August 17, 2018

Dristor district, Bucharest

Raz and I woke with the dawn of our second day and went for an early stroll around Bucharest’s Sector 3. As I understand, much of this area was destroyed during World War II. Most of what was left was damaged further by a 1977 earthquake, then razed and replaced in a piece-meal fashion by uniform multi-story apartment blocs in the early 1980s. Only a small scattering of buildings in tiny pocket-neighborhoods remain from before the sweeping “Standardization” of the city under its arguably mad dictator, Ceausescu. The neighborhood where we stay with Raz’s family is such a pocket. A single row of buildings, mostly of unknown construction date, hunkers down next to a large tram station. To every side except directly behind this row of old buildings, towering apartment blocks crest like the waves of a tsunami, ever threatening to bury this tiny hold-out community under the weight of their modern or art-deco lines. If you slip through the winding streets between the blocs, less than a half-mile walk will take you to one of the older and more stylish shopping malls in Bucharest. It too is hunkered down between the great waves of blocs, invisible until you turn just the right corner.

 

This morning, we are not headed to the mall, but in exactly the opposite direction, toward the Dristor metro station. We recall from our visit in 2016 that a plethora of excellent gogoserie were located nearby. Alas, if you have not tried gogosi (which are somewhat similar to doughnuts, only without the central hole, and generally filled with an amazing assortment of either savory or sweet concoctions), I can no longer direct you to this marvelous pastry. I am informed by Raz’s family that over the last year, deep-fried pastry of any kind, and gogosi in particular, have become exceedingly rare. Apparently, a study by the national department of health determined that the frying oil develops toxins, which are then departed to the food. The oil must thus be drained and disposed frequently in order to comply with new regulations, and this was far too expensive for most of the local gogoserie. I want to ask how McDonald’s gets around the regulation, since there are new store-fronts of that old American chain  in this neighborhood, but I do not speak Romanian well enough for the nuances of political discussion.

 

Instead, I simply visit the local McDonalds with Raz and check the menu for cartofi prajiti (fries) to confirm my suspicion that somehow the chain does indeed get around the regulation that has denied me my indulgence of gogosi. Surprisingly, the McDonalds (that is actually on the site of one of a former gogoserie which I had marked among my favorites) is an incredibly classy place. Yes, the shop cannot be more than 2 years old, but rarely do even new McDonalds in my city sparkle so. The tables and seats are stylish and elegant, and the standard meal counter is separated from the McCafe, with each having its own use-specific dining room. The café tables are lower and smaller, just perfect for a coffee concoction and an elegant pastry or confection. I have also never seen a confectionary display in an American McDonalds anything like that in this little franchise in Bucharest. In that instant, we make it a point of the visit to find other McDonalds to determine if this is specific to this location, or to the way the franchise operates in Romania, or if it’s a pan-European thing. We then wander outside and I have another moment of mirth. While the patio next to the dining room is packed with people in animated discussion over breakfast sandwiches and morning cigarettes, there is a separate non-smoking patio where Raz and I enjoy our confectionary and coffee with only some scattered songbirds for company.  Apparently, despite the worldwide knowledge that smoking is deadly, public smoking is very much still an institution in Bucharest.

 

We wander back to the house brimming with ideas for the evening, since we are headed this morning to see the country house. A decade or more back, Raz helped his father purchase a bit of land and a tiny, one-room cottage in Valea Lungă, a little hamlet in the Carpathian foothills. Since that purchase, Raz’s father (Gogu) has engaged in seemingly nonstop bricolage. When I first saw the cottage two years ago, it had a bedroom, a living room, a small kitchen and a full bath.

I could not help feeling a great sense of relief that we would be headed out of Bucharest toward the mountains as the humid heat of the day began washing over me on our return to the house. Mind you, we arrived at the house, packed the car, and left for the countryside before 9 am, and I was already beading up with sweat and having difficulty drawing breath I the oppressive heat.

 

Dâmbovița County, Romania

Romanian culture is deeply traditional and family-oriented. Thus, a trip to the country house requires a short detour to pay respects at Raz’s grandparent’s grave in Răcari. That detour, in-turn, requires a detour to find the correct flowers, candles, and other traditional gifts of respect for the dearly departed. As it we will merely make an informal stop to pay respects and not to celebrate the anniversary of a death or a specific feast-day, we do not also make the detour for Coliva (traditional boiled wheat funeral cake) to share with those present in the cemetery. As we are rounding a corner after the stop for flowers, I see a sign proclaiming “Gogoserie,” and at my exclamation, a stop is made to check if my favorite fried pastry is indeed present in this little stand. Alas, no, however I am instead introduced to merdenele cu branza, which is rather like a sopapilla and a croissant had a cheese-filled love-child. It’s a baked pastry, so it doesn’t run into the regulations on frying, but it’s made with butter rolled into the dough, so it has that crispish-friedish texture that screams decadence to the taste buds and makes you long for the thing despite its caloric and fat content.

 

Paying our respects in Răcari is a matter of clearing some of the overgrowth from the graves, lighting candles, placing flowers, muttered prayers I do not understand, and then a search for someone in charge of the cemetery to hire a gravekeeper for the upcoming year to reduce the overgrowth of plantlife currently threatening to mask the grave monument completely. It is not a long process, but a very involved one. Not speaking the language, and having little experience with the custom, I stand back at a respectful distance and watch, asking questions softly after to learn more of the significance of what I have just been allowed to experience.

 

A graveside visit in the US is a somber experience that generally changes the tone reflectively for an entire day. This is not true in Romania. Moments after walking from the cemetery gates, everyone who speaks Romanian is engaged in lively conversation debating politics and the varied merits of where to stop to gather the correct bread and sparkling water to have with lunch. The latter ends up being a random petrol station along the road, which has the added benefit of stocking Magnum Mint & Chocolate ice cream bars, which are a staple all over Europe that I cannot seem to find anywhere in the States. The bread requires a stop in Moreni, which is a town of fairly significant size less than 10 miles from the country house in Valea Lungă.  Raz and I share the philosophy that the destination of travel is no more important than the journey itself. It is good that we do, since the foray of approximately 66 miles very quickly becomes a three-hour trip.

 

The outside temperature in Valea Lungă is cooler than in Bucharest, and a soft breeze carries the exotic scent of trees and wildflowers from the mountains above to tantalize my senses.  I cannot immediately see what has changed about the cottage as we approach. The cheery white walls and red tiles edging the roof are just as I remember. The significant infrastructure improvements to roofing and plumbing over the last year are not visible things, but as I duck inside to freshen up from the trip, I am impressed at the improvement in the bath, which shows new tile work. The other fixtures appear new as well, and are definitely improved from my last visit. As I pop back out and tour the rear yards, I immediately notice a grape arbor that did not previously exist. A long table is arrayed with chairs constructed of tree stumps. These are entirely new to me, and I am given the impression that these are more of Gogu’s handicrafts. New lawn ornaments are carefully arrayed about the gardens, including a troll constructed of a much larger piece of tree stump. I assume this is a tree from part of the yard that was removed for safety of the house, or access of work crews that refitted the roof.

 

The heat, humidity, and simple fact that I walked four miles this morning before we ever got in the car and headed for the countryside catch up to me as Gogu and his girlfriend, Dorina, set about the process of firing up the grill we will be using to cook mici (a beef/lamb/pork sausage spiced heavily with garlic, chive, and other local pungent and aromatic herbs) and lamb. Grilling is done over wood or charcoal here, in the traditional manner. I am certain Raz takes plenty of images of the grilling process, but Raz’s daughter (Chris) and I opt to head inside the cottage, reveling in the wise construction of the cottage that creates a beautiful, clean, dry, and cool space within. Sleep overcomes me, and I nap comfortably until Raz wakes me to lunch with the family beneath the grape arbor.

 

By Romanian standards, it is a simple spread. The mici, lamb, and onions that shared the grill with them are in a couple dishes. The rolls are in a bag for easy grabbing, and a dish of cornulețe (croissant-like pastry stuffed with Turkish delight and tossed with powdered sugar) dress the far end of the spread. We are eating light this afternoon, since Dorina and Gogu will be going to a Christening later. Such events are highly energetic parties where drinking and dancing will last until dawn. Raz, Chris, and I, meanwhile, plan to go explore Bucharest this evening, once the heat of the day has broken and we can walk the thoroughfares of the city without feeling faint after only a block or two.

 

The animated conversation of lunch time is once again lost on me, as I cannot even keep pace with the rapid-fire syllables well enough to pick out the handful of words I have mastered over the last several years. We take a few more moments to wonder around and remark on changes, progress, and the incredible beauty of this area before packing back in Chris’s small car to drive back to Bucharest. Raz quickly falls asleep in the passenger seat on the return trip, leaving me without even his occasional translations for the next 90 minutes. I have heightened empathy in this moment for every one of my patients who has required interpretation services over the decade I have been a nurse, as everything discussed around me eludes me completely, and I am at the mercy of Raz and Chris to translate what little of the conversation would make sense in English without a five-year backstory to explain why any given joke is funny, or why some information is culturally significant. Personally, I think every adult on this planet should spend a few days every so often in a place where they don’t speak the language, just to gain a bit of insight on how it feels to be lost in a world we don’t quite understand.

