Reykjavik Iceland and had locals pick me up. I was locked in a bathroom and received a strong and helpful hand. I was sick as a dog, had to bail on the glacier lagoon, but still had a delightful time. All because I got to hang out with three very cool Canadians. I’d probably do it all again.

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!