Almost a year ago, a good friend and myself decided--rather last minute--to make the jump and travel to some place we’ve talked about visiting for some time.
While sitting at the bar in Green Turtle, we purchased our plane tickets through WOW Air to Iceland, ordered another round of beers, and made a cheers to the adventure we’d booked ourselves in the coming weeks.
Over the years, Iceland’s popularity has grown due to its promotion and incentivising of tourism. It’s a small country with a great deal to offer those of all walks of life. I’m not going to get too into the details about Iceland’s history, or why they would want to capitalize on the economics of tourism--which may be self-explanatory to some degree. I just know, around the time when we first started talking about Iceland, and years prior when I first had the idea of traveling there planted in my head, there was not much talk of Iceland, and even less desire to visit. Yet, as time went by, it became more popularized due to its natural hot springs, the possibility of viewing the Northern Lights, and its unique and diverse landscape, among other reasons.
When we booked the flights, paid for out Airbnb, and were coming into the days before we were to embark, my mental state waivered. The months leading up to this moment were some of the most difficult. I’ve long struggled with the beast that is depression over the years, and its volatile by nature, ever-changing in its intensity and duration. I was climbing, slowly, out of the pit, but there still wasn’t much light. My body and mind were fatigued, but I pushed on, as we must. And, if I’m to be honest, there are individuals during that time who helped me get by, whether they know it or not. They shared with me the gift of short, beautiful moments of intimacy--and this isn’t to be confused with physical intimacy, but rather a personal kind. An intimacy where, for once, a barrier is removed, even just slightly enough, and a human connection is made. If it weren’t for those to stoke the fire of hope within myself, I don’t know where I’d be today.
But that’s another story.
We went through the motions of the usual airports pre-flight shenanigans: checked-in, made it through security, had a last meal at the bar along with a couple of beers, then waited and waited until out flight was ready for departure.
It goes on from there, landing in Iceland, with a few hiccups (always pre-book a car). We checked into our Airbnb after driving around for hours, visiting one ravine with a waterfall in Northern Iceland, in that time. We passed out on the bed at 5 p.m. And, when we awoke, that was when the strangeness of this land began to set upon me.
At 8 p.m., it was still light outside. Coming from winter on the east coast, this was a bit of a shock. My first thought was that I wasted the day sleeping, and that it was now--then--early in the morning. To my surprise, we still had time to enjoy the evening.
Walking through the foreign streets that night, I felt oddly satisfied with life. And for much of the trip, I chalked carried this sensation around with me, chalking it up to the fact that I was away from Baltimore, leaving behind those burdens and troubles I felt. In a way, it was a sense of freedom that I felt, but there was more at work.
My friend and I walked through the cold streets, filled with drunken hollers, music, and laughter. We went into an Irish Pub, listening to American music, and were offered some kind of drugs--to which we declined. We had dinner at a local restaurant, then discovered a local karaoke bar in the basement where we sat for a couple of hours, listening to the Icelanders sing American pop songs ranging from the 50s to the 80s. By the end of the night, we went to a hotdog stand, and had ourselves a loaded, Icelandic hotdog, and discussed with the young man working the cashier how screwed America is with Trump at the presidential week. Another man chimed in, agreeing with us, then began telling us more about the impact he could have, cracking satirical jokes. (We later found out, just before we all parted ways, that he worked as a writer for The Daily Show.)
As joyous as the night had been, there was something odd at work. Everything we had been exposed to, aside from the cuisine and local craft beer, had been Americanized, or held some portion of American culture within it such as the live music we heard the nights we went out down to some of the bars we visited. American culture surrounded us, and, as much as I tried to remove myself from any semblance of what I had been trying to combat over the previous weeks, it seemed to permeate even more deeply being in a foreign land with the hope of being granted a momentary escape.
When it came to our final day of exploration, the day dedicated to seeing as much of the natural beauty as we could, I felt depleted. External, I held together a wondrous facade, but inside, my mind was swirling with dark thoughts.
The roads of the Icelandic country were nearly devoid of any other traffic. Occasionally, as we neared points of interest that we were visiting, there were other tourists. Some we seemed to be following, arriving as the same black Jeep was leaving, over and over; perhaps it was another Jeep each time, yet it represented the same either way.
When we arrived at Skógafoss, the crowd was massive. Being one of the largest waterfalls in Iceland, the draw of tourism was bound to happen. We approached the rocky river bed and followed it towards the waterfall. The thunderous roar of frigid water crashing against the bottom intensified with each step, and as we grew closer, a rainbow in the mist formed halfway up the waterfall, along the side of one ridge, and spanned down towards the water at the bottom of the falls. To the left of the waterfall, lush greenery coated the side and top of the mountain. The water that softly trickled past us was clear as glass. I crouched down alongside of it, and dipped my hand beneath the surface, feeling the cold penetrate through my skin, deep into bone. I stood and snapped a photograph as my friend continued to approach the waterfall.
Shortly after we neared the base of the waterfall, allowing the mist to drift over us, we began to climb to the top of the 200-feet-high waterfall. Even with a pathway to follow, it wasn’t the easiest hike. The iron steps were old and rusted. Footholds were falling to pieces, making it difficult to keep a steady footing. And, with the narrow pathway, there were numerous people pushing past us, trying to descend the falls as we were attempting to ascend them.
I watched a child fall, and laughed.
Then I fell, and laughed.
This was a way that the world seemed to work.
When we reached the top of the waterfall, there was no one nearby. Off in the distance, a man sat on the edge, his feet dangled over the side of the cliff, just above where water fell. I snapped a photo of him, then scanned around the area, taking in the seemingly endless stretches of green landscape in one direction, ocean in another, and snow-capped mountains in, yet, another direction. The air was brisk, clean, and felt good to breathe. The thunderous sound of the waterfall had quieted to a calming hum that combined with the soft sound of the wind blowing, waves in the distances, and the quiet of open atmosphere; a symphony of nature played out as I stood atop the cliff.
Something occurred within me at that moment. It’s difficult to explain except by attributing a word to it: epiphany. Except, it wasn’t so much as a revelation as it was an intense understanding for how I am, for what I had been through, and for how the world will maneuver with or around us. Standing along the edge of the cliff, looking across the Icelandic landscape, I felt, for the first time in, perhaps, years, a great peace settle within me. There was a comfort to each experience I had encountered with in this foreign land. A light was held up at the top of the pit, guiding me, coaxing me to continue on, to come forth and see, even if for a moment, that life can be beautiful, and wonderful.
It is whatever we make of it.
Nearly a year later, and that feeling still persists when I think back to that moment atop Skógafoss. Or when I remember the feeling of bathing in the cool waters of Seljavallalaug, and emerged into the cold air, feeling reborn. Or when we saw the massive paintings all throughout the city of Reykjavík.
In Iceland, I experienced an awakening, of sorts. Or, perhaps, it was a healing. Whatever it may have been, to this day, I have difficulty explain it to others. It was a moment of great personal insight. The kind that can only be experienced to fully understand. The kind that enables us to move again, to grow again.