 

Lipscani district, Bucharest

The remainder of the evening all conversation is in my native language, since both Raz and Chris are fluent in English. We go to tour the “Old Town” or Lipscani district. This section is my favorite in the whole city, as it is where the oldest buildings in the city cluster in their last hold-out against modernization and standardization. I’m not sure how exactly this district survived bombings, earthquakes, Ceaușescu, and even local reforms enacted a few years ago after a nightclub fire in an improperly restored and tragically unsafe historical building resulted in mass casualties, but these lovely neoclassic and baroque buildings mark a period when Bucharest was nicknames “Little Paris,” and at the absolute height of style. Buildings of even greater age are under reconstruction, and in one spot, a great tempered glass ground covering has been erected so that the pedestrian can literally look down through the city’s history. Excavations for the repair/refurbishment of one of the civic buildings in the old town district revealed ancient ruins atop which some of the 15th century portions of the city were built. Living as I do in one of the oldest cities on my entire continent, the sheer comparative newness of my 300+ year-old home town is remarkable and humbling.

 

Romania, as I’ve mentioned before, is a country that lives its traditions, and just about the corner from the window into the ancient history below the city is a restaurant and tavern called Caru cu Bere, where you can catch performances of traditional folk dances if you come on the right night. That’s done more for tourists than anything, but the dances, costume, and food are quite authentic. We opted not to visit the restaurant again this trip, since in holding to authenticity, it hasn’t changed in the two years since our last visit. Instead, we traipsed down Strada Franceza in search of a delightful cold drink or dessert.

 

I love Strada Franceza because it is the embodiment to me of my experience with Romania and her people. There are great bones of well-preserved history as far up and down the cobbled street as you can gaze, but these bones are not cordoned off and guarded day and night to prevent the possibility of their structural change. No, these works of stone that were old when my own city was barely a handful of mud huts on the rio are vibrantly dressed and the upper floors occupied by residents chatting genially with visitors and staff at the restaurants and shops in just about every first-floor space. Tables, chairs, and potted greenery line two thirds of the cobbled street, leaving just enough room in the center for two couples on foot to pass if they really like one another.

 

Unlike the nightclub districts I have been through in most American cities, no ground-shaking music emanates from the open, inviting doors of the restaurants. Instead, all is human voices raised in animated chatter at every occupied table. As we arrive before sunset, many of the café tables, and all of the brightly colored couches we pass are unoccupied. As we wander back up the street after the sun begins its decent below the horizon, there are few remaining seats to be had. Romania likes to stay up late after the work-day, and as Raz and Chris are happy to tell me, the city really never sleeps. This, of course, makes me wonder when all of the taggers and street artists do their work, because Bucharest is covered in some of the most impressive works of these types I have ever encountered. I find myself unable to resist photographing them as we wander main streets and back-alleys searching for caches and debating the merits of various places to stop for some refreshment.

 

We end up opting for a visit back to Gradina Eden, a favorite night-spot from our last visit. The name, as you may have already guessed, translates to Garden of Eden, and it is a parcel of pure paradise in this bustling city. Giant barriers of stone and wrought-iron enclose a once-stately chateau and its now massively-overgrown gardens. Neglect hangs about the former palace, making it feel creepy and more than likely haunted. The thick chain and lock about the front door-pulls affirm that the palace itself is likely vacant and probably condemned. Great windows yawn emptily, reflecting only the mystery of an interior devoid of any light. One great gate is shoved part-way open, though, so we enter. On all sides the thicket that has become of the once-manicured grounds make seeing through the wrought-iron to the palace and its rear court impossible from the surrounding streets.  That wild tangle of foliage also muffles most of the sound from automotive or pedestrian traffic outside the garden walls as well. The only hint of current human activity in the area is the cleanly swept brick path curving gently between the stark stone walls of the great chateau and its wildly neglected jungle wall. It takes more than a minute to walk around the structure in utter darkness and surprising silence. The effect is similar to sneaking out at night through a sleeping town when I was a teenager. During a sudden twist in the path one way and then the next, the wildness of the greenery is replaced by careful husbandry, and creative interior design under a living canopy. Platforms rise above root-level in many places, protecting those very roots from damage, and the occupants of the tables arrayed upon the platforms from the trip-hazards of exposed roots. Vines and trunks are trained into living walls, and arced into a living ceiling high above.  Corridors and rooms are created by arrangements of platforms, seating, tables, and artfully festooned twinkle lights. New this year are several food trucks offering everything from spring rolls, to shoarma, to tapas.

Gradina Eden may very well be my favorite place in all of Romania, and so we stayed out well past the early bed-time I had observed the night before. I attempted to be very quiet as we sneak back to the house, but it turns out I needn’t bother, as Gogu and Dorina are still out at the Christening. The long day of rather constant walking catches up to me quickly, and I do not even stir when the older generation returns just before dawn.

 

August 18, 2018

Dristor district, ­Bucharest

The day begins with a visit to Dristor Kebap. While this little establishment is one of the original purveyors of shoarma in Bucharest, we are not coming to eat. Dristor Kebap locations throughout the city do double-duty as street-food restaurants and money-changers. We stop in to exchange some dollars for lei in order to get tickets for the metro. While it is perfectly possible to get metro tickets with our credit cards, no machines seem to take the Discover card, which is the only one in our arsenal without foreign transaction fees. The loss for a significant cash exchange is lower than the fee for a single purchase, so we change enough to get the metro rides we need and to cover several more meals over the next day.

 

Piața Unirii, Tineretului, and Lipscani districts,  ­Bucharest

We take the Metro, bound for the Piața Unirii station. Of course, getting to the actual train involves going through the metro station, which is kind of an underground shopping mall. On my last visit, we picked up pastries down here and did a not insignificant amount of souvenir shopping. We may be too early for the shops today, though, since all of the stores in both the Dristor and Piața Unirii stations are closed and locked when we pass.

 

On arrival to Piața Unirii, we make our way to the Unirea Shopping Center. I’m not certain whether this is the first modern shopping mall in Bucharest, or simply the most central. Regardless, we actually duck inside the McDonalds here to use the free Wi-Fi so that I can check my email without invoking the daily charge for my international plan. We also take the opportunity to confirm that this location, though much older than the Dristor one, is every bit as shiny and chic as the other location. Here, too, there is a separate counter and dining room for McCafe, along with a selection of tantalizing confectionary. We skip the confections, but we do pick up some fluid refreshment to help with the process of waking up, since it’s before 8 am local time, meaning it’s still last night back home.

 

The original plan for the morning was to meet Chris so she could show us around, but she has been called in to work, so Raz and I are on our own for the morning without an itinerary. Fortunately, we have saved a few local caches in our Cgeo app to search them out without invoking data charges. One of these, GC23EGG: Time Travel, is a multi-cache. For anyone reading who doesn’t share our wild geocaching lifestyle, a multi-cache is one with two or more stages which may involve an onsite puzzle, mental calculation, or answering trivia to gain the coordinates for the final physical cache location. Multi-caches almost always require physical travel from one stage to the next. They are a remarkably good way to do short tours of points of interest, as was the case with this cache. Our multi-cache took us on foot from the shopping mall, down Bulevardul Unirii, through a pocket of the Tineretului district of sector 4, and back through the Lipscani district in sector 3, providing us with interesting historical information on hidden treasures of the city. For instance, we found a hidden 18th century Basilica, and learned about the wise prince, Constantin Brâncoveanu, who played the dangerous game of negotiations with Russia and the Hapsburgs to gain independence from the Ottoman Empire and to maintain sovereignty in the little principality of Wallachia. In the end, Wallachia was brought to heel by their Ottoman overlords. Prince Brâncoveanu was deposed by Sultan Ahmed III, arrested and beheaded after being forced to watch the same fate befall his four sons. This last is said to be due to a refusal to renounce the Christian Orthodox faith in favor of Islam. The five Brâncoveanu men were in-turn canonized by the Christian Orthodox church for their martyrdom. Raz could not recall whether he had learned this bit of history while growing up in Romania, though my suspicion is that if anything the history was taught from the point of view that Wallachia failed to join the Russian Empire as Moldovia did, and therefore was consumed by the Ottomans. After all, while Raz was growing up in this city, it was under communist rule and public education at the time was no doubt required to follow strict pro-Soviet guidelines.

 

We found the physical cache hidden in the oldest part of the city, near the 15th century court of another Wallachian prince, the infamous Vlad Țepeș (also known as Vlad Dracul and Vlad the Impaler). The ancient buildings are under current reconstruction/refurbishment. It can be hoped that when completed, the complex will once again look as it did in the 15th century, when occupied by its historically brutal prince.

 

Having worked up a significant appetite on our meandering journey through Bucharest’s history, Raz and I returned to Piața Unirii to have traditional Moldovan pie at a spot we saw while exploring earlier. Chris gathered us after our lunch, but we all agreed that the early afternoon was much too hot for any further exploration of Bucharest. Chris delivered Raz and I back to our lodging, and returned home. We all took a several hour siesta, making plans to venture out again when the evening breezes off the Dâmbovița river cooled the city to a bearable temperature.

 

Bucharest Sector 1

Upon completion of the siesta, Chris gathered us once again, and insisted we go to Sector 1 to visit French Revolution, a local éclair shop that we had failed to reach during business hours on our last visit. Because Chris was so emphatic that these were the best éclairs ever, we made a point of seeking them out first. I do tend to agree with Chris’ estimation for reasons of preferring bold flavor profiles to refined subtlety. A more thorough discussion of these marvelous treats is available in the reviews section of the site. We shared only one éclair immediately, the one involving vişine, the Romanian tart cherry that has no analogue west of the Atlantic Ocean as far as we have found.

 

Lacul Herăstrău, Bucharest

Feeling the need to immediately walk off the richness of that single bit of éclair, we went to walk around

Lacul Herăstrău (Herăstrău Lake), parking at the lots for the park of the same name. Chris advises us, as we walk on the very well maintained multiuse path about the lake, that just beyond a slight rise on one side of the park is a newer museum, Muzeul Național al Satului Dimitrie Gusti (National Village Museum) that consists of a series of salvaged and restored buildings from around the countryside. She guides us to a point in the park where we can look across the waters and see her favorite of the little buildings perched right on the edge of the water. I cannot tell from our vantage whether the small, bright blue house is built on stilts or if the wide, flat boards that serve as floor and wrap-around porch are actually a raft floating upon the calm waters of the lake. Chris does not know the answer either. I know a pang of regret that the middle of the day was just too hot for adventuring, as I would have relished getting to see the village museum. I add it to the list of things to manage on the next trip, since Bucharest is a city I know we will return to as long as Raz still has family living here.

 

We watch the sun slowly set over the waters of Lacul Herăstrău, painting the sky in red, amber, gold, and purple. As I pet a friendly cat on the banks of the lake, I reflect that this is the first time I have actually seen the sun set in Bucharest. On every previous day I have spent in this city, I have been either inside, or wandering the maze of tall buildings and narrow streets when the sun decided to put on its colorful display before ducking below the horizon for the night. Considering how rare it is to actually be able to see the setting sun in this vast city, I am surprised at how few of the locals are paying attention to the color show as they jog, cycle, or walk past us. As the light fades from the sky, my party ambles back from the flower arbors and formal sculpture gardens, but the young and energetic of Bucharest are all arriving at the park. There are night clubs right on the banks of the lake near the entrance we chose. Just as I expect from night clubs, loud, earth-shaking bass rumbles out of the dark interior, and flashing lights occasionally slip out the doors or windows to stray into the night, coaxing the young and hip to trace back their point of origin. As loud as the music is from out here, I cannot imagine being inside without significant ear protection.

 

We are passed by a few pretty, but significantly over-made-up women hanging on the arms of obviously older men, and I am given a lesson in Romanian slang:  pițipoancă (plural pițipoance). Roughly translated, it means “young, frivolous woman.” However, from the explanation I am given and through a little more independent research, I find that the cultural equivalent would be trophy-wife-in-training/gold-digger. The concept behind pițipoance is kind of a throw-back to medieval European culture, or “traditional gender stereotypes” here in the US. Basically, there are two schools of thought among women in the free world:

1. The feminine gender is equal in right, rank, and responsibility and it is our duty to be productive members of our respective societies

2. The feminine gender is secondary and complimentary to the masculine, and our primary responsibility is to attract and secure a mate who will provide for us all the wealth, position, and security we deserve.

In Romania, there is a great deal of antipathy for the pițipoance, mostly directed by women of the first camp who find the actions and philosophy of the second camp demeaning to the gender as a whole. On the other hand, pițipoance-like behavior must be effective since large numbers of young women in Bucharest still practice it with braggadocious zeal.

 

Dristor district, Bucharest Sector 3

We leave the beauty of the park in the fading light of dusk, and are treated to a brief, but fierce downpour that trails off into a fine, light drizzle for several hours. Much like the summer monsoons at home, the falling water cools the air remarkably well. Being on holidy out of a desert state, Raz and I treasure the rain, and have no problem walking through the drizzle, but Chris lives in Bucharest and does her best to stay out of the rain, because she is well aware that she will not dry out after. We drive sedately (a serious feat in Bucharest, where everyone drives like it is a competitive sport) toward La Patrascu, the restaurant Chris wants us to try. Letting the storm spend its rage, we arrive sometime after 10 pm to a completely packed parking lot.  Even the sidewalks were completely covered in parked patrons or residents of the nearest blocs. Fortunately, Chris knows someone in the bloc who is willing to let us block in their van with our car, else we may have found ourselves still circling to park until after midnight. To say this place is popular with the locals would be understating. We pick our way through small lakes in the parking area while trying to reach the covered sections of the restaurant before being completely soaked through by the steady drizzle. Some of the outdoor tables are still occupied despite the weather when we arrive. We wait in a narrow atrium area until an indoor table is vacated, then swoop down on it even before it can be bussed. Chris and Raz both assure me that this is a standard mode of operation, and to be expected.

As the wafting smoke from the next table over sets me into great, gasping coughs, I can only grouse about how tobacco smoke is a difficult allergy to work around in Eastern Europe. For anyone who suffers the same, I highly recommend choosing a warm, clear evening to visit La Patrascu, so that you can sit outside and not run into the tobacco issue. Fortunately, the breezes shift direction soon after I start coughing, and blow in clean, flower-scented air from the patio greenery which forces the clouds of smoke out the open windows on the side of the smokers opposite our table.

 

I immediately forget my discomfort with the first sip of my Ciorbă de fasole cu afumătură (bean soup with smoked meat).  My Chris and Raz tell me this is a very traditional Romanian dish. The base is thick and hearty, just short of being a bisque, and there are significant chunky pieces of beans, meat, and veg. All-together, it has the mouth-feel of the best stew ever, and the flavor is bold, savory, smoky, and slightly sour. My taste buds perform not simple arias in praise of the flavor, but the whole the 1812 Overture with every bite. Raz proclaims La Patrascu’s Ciorbă de burta his new favorite, and after three bites begins contemplating cancelling our order to just have a few more bowls of it.

 

When the platou 2 persoane (2-person grilled platter) the three of us opted to share arrives to the table, it’s all I can do to keep from gaping. I think I have only seen such mounds of meaty goodness at medieval re-creation feasts, where they are intended to serve a table of 6-8. An entire farmyard is represented on the platter before us, and we all know in an instant that we will be taking grilled meats back for Gogu and Dorena, who were too fatigued after last night’s all-night celebration to join us out this evening.  

 

Somehow, we also find a little room to share cartofi prajiti cu mujdei de usturoi (fries with a simple, savory garlic sauce) and mamaliguta cu branza si smantana (polenta with feta cheese & sour cream). These sides completely rock my world. Raz assures me again that the entire meal is very traditional Romanian food, the kind he dreams about and we cannot find even the palest reflection of in the States.

Oh, but wait… there is dessert too. Raz insists we get papanași cu dulceață. This is basically a soft, sweet, doughnut-like dough that is fried, then stuffed with sweet farmer’s cheese and covered with sour cream and dulceață de vișine (tart cherry preserves). It’s usually a small, delicate dessert but a single La Patrascu serving feels like an entire kilo of decadence. There were 3 of us, and the menu warns that a single order serves 2, Raz is adamant we share 2 of them. Basically, we stop ourselves less than halfway through the meat platter and package it to-go in order to polish off a single one of the papanași cu dulceață, and pack the second to share with Dorina and Gogu.

 

I was expecting a bill for the dinner that would bust the travel budget down to crackers and water for Sweden and Iceland. Instead, the meal which could feed a small battalion for two days is only $40 after currency conversion. My little budget-traveler heart is still dancing with joy when I give in to the food coma a few hours after the meal.

 

August 19, 2018

Giurgiu, Romania

Our first order of business this morning is a road trip. We are not headed out for caches specifically, as would be our practice at home, but to pay our respects to Raz’s late mother. I am not certain of the tradition that caused Raz’s mother to be buried in Giurgiu, despite having lived and worked in Bucharest, but she shares the grave plot with her parents, and each time Raz visits Romania, he comes with Chris and Gogu to visit the grave. Dorina does not come on this trip, despite having taken care in preparing the necessary objects for the ritual of visiting and honoring the dearly departed. Two years ago, on our last visit here, we had a chance meeting with the cemetery director, and Gogu was able to set up a plan for regular maintenance/cleaning of the grave. I recall having had to cross through a veritable forest to get to the little, fenced plot of even greater forest. I also recall having had to dodge around great piles of refuse composed of old cantles, wilted flowers, and grass/weed clippings at the head of just about every row of grave plots. All that is absent upon this visit. The path from the car into the cemetery is clear and well-defined, with only a few tiny piles of recent grave clearings waiting to be removed completely from the yard. While some fenced plots do still have forests growing wild and neglected within them, the soft paths of short, well-groomed grasses between rows of enclosures is exactly the carefully manicured yard for the respected dead I would expect anywhere. A single stand of thin, woody stems grows at the rear of Raz’s mother’s family plot, and the dual mounds of earth within are tidy and boasting an organized crop of short, green, plants.

 

This is a thing that fascinates me about the Romanian Orthodox cemeteries I have been to. In the US, there is a slight mound over fresh graves, which is always allowed to settle. If it settles and compacts too much, more dirt may be added later, but for the most part, the ground is kept pretty flat. Here, the grave mound is maintained. Even when there is a family plot consisting of an above-ground stone crypt, it is topped in such a way as to suggest a mound. Does the ground simply never settle, I wonder, or is there some ritual for adding dirt or stone to the mound year upon year to maintain its shape? I dare not ask as this strikes me in the cemetery. Instead, I simply hold and pass objects for the process of placing flowers and lighting candles.

 

We tarry on the way back from the cemetery. Our first stop is a little south of the cemetery, on the banks of the Danube. This river is pretty darn huge. The wide, grey waters are deceptively placid today from our vantage on the green above the Giurgiu dockside. The cache, the only cache actually in this small riverside town, is a tricky one. We search high and low for a good 10 minutes while there are no other visitors to this little green. There is a great, blue building behind us, looking for all the world like a restaurant. The doors are secured and the windows shuttered, however, and like so many buildings here, I cannot tell if it is closed for the day, the season, or indefinitely.

 

I do not dwell on the building, because the puzzle of where the cache might be pulls my focus back to the information at hand. I am using the GPS on my phone, the one without data service on a different continent, to find the cache, so it is possible the coordinates are inexact. I sit on a public bench and read over the information I saved for offline use before the trip. After a careful study of pictures posted by prior finders, and a careful study of what logs I can understand with my limited language skills, I triangulate where the location should actually be, and find the hidden container. Gogu rolls his eyes at Raz and I’s antics, and has some dismissive words for Raz that I do not understand. Raz only laughs, and we pile back into the car to wend our way back to Bucharest.

 

Within a couple kilometers, however, we spy an open lot with a car boot sale in full-swing. I realize I have used the British term for what we would call a flea-market in the states, but it’s a bit more accurate for describing the lines of cars pulled off the sides along a wide stretch of road that quickly fades to a one-lane gravel track through waving grain fields a bare stone-s throw past the last of them. Boots are open to display assorted contents, and tables and blankets strewn with further arrangements of used housewares, designer knock-offs, and hardware are set up around them, stretching toward the middle of what may have been once planned as a grand highway. We are not the lone visitors, and at almost every make-shift market-stall I can hear the sounds of joyful haggling. Raz is amused by the stop and tells me this is a very Romanian thing, and his father loves these sales. Fortunately for the limited amount of space we have in the car, Gogu is only looking for very particular objects to further the bricolage on the house in Valea Lungă, and is not swayed to add any pieces to his already vast collection of paintings and nic-nacs. We leave after less than 15 minutes browsing, and I stare out the windows at the passing countryside as Chris and Gogu debate politics in a language I don’t understand while Raz naps. Eventually, Gogu attempts to engage me, teasing me about my quiet. I recognize just enough words to make a joke “Dar eu vorbesc și vorbesc și vorbesc și vorbesc… (But I talk and talk and talk and talk…).” My grammar is horrid no doubt, and my voice is naturally soft, so I will never know if I was not heard, not understood, or simply not amusing. Whatever the case, Raz woke again and I returned to my silent watch of the wide fields of waving green-and purple lavenders and wheat slowly turning gold from the tips down. The fields stretch to the far horizons, dotted intermittently by little villages barely discernable on rising hills We enter a brief pocket of forest, the canopy of the great trees to either side of the wide highway having nearly grown completely over the cleared road below, giving the impression of driving through a living tunnel. Within the forest we make a turn onto a side-road in effort to find a cache. The trunks crowd one-another, all the way up to the asphalt, and here we truly do drive through a living tunnel, the canopy having successfully re-closed over this much smaller track. We miss the turn-off for what is supposed to be a road, make a very careful k-turn, and come back slowly, only to realize that the forest has reclaimed its own, and the “road” in our maps is but a game trail with no place to park the car. Rather than risk damage to the car, or wrath from the traffic we are holding up with our slow progress, we abandon hope of finding the cache and return to Bucharest.

 

Bucharest, Romania

As with yesterday, the heat and humidity of the summer day sap our strength, and the one thing on all our minds as we pull in and unload the car is siesta. Upon completion of the siesta, Raz and I hike to the metro one last time, and use the second trip on our round-trip passes from yesterday morning to make a foray to Alice, a cofeteria of some renown in Sector 2, in the Vatra Luminoasă neighborhood. It is still warm, and a little moist in the fading light of the setting sun. Chris has left her bug repellent with me today, so unlike the last two nights, the mosquitos do not make a meal of me in the twilight. The shop we visit is fairly humble from the exterior, but the displays and variety within are on the order of mind-blowing. We stand back from the counters, discussing possibilities. I endeavor to convince Raz not to get more than a couple desserts, since it has been a long day of car travel, and not much hiking, but he is insistent that we try lots of desserts, since it may be years before we can return. I give in, and we go back toward the metro with a box full of amazing goodies, for what is locally a reasonable price, so it feels like an absolute steal to us. We buy a single round-trip ticket on the metro, and Raz goes through the turnstile, trading me the ticket for the confections so I can also come through. I giggle about having to do this, but the ticket machine will not sell 2 1-way tickets, so we do what we must.

 

When we arrive back to Gogu and Dorina’s house, Dorina has prepared a surprise. While we have been gallivanting around the countryside today, she has spent the time ensuring that I get the gogosi I have been pining for since my last visit. The ones Dorina makes are round, simple, unfilled and fried pastry. Basically imagine the love-child of the best beignet you can imagine, and the best doughnut you have ever tried. That will give you the barest understanding of the slightly-crisp exterior and the cloudlike interior of the sweet balls of dough. We roll them in granulated sugar, and all I can think is that it’s a good thing we have been hiking at least two miles before breakfast every day. We raid the fridge for whatever proteins remain, and do our best to eat the remainder of yesterday’s eclairs and today’s confections. I make more than one joke about needing to be rolled to the plane in the morning.

 

The remainder of the early evening is spent with Raz in discussion of family matters while I carefully pack and re-pack, knowing we have very strict weight limits for each of our bags short flight in the morning.

 

August 20, 2018

Henri Coandă International Airport – Otopeni, Romania

We reached the airport via an independent Romanian Ride-share system similar to Uber or Lyft. Chris arranged the ride for us, and it arrived and dropped us off right on time. We were hopeful, arriving at the very dark hour of 0445 that we would be our on our 0630 flight without a hitch. Alas, we had to wait until the check-in directions were listed for our WizzAir flight. Over the last few years, the concept of the low-cost commuter airline has really taken off in Europe. WizzAir is one of the many carriers that cater to budget and commuter travelers. Its flights are short, and mostly stick to Europe, mostly. The past couple years have seen significant expansion in service, like I said, and as we arrived, we could see the check-in notification for a WizzAir flight to Tel Aviv leaving at 0545. We contemplated just getting in line at the check-in counters listed for that flight, except that there was another WizzAir flight, headed for Milan with a completely different check-in counter listed.

 

Time ticked by. At 0500, our check-in gate wasn’t listed. We did our best to try and stay occupied, refreshing our information on Sweden and the placement of the first few caches we would search for. 0515 came, and there was still no notation of where we were supposed to check in. We started seriously worrying that we had the wrong day when 0530 came without an update in the boards listing our check-in, and a sense of dread set itself up in our hearts as we finally got word of our check-in spot at 0545 and saw the line of passengers still trying to get squared away on the Tel Aviv flight, which was already supposed to be in the air. We waited with growing annoyance as people haggled at the check-in counter about refrigerator-sized boxes of checked gear, and great herds of people were pulled from nowhere through the front of the line to check in for the 0600 Milan flight, the one we saw listed for an entirely different counter, mind you. At 0620, we were one step away from the counter when WizzAir employees whisked a family of 10 up to the counter in front of us, trying to get them on the Milan flight that was supposed to already be airborne. Thus, when the call went up for “All Stockholm Passengers,” We made an incredible amount of noise, and were line-jumped in front of someone else who had been waiting for hours.

 

Our carry-on bags were weighed and tagged with approval, and we were off through security, where we were sent straight to the front of a line due to the narrow window for making our flight. Not that it did us much good, since the underwires in my brassiere and the zippers on my pants set off the metal detectors. After turning out my pockets, taking off my boots, and removing my glasses, I was still setting the gates off, so I got re-searched with a wand, and received the most thorough pat-down I have ever endured. I did not bother to re-tie the boots as Raz and I gathered the things I’d had to remove and rushed for the departure gate, hoping beyond hope that we hadn’t already missed the flight. We reached the counter just in time to crowd onto the shuttlebus that would take us to the small-plane parking lot.

 

Stockholm Skavsta Airport – Nyköping, Sweden

We touched down, surprisingly within 5 minutes of the arrival time listed on our tickets, despite a nearly 40 minute delay for the counter staff to send a second shuttle-bus with the 60 passengers “misplaced” in the morass that was the check-in line behind Raz and I. Raz had to wait in the rain at the bottom of the mobile staircase as I gingerly picked my way down out of the plane. As soon as we managed to get inside the main terminal, and out of the way of the rushing wave of other disembarking passengers, I finally had the time and space to sit down and bring up my feet to tighten the laces and tie my boots.

 

We were told at the rental desk that our reservation for an economy car would provide us a Hyundai Accent. Having had an atrocious prior experience with this make/model, we immediately began negotiation on an upgrade. We finally ended up with a Kia Niro for around an extra 10 Euro/day. The cost was well worth it for the roomy interior and smooth ride, I decided, as we pulled away from the little airport and immediately found ourselves on a gravel track to a tiny aviation museum that had not opened yet for the day. We found and retrieved the cache that had brought us to this quaint museum. Due to the pervasive light drizzle, we opted not to stay around until the museum opened, but took our chances on the lightly populated streets of Nyköping, hoping to find a decent breakfast. After succeeding beyond our hopes, we braved the overcast morning and threatening rainclouds to drive across Nyköping to its resident castle and historical heritage site. We are unsure if the site was properly open for the day, as our intent was to inspect the rock walls for information in order to claim an Earth Cache find, and we could do that without entering any buildings.

 

The wind seemed to whip the freezing drizzle about so that it not only fell downward to soak us, but from the sides, and up, pretty much every possible angle was wet and cold. It took us less than 10 minutes to get all the answers we needed, but that was enough to have our teeth chattering and ourselves shivering. We put on the heater and decided to mark out the other possible caches in Nyköping, and head around Lake Malaren toward our Airbnb lodging in Sigtuna.

 

Trosa, Sweden

We took a few pictures out the window of the grey skies and steady drizzle as we drove from Nyköping Trosa. While not on the fastest route to our lodging, our amazing Airbnb host, Kajsa, advised that we would find a wonderful marzipan factory and some very worthwhile sites in the little town. Since we enjoy road trips and little-known stops, this was right up our alley. The Kutterkonfekt Marsipangården was precisely what we needed on the grey, drizzly morning. While it was far too grey to make use of the lovely outdoor dining area, there were a few cozy tables inside the café/sweet shop. The variety of marzipans made on-sight was impressive, and serious care and consideration obviously went into the elegant displays that lined shelves and tables in the little shop area. The counter at the café offered not only the traditional coffees and pastries that go along with the Swedish social ritual of Fika, but selections of hot chocolate as well. When we first entered, all the tables were occupied, but one emptied as we browsed the marzipans, so we were able to sit and enjoy some of the best sipping chocolate I have had the pleasure to sip, while warming up inside a cozy little building, obviously built to keep out the very chill we were escaping. After our chocolate, we went upstairs to see the little factory that had produced the marzipan confections we would be taking with us for the road. The shop keeper advised us that the factory was actually closed at the moment, as the factory workers were on holiday. We didn’t mind all that much, since the little window into the factory still let us see how adorably the downright ancient factory space was melded with a few new technologies to make the impressive variety of confections we saw arrayed below.

 

We bundled ourselves up, and wandered about the little town of Trosa. Fortified from the inside by the hot chocolate, we went in search of caches. We were not at all successful at finding any of the caches in this small town, but we greatly enjoyed the cuteness of the place, and the perfectly ordered houses, yards and streets in the old fishing-village section. We stopped in at the local grocery co-op, and picked up some drinks and a locally produced licorice assortment that I insisted on trying. Raz rolled his eyes at me for that, but I was undaunted. Licorice is a very popular treat in the Scandinavian countries, and it is one of my absolute favorite flavors in the world. I like to say that my love of licorice is something I inherited from my Swedish grandmother. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but one of my fondest childhood memories was raiding a tin of assorted licorice candies that Grandma brought back from a trip to Sweden when I was very young. Despite Raz’s yuck-face and attempts to talk me out of it, I got the licorice and made him try a piece. An expression of awed joy washed across his face, and with a wonder-filled voice, he said “I like that. I like it a lot!” I chuckled merrily at his surprise, and happily shared my bag of treats on the condition that if we finished, we would get another bag elsewhere. Raz readily agreed.

 

Mariefred, Sweden

We piled back in the rental SUV and headed to Mariefred, on the shores of Lake Malaren. As we pulled into this little town on the shores of a lake big enough that we couldn’t see the far sides, the drizzle stopped for a time, and we were graced with an hour or more of sunlight as we toured the incredibly beautiful grounds of Gripsholm Slott. Interestingly enough, the Swedish royal palaces with grounds appear to all have their grounds open to the public as parks. Some of the palaces are still used as residences, and any not currently housing the royal family appear to be open as museums. While traditionally a favored residence and/or prison of the royal family, Gripsholm does not seem to be occupied at the moment. We opted against going in to tour the castle interior, though, since we had a ways left to go around the lake. We did take the time to be out in the sun, though, as it seems all of Sweden was also doing at the time. We also found a cache with a beautiful view of the palace Orangerie.

 

Before we left, we stopped at the little grocery co-op in town, hoping to find some sunflower seeds for Raz. Raz likes driving, but the tedium of the same repetitive processes and the gentle rocking of the car lull him to inattention after several hours. He combats this by eating foods that require complex processes, like sunflowers still in the shell. We can find these at every grocery, convenience, and general store in the US, as well as most gas stations. Thus, we were really surprised when we could not locate any packages in the grocery co-op at Mariefred. We asked a clerk (who was quite polite and spoke English remarkably well) if he could help us find them. He took us to an area where there were croutons, other salad toppings, and thin sleeves of sunflower seeds out of the shell. Wherein the following conversation happened

Raz: “Do you have any with the shells on?”

Clerk: “You mean, like birdfood?”

Raz: “Yes, something like that.”

Clerk: “I’m sorry, we are out of season for that…”

We ended up getting a small sleeve of pistachios, which had the requisite shell to make them a complex snacking food. Unfortunately for Raz, I like pistachios, so he had to share.

 

Enköping, Sweden

We drove around Lake Malaren, marveling at the ordered beauty of everything. Little white or brown farm houses sat atop gentle rises, overlooking orderly pastures with herds of horses, cows, or sheep. Between fenced pastures, green meadows were tidily trimmed, right up to the roots of tall pines that rose in forested crests up hills too steep for pastures or crops. Here and there were short cliffs, too sheer for even the pines. In all, the trek reminded us much of drives through Colorado, only with all features on a smaller and more orderly scale. The grey overtook the blue in the sky again as we reached Enköping, a city of many lovely parks. Though I wanted to visit them all, the cold drizzle set in again as well, and nature started calling.

 

Since we were driving a hybrid vehicle, we didn’t really need fuel, but filling stations are where we generally find bathrooms. However, I am well aware that McDonalds also tends to have bathrooms, and I recalled seeing a set of golden arches as we drove into Enköping, so we let me navigate back a few streets and arrived at the spot. We each browsed the menu as the other took a turn in the facilities, then sat down with a McVeggie and a McHalloumi.  I am quite certain that the American beef lobby will never let these particular sandwiches come to the US. That’s not necessarily a bad thing where the McVeggie is concerned, but the McHalloumi was actually quite good. Of course, since Halloumi is generally a fresh, raw-milk cheese, that’s a second reason we’ll never get it in the States. There was no separate McCafe counter in this franchise, so we came to conclusion that the posh McCafe counter and dining room is a Romanian thing. I made use of the free WiFi, and then we headed off along our way to Sigtuna.

 

Sigtuna, Sweden

We reached Sigtuna with only a few hours of daylight left in a long, late-summer day, so we headed straight to the Airbnb lodging in order to find it for the first time in the light. Our host, Kajsa, lives in a suburban enclave, one of the many modern, planned communities throughout Sweden. We could not help but make comparisons to some of the many planned suburban communities that have sprung up around our own city in the past couple decades. The homes here, though, felt comparatively small. Had we not seen the wide, well-maintained greens and playground equipment occupied by children with their young mothers in attendance, we might have started making comparisons to the retirement villages near our own home. When we reached out lodging, and met our host, we discovered that the reason for our initial impression of the smallness of the houses was just a matter of the bias of scale in coming from a city in the Western US.

 

The home we were to share with its lovely owner for the next several days was designed to be a practical, comfortable, and efficient living space for a small family unit. Kajsa explained that it was an Ikea house. By that she didn’t just mean that the simple, elegant furniture was all Ikea, no. Everything from the kitchen cabinets to the bathroom showers to the floor-plan and coded keyless entry were Ikea design. Nothing inside was cramped, but nor was it cavernous or palatial. Each room in the home was precisely the size it needed to be for the functions it would need to perform. Unlike the massive 10’-12’ (3-3.7 m) vaulted ceilings common in our newer subdivisions here in the US southwest, our host’s home in Sweden had reasonable 2-2.5 m ceilings (6.5’-8’). The rooms were also on a cozier scale, the dine-in kitchen having a galley set-up with built-in fridge, range, microwave, and dishwasher, fitting seamlessly into cabinetry cleverly designed to leave no wasted or unusable space, leaving the table open, uncluttered, and comfortable for the three of us to sit about well after the sun dropped below the horizon sharing tales and companionship over tea. As we retired up the incredibly practical stairs to the ideally sized guest room, I could not help but see the practicality of the lower ceilings in terms of heating costs. Well insulated windows and skylights were everywhere they could serve advantageously to invite the sun in on the long summer days, or coax in the few, weak hints of sunshine throughout the long, dark winter. The rooms, built to house single or double beds, rather than California Kings, are also more practical for snuggling up against the winter chill.

 

August 21, 2018

Sigtuna, Sweden

The sun was up well before we were, and not just because we were so far north of our usual latitude. The cozy, cloud-like bed that Kajsa was lending us was difficult to leave behind at our usual 0500-0600, especially knowing that none of the tourist locations on our docket, and few of the lovely little cafes in Sigtuna’s water-front historical district opened for the day before 0900. We shared coffee with Kajsa, and discussed the best way to get to Stockholm without exorbitant parking costs. She gave us the run-down on the train system, including vital information that commuter trains ran all the way to the nearby town of Märsta, and that there was actually a bus stop not far away that could take us to that train. We opted to drive to the park-and-ride lot instead, since that allowed us time to stop at the only café already open in Sigtuna, RC Chocolat. We had a lovely breakfast, despite an infestation of bees. We are unsure whether the bees came in through the open door, drawn by the sweetness of the baked goods and chocolates within, or whether the doors were opened this morning in effort to let the bees out to the still-blooming flowerbeds not far away in the old town square. Either way, we made peace with the bees, and they did actually leave us alone for the duration of our coffee and pastries.

 

Märsta, Sweden

When we arrived at the park and ride lot in Märsta, it was around 0930. The lot was very packed, and we just missed a spot as another small car darted in before us to take the place of someone pulling away. This happened more than once as we circled the lot. I became increasingly more frustrated, wanting to just drive back to the Airbnb and work out bus routes, or drive to Stockholm and pay parking, or something so as to not waste our entire trip touring a parking lot. Generally, I am the soul of patience, and Raz has the short attention span, but roles were completely reversed as he treated this search for parking as a great game. Fortunately, just as I was about to lose my temper completely, we managed to swoop into a freshly vacated space like a great, dark parking-lot vulture, and order was returned to my universe. We determined that we would arrive before 0900 tomorrow in order to reduce my frustration as we navigated our way to the train platform.

 

The trains themselves were likely the best and cleanest we have ever been on, and that is saying something. Not even London’s famous tube system runs quite so quiet. The interior colors were bright white and soft yellow. We figure that the long darkness of the local winters inspired the cheerful colors. We didn’t feel as though we could ask the other commuters, though, as every single passenger of the train was studied in their silence. Even pairs and groups that walked in together did not talk, sitting across and off-set from one another in the paired, facing seats along the side of the train. The arrangement did keep knees from bumping, but it also cut off avenues for approach and discussion. I had remembered reading before we left for the trip that Swedes do not fear silence and have larger personal-space bubbles even than Americans and Brits. I had honestly not been prepared for the full expression of that truth. Conserving the power on my mobile phone for pictures to be taken later, I had nothing to do for the duration of the ride from Märsta to Stockholm Center but watch the interaction, or rather lack of interaction, between my fellow travelers and the passing of the quaint countryside into ordered urban concrete, as the gentle rock of the high-speed train lulled Raz immediately to sleep.

 

Transit system - Stockholm, Sweden

Kajsa had told us to pay attention to the art in the train stations, a pointer for which I was grateful on many levels. Turns out, an art tour of the train and metro system in Stockholm is one of those secret gems for ultra-low-budget tourism. The transit card we bought along with our Stockholm Card for the big-name tourist points was all-inclusive public transportation for a duration of 72 hours. The metro stations themselves sell these types of cards at relatively reasonable rates, as long as you adjust expectation for the fact that everything in Sweden is really expensive in relation to most small cities and all rural areas of the US. To get back to the art, though, it serves the vital purpose of helping one actually navigate the warren of tunnels, escalators, and lifts that make up the vast underground maze that is Stockholm Center/T-centerallen station. The art was, in fact, more useful as a means of navigation than the impressive army of information officers.

 

We were trying to get to the metro that would take us toward the Kungsträdgården stop so we could find our way to the first stop on our hop-on-hop-off bus tour. The first person we tried to ask about this was the attendant at the actual information booth. Though she spoke more English than we did Swedish, she was obviously not very desirous of being helpful to a couple of lost tourists. She sent us the wrong way down the tunnels and we ended up precisely where we had started, with no idea how we got there. This is when I whipped out the phone and took a few shots of the metro art, figuring that we would want to remember the path taken when we returned the next day. We had a warmer reception from the next information attendants we met as we tried to explain where we were trying to get and where we had already been. These two elderly gentlemen sent us up a particular lift, and recommended we speak to the next set of information attendants there, as they were unsure of the train that we were after. The next set of attendants, one younger and one elderly woman were quite kind and very interested in our plight, however they had no idea how to help us with the information we presented. Now it was Raz’s turn to be frustrated as we ambled about the maze of twisting passages, up and down lifts and escalators. I was admiring all of the varied forms of mural work. Here was a mosaic rainforest, there was a study of traditional Norse folk art, all in blues, and up an entirely different set of escalators was a giant sculpture of chrome and light, flooding that particular platform with all the radiance of a summer’s day. Every installation was impressive in its own way, and each was an apotheosis of a different school of art and a new media. Finally, somewhere along the winding stalks of folk-art style wheat, I found a mounted transit map listing the stop we desired. We were on the intended metro, and sat for one stop, exiting from it through a shopping mall, and finally out onto the bright, sunlit streets of Stockholm. Raz was not easily returned to a good mood, since we had effectively walked constantly for 2 hours, putting our step-count well above 6,000 even before getting on the tour bus that would take us to the museums I wanted to walk through.

 

Skansen Open Air Museum – Stockholm, Sweden

When the bus arrived, and we climbed to the top deck to take photos of the city, he finally found a calming answer to his many grumbles. We sat through the whole tour, opting to rest already weary feet. We did take note of a landmark near the stop for souvenir shopping so we would be able to return, and finally hopped off back at the starting point. Of the sites I wanted to see, first on the list was the Skansen Open Air museum. This is a collection of actual buildings from around Sweden, rescued and preserved as modern construction and industrialization destroyed and replaced traditional agrarian and fishing lifestyles throughout the lands under the Swedish crown at the end of the 19th century.

 

My first thought, as I looked past the gates of Skansen to the forested hill beyond, was a comparison to Disney Land. The similarities of many differing architectures and focused displays somehow linked together with an overall master plan to provide a seamless experience of the best the country had to offer was about the only true similarity, though. As we stepped within the inner courtyard with its waterfall pool and simple sign pointing to the trails necessary for each historical era, we were as far from Main Street USA as we could get. Every brick, shingle, and window-pane within Skansen is authentic construction, built, used, and loved by the family who eventually sold it to be preserved for posterity. All of that information is available on little plaques which dot the buildings.

 

As we turned a corner, the well-paved path we had trodden became a cobbled lane, and a lovely young lady in an apron-dress and kerchief passed us with a genial “Hej hej.” We followed as she turned another corner. She bore a woven basket with a cover, and we lost her as she entered the doors of a Glass Blower’s workshop. We lost her, in –part, because we were immediately distracted by the activity of the glass blowers within the workshop. Two men alternately stoked the wood fires and pre pared globs of glowing-hot glass, then blew them into fanciful shapes, cutting off the cooling cups and sculptures upon a ledge not far from an enraptured audience. These two men wore the coveralls, shirts, hats and heavy leather aprons identical to every wood-cut I have ever seen of factory workers in the early 19th century. At the far end of the building from the working artisans was a small gift shop, selling the very wares made in demonstration. The lovely, basket-wielding damsel that had inadvertently led us here was behind century-plus-old counter and register, ringing up purchase of the lovely sculptures. Granted, she was doing so with a modern tablet and card-reader, but the illusion of living history wasn’t broken until you were close enough to make a purchase yourself. I could not help but smile as we exited the glass blower’s workshop, and moved farther into the history and culture that I have wanted to learn more of since the very first time my grandmother told me that she had refused to even learn her parent’s native language for fear of mockery over an accent like her mother’s.

 

Stockholm, Sweden

As our stomachs set up a mournful growling several hours later, I had the sense to regret that I had decided to see Skansen first, rather than any one of the other, smaller museums after our morning of being lost in the metro. We were starving, and though we had only covered a quarter of the ground inside Skansen, seen only the littlest bits of history, no farther back than the 1700s, we knew we would have to exit and find something more substantial than the sweet rolls we had purchased for the road at RC Chocolat, and devoured before even walking into Skansen. As we exited and waited on the next city bus, we went through the pictures from our bus tour earlier in the morning, trying to find the landmark for the souvenir shopping, as there had been something in the discussion of the stop about food vendors as well. Alas, even with the help of a newly downloaded app (City Mapper), we misnavigated and failed to find our intended market. What we did find was another shopping mall. There was a convenient franchise smoothie shop and a few small souvenir vendors hawking key chains and fridge magnets at prices almost reasonable by standards back home. I picked up a few small trinkets for co-workers while Raz grumbled and drank his smoothie.

 

Rather than wear too many more holes in our already aching feet, we opted to traverse the maze of the train station and return to Sigtuna for dinner. I figured that this plan meant an early dinner until I boarded the train and looked at the time display on Raz’s phone. I realized then that we would be strolling in very close to closing at Café Valvet, the place we had most wanted to try in Sigtuna. I never fail to forget how very long the summer days are in northern reaches. Being at a latitude back home that is even with Northern Africa, we are used to fewer than five hours of sunlight difference between summer and winter solstice. Here, the sun had been up before 0430, and was only beginning to paint the sky in beautiful colors as we popped back above ground on the train headed for Märsta and our waiting vehicle.

 

Sigtuna, Sweden

Upon reaching Sigtuna, we took advantage of the lovely late-stage sunset. We strolled along the shore, admiring the beautiful view across Lake Malaren and then stopped to search for a cache on the way to the café. I had wanted to learn much more Swedish before we came on the trip, but I had run out of time. I had boundless gratitude for the simple fact that Sweden enjoys American culture, and therefore much of the country takes my only tongue as their second language. We were able to order, and even converse with our server without any language barrier. Alas, they were out of the thing Raz most wanted to try, so we simply arranged to be back in time for dinner the next day.

 

Being pleasantly full of traditional Swedish meals, Raz and I returned to our host’s home to regale the wonderful Kajsa with the grand tale of our adventure. While chuckling together over our mishaps with the information agents, Kajsa shared some of her experiences growing up surrounded by other cultures. She also gave us a crash-course in Swedish culture. I cannot even begin to describe my gratitude for that, since it made about a thousand peculiarities of my family and my childhood finally make sense in the context of my mother and grandmother’s early Swedish acculturation in conflict with American societal norm. My family is proud to know our Swedish roots, but the two generations between myself and immigration from this lovely country were so adamant about being “American” that they refused to recognize singularly Swedish habits for being Swedish in the first place.

 

In addition to the cultural lesson, we also got a quick and dirty education in Swedish politics. Not all that long after my great-grandparents left these shores, Sweden went from being one of the poorest kingdoms in the world to one of the richest. This was due to the ingenuity of prominent inventors and a cultural emphasis on education, egalitarian values, and collective achievement. While higher education is not compulsory in Sweden, it is highly encouraged and the nation assists its citizens in completing post-secondary degrees. Taxes are, of course, significantly higher in Sweden than the US. In no small part, this is because the nation pays for basic subsistence (housing, food, healthcare, and education) for every last citizen. If one is unable to work, the country supports him until he can. Once that citizen can work, he supports the country. It is a beautiful concept deeply rooted in a philosophy of collectivism and community spirit. After all, before modern inventions, only those willing to work together and share resources with a community survived the long, dark, northern winters with their minds and bodies intact. America, conversely, is a nation of dissidents, valuing individual achievement over collective works, and dedicated to personal independence and the spirit of competition. The Swedish system of interdependence and collective responsibility would never work here.

 

Surprisingly, despite the difference of fundamental core values, Swedes like America in-general, and love our cultural exports. Over half the theaters we passed in Sigtuna and Stockholm were featuring the same films we were seeing advertised at home just days prior. Every music system we encountered in shops or restaurants was playing American music, and we couldn’t find a music station on the entire dial in our vehicle that didn’t have at least three of every five songs in English. 

 

We tried not to keep Kajsa up too late, knowing she had a work trip early in the morning, but all of us were full of questions regarding the others’ culture and travels. We did finally let Kajsa go to bed, but not before picking her brain on good places to get a decent and affordable breakfast in Stockholm the next day.

 

August 22, 2018

Sigtuna, Sweden

Having fallen madly in love with the Mandelbulle (almond bun) at RC chocolate yesterday, we stopped in for another, and saw this interesting-looking creation on the lower shelf of the display counter. A croissant was sliced in half and piled with tiny shrimps, some slices of boiled egg, and sprigs of dill. Turns out this is a traditional Swedish meal, called “räksmörgås” or “räkmacka” depending on the place you find it. I had to try it, though I then had to pick out all the boiled egg slices since I can’t actually handle their texture. Raz declared the räksmörgås better than the much more continental ham and cheese he had picked up, and decided to have the shrimps for himself next time we were in.

 

We devoured breakfast quickly and had no waiting for a spot when we reached the park & ride in Märsta. I spent the train trip carefully examining the countryside and buildings we passed for any sign of graffiti or street-art, as I realized I had not seen any the previous day in Stockholm. When I finally saw some, I reached for my phone to capture the image. Alas, that it the moment I remembered that I had put it on the super-slow charger upstairs at Kajsa’s before we wandered out to breakfast, and we had never wandered back for me to gather it. Fortunately, Raz had his phone, complete with access to data internationally, so we could still locate things. I however, would be left for the day with only my own memory and Raz’s sharp eyes for capturing any sights.

 

Stockholm, Sweden

Without my phone, I was also without my handy repository of art images to navigate us through the maze at T-Centralen and pop out at the same point we had re-entered yesterday evening. We wanted to find that particular exit due to its proximity to a coffee shop called Vete-Katten. Kajsa had urged us to check out the place for its charm and impressive selection of pastries. Once again, we were brimming over with gratitude for the awesomeness of Kajsa. Please my review for exactly why this is the one place I think everyone should do Fika at least once in Stockholm.

 

We found our way back to the street, beyond joyful at our Fika experience, and decided to go searching for an extra layer of clothing for Raz, as he was feeling a little chilly in the early morning fog. After a rapid, but thorough searches of small boutiques and mega stores alike in the shopping center over our train station exit, I convinced Raz that one of his favorite souvenirs is the hoodie or sweatshirt, so we should look at the gift shops of the museums I’d planned to drag him to anyway. He agreed without undue fuss, and we were off on the public trams to the Nordic Museum in very short order.

 

Nordic Museum - Stockholm, Sweden

The Nordic Museum is incredibly fascinating, and could easily fill up two full days of tourist time all by itself. It’s not a particularly low-cost option, but it’s one of the experiences that I seriously felt that I got more than I paid for. The purpose of the museum was, from the outset, to be a repository of and display-case for Nordic Culture. It was envisioned and construction begun while Sweden held at least two of the 3 crowns featured on her coat of arms, which is why it is the “Nordic” museum. Since Sweden has ruled only herself for the last hundred-plus years though, only the cultural history of Sweden is still being collected and displayed. That is still a whole lot to manage, as the Swedish lifestyle has altered dramatically since the declaration of Sweden as its own country under Gustav Vasa in 1523.

 

We began with the display on interior decoration, and walked through nearly five hundred years of transition. Until the 1700s, turfed-roof cottages were the norm in Sweden according to the beautifully narrated audio guide. I failed to note just how many languages the audio guide was available in, since I really only speak the one, but it was automatically given to every visitor, and quite a variety of tongues were represented. The caption descriptions posted on displays were in Swedish and English, and a good many displays had small, touchable models so observers could appreciate the texture or intricate workmanship of certain furnishings without risking damage the preserved historic pieces. Through the seventeenth, eighteenth, and nineteenth centuries, the lifestyles of Swedish nobles changed markedly, as they did their best to keep up with the innovations of England, France, and the Holy Roman Empire, but through all of that was the reminder that the vast majority of Swedes still dwell in those prehistoric-design cottages, carving their own furnishings, sewing their own garments, and decorating their own wares by the mediocre light of the hearth-fire through the long, dark winter. What the world thinks of as Nordic or Swedish design (think Ikea) is an entirely modern, post-industrial convention, spurred on by a culture long used to having very little and desiring function and form in construction and furnishings, rather than ornamentation for the sake of ornamentation.

 

That same progression from subsistence, to extravagance, to a happy and practical medium was portrayed again and again throughout displays on food, art, celebration, and even toys. There were also displays of fashion, lighting, and the accoutrements of every-day living that I hope to travel back to see at some point. As I said, easily two days of tourist time could be spent here alone. The call of hungry bellies and tired feet took us out of the Nordic Museum, with intent on heading off to find food.

 

 Vasa Museum - Stockholm, Sweden

The Vasa Museum was on the way back toward the trams, so I insisted on a quick tour. If you have a deep, abiding love of Naval history, tragedy, shipwrecks, or the hubris of kings, the Vasa Museum is totally up your alley. A quick search of the name online will give you the story of how Gustavus Adolphus commissioned the greatest warship ever built, only to have it founder on its maiden voyage, dragged down through the dark waters of the Baltic by the immense weight of her guns and ornamentation. In the late 20th century, the great ship was located and rescued from Davy Jones’ locker, then pulled across the harbor and put on display in a remarkable museum created just for this purpose. Study and reconstruction of the ship is ongoing, and the museum updates displays based on the new findings and the light they shed on the seventeenth century.

 

The newest exhibit, “Women of the Vasa,” was the only one I absolutely insisted on visiting. Women are all too often forgotten or edited out of recorded history, our contributions and roles rendered invisible by the passage of time. When three distinctly female skeletons were discovered in the wreckage of the Vasa, no documentation of any form survived to identify them. The women who owned the shipyard, provided the bulk of the lumber supply, and ensured the rapid restructuring and construction of the Vasa’s sister ship have documentation to provide their names, though the easiest way to learn them is to travel to Stockholm and find them among the displays at the Vasa Museum, since I did not write them down when I was there, and cannot find them on web searches related to the Vasa.

 

The presence of the three unidentifiable women on the Vasa intrigued the archeologists of Sweden, a country progressive in the ways of gender equality well beyond America. Vast effort has been, and is being made in anthropological research to reclaim the lost history and achievements of women. For this reassurance that, at least somewhere in the world, women are not forgotten, I was glad that we had included the Vasa Museum on our itinerary despite having no particular interest in shipwrecks or naval history.

 

Gamla Stan - Stockholm, Sweden

We exited the Vasa toward the shoreline rather than the street, opting to catch the hop-on-hop-off boat tour included in our Stockholm Pass and see the sites of the harbor on the way to Gamla Stan (the old city). Much of the work and research I had done on where to eat in Stockholm emphasized the quality and authenticity of the eateries within the old city. Feeling a bite on the budget from the generally costly nature of food throughout Sweden, we opted to visit a local food truck quite close to where our boat tour had docked. The food truck we visited, Strömmingsvagnen, had pretty stellar reviews, going back for quite a while.  Turns out that I still can’t manage to get even the freshest of herring down, even breaded and fried. That’s not to worry, though, since Raz liked the herring, and there were enough bashed potatoes, lingonberries, and knäckebröd to keep me from going hungry.

 

We rallied for the afternoon and traipsed across practically every inch of the old city searching for sculptures of famous cultural and scientific figures. The search was for a virtual cache, and it actually provided a great excuse to get lost in the narrow, winding streets and alleyways. We found the one spot in all of Stockholm where graffiti flourishes, and I had reason to once again regret my missing phone as I couldn’t take any pictures of it. I twisted Raz’s arm to stop in several of the small gift shops, finding souvenir prices much better than they had been in Sigtuna or even in the more modern sections of Stockholm. Feeling accomplished with two primary goals for the trip checked off, we wandered about the old city a little more, trying to find our way out.

 

Nobel Museum - Stockholm, Sweden

On our quest to depart Gamla Stan, we found ourselves in a wide plaza, where gentle, afternoon sunlight warmed us enough to unbutton our outer layers. Facing this little bit of cobbled open-space was the surprisingly modest façade of the Nobel Museum. This being the repository of some of humanity’s greatest achievements over the last couple centuries, we somehow thought it would loom larger. Regardless, it was a covered attraction on the Stockholm Pass, so we entered. The Nobel Museum is quite unlike any other Museum we have entered. There is only a single gallery full of interactive machines with which you can search the archives. Above the heads of the visitors, there is an endlessly moving collection of Nobel laureate profiles. If there was more to the museum, signage did not direct the visitor to investigate further. We took a few moments to learn more of some of the greatest advances in Chemistry, Literature, Peace, Physics, and Medicine. The prize for Economics was not itself mandated by Alfred Nobel’s will, but a matter of celebration in honor of the inventor awarded yearly by Sweden’s central bank. As such, economic achievements are not part of the searchable collection at the Nobel Museum. The award ceremony is not even held in Sweden, but in Norway, since that country was part of Sweden at the time of Alfred Nobel’s will. There was far too much political machination involved in that discussion for me to remember any of it, but it was fascinating that Norway held tenaciously onto the legacy of one inventor when they have worked so hard for centuries to have their own, independent national identity.

 

Stockholm, Sweden

We wended our way finally out of the old city and back into the maze of T-Centralen. By this time I recognized art installations well enough to guide us to the correct train, and not a moment too soon, because my feet were quite furious with me despite excellent hiking boots and insoles with additional cushion. Raz fell asleep the moment I had us back on the train to Märsta, leaving me to try and organize my thoughts and impressions of the day without the benefit of a notebook, or my trusty notepad app on the phone I was once again missing.

 

Sigtuna, Sweden

Raz was stating fatigue and foot soreness as we had a leisurely dinner back at Café Valvet. We opted to forego another day of museum crawls or a return to Gamla Stan, despite being enamored with the place in-general. Instead, we decided that we would take a long drive about the Swedish countryside, though I insisted on a visit to one palace covered on our Stockholm Pass, since we had yet to explore any palace interiors. With an eye to early rising so that we might see much more before nightfall, we ambled off to bed planning tales to share with Kajsa when she returned from her trip the following day.

 

August 23, 2018

Drottingholm, Sweden

Our morning’s adventure began with a foray across the grounds at Drottingholm Slott to find a very well hidden cache before touring the palace itself. Unlike every Slott we had visited to this point, Drottingholm was not reinforced as though to withstand siege or harshest winter. The palace was instead a chalet in the light and airy design of all things influenced by Louis XIV and his legacy of style. Wide gardens surrounded the chalet in every direction, save where the sloping lawn meets the waters of Lake Malaren before and below the entrance used by modern tourists.

 

As we entered, we were struck by paintings of such intricate perfection that we do double-takes more than once at what initially appear as sculpted busts and carved ceilings to realize we are seeing paint on wall boards. As we continue up to the portion of the palace on display entire trompe l'oeil halls appear to either side of the steps, giving the gallery the feel of a the great galleries of a Mediterranean villa captured in endless summer. The images, no doubt, served not only to impress visiting dignitaries with the talent and culture of Sweden’s people, but to stave off the inevitable depression the long dark of a northern winter must have brought to the Polish-born queen the palace was built for.

 

Not all of the palace is on display, only the official halls of formal or intimate reception, state bedrooms, ballrooms, and a few other rooms specific to the purposes of entertaining and impressing important guests with the might and majesty of the Swedish crown. The state bedroom, in fact, contains notation that it was never actually used as a bedroom by resident royals due to the expense of heating such a large space. Actual rooms of residence were, and still are, located elsewhere in the chalet, where smaller hearths and less potentially drafty windows could keep the chill of winter at bay much more effectively and efficiently. The majority of the palace, which still serves as private residence to the royal family of Sweden, is still private and restricted. Regardless of this, the palace still impresses its visitors with the talent, culture, and majesty of the crown. I was quite glad I had insisted on visiting.

 

The morning had been bright, but chilly as we explored Drottingholm, but it turned grey as we turned our path northward. Looming clouds began to threaten afternoon rain the country over. We congratulated ourselves on the wise decision to drive about for the day rather than walk for most of the day as we had been doing. Driving about an unknown country and hunting for hidden objects is not the best way to avoid walking entirely, as even caches hidden in parking lots require a few steps from the vehicle. The drive between these stops, however, would keep us sheltered for long stretches, and that was the point.

 

Central Sweden

Prior to falling into the sleep of the rightfully exhausted last night, we had selected and saved caches in several counties along a loop that would lead us up to central Sweden and back through Stockholm county, all on the mainland. We decided that we would need to visit again at some point in the future to hop about the archipelago, since getting from island to island would require forms of transport we simply had not arranged for this visit. Our first reaction on leaving the more densely populated regions on the shores of Lake Malaren was how pleasant it was to drive in Sweden. Roads were wide and carefully maintained, and traffic upon them was light to nonexistent. Much like the trip around Lake Malaren, the scenery was an orderly assortment of picturesque fields, hills, forests, and every so often a town of elegantly modern construction. Though I had to quickly become quite proficient at typing the text of directional signs into translation program, we began to pick up a few basics like “infart” and “utfart” (entrance and exit). The usual traffic warnings and alert signs were mostly nonverbal pictograms which were as simple to figure out as they were pleasant to look at. Being circular in shape and looking for all the world like decorated lollipops along the road sides, the signs were seemingly more polite and friendly than the hard-edged polygons we are used to in the states. That’s actually why we probably use the polygons stateside, they’re more jarring and don’t blend well into the background. We took on the side-quest of finding sunflower seeds in several of the cities where we stopped. Whether the stop was the petrol station in Gävle, the grocer in Storvik, the convenience store in Falun, or the shopping center in Västerås, however, we failed completely at finding our “bird food.” We were quite successful at finding pistachios at the grocer in Storvik, along with charcuterie, bread, and beverages for the rest of the adventure, so at least we did not go hungry or lack for something to crack open and snack on contentedly.

 

The threatened rains came, fell, and passed into the distance somewhere around Falun, where we turned back southward on our grand loop. Night fell on us somewhere between Västerås and Sigtuna. I couldn’t help but remark at just how complete the darkness was with relatively few lights along the major thoroughfare we were travelling. At least I assumed from the width and intensive upkeep that what we drove was a pretty significant highway, however, ours were the only headlights for miles at a time, and we passed well marked exits and even small towns nearby the roadside without there being streetlights on our route.

 

Sigtuna, Sweden

We spent our last evening with Kajsa, peppering her with questions about her home country, blogging, hobbies, and the like. She asked us about our travels and we were more than happy to share our wonder and pleasure with our myriad experiences. Raz was insistent that we should pick up a can of fermented herring to try when we reached home, but Kajsa and I finally talked him out of that plan with practical concerns over customs issues.

 

August 24, 2018

Sigtuna, Sweden

Our final morning in Sweden started with bittersweet farewells with the single most amazing Airbnb host we could ever have wished for, and then a leisurely walk along the lake and up the hill in Sigtuna to search for caches until RC Chocolat opened its doors for the day. To our horror, they had none of the Mandelbulle that Raz had come to love. Instead, we picked up a twisted pastry stuffed with cardamom instead, and Raz finally got his räksmörgås, which he declared still awesome. I made it a point to get the name committed to memory so that I could look up recipes when we reached home.

 

We took our sweet time over breakfast and an exploration of Sigtuna, since our flight out of Arlanda was in the afternoon. In fact, we spent long enough in Sigtuna that other little cafes were finally opening to greet the tour ferries. We stopped at one to have pie and visited each of the lovely gift shops along Sigtuna’s old town, taking pictures of them and the lovely little garden square. Our bellies full of a wonderful brunch, and our minds full of excellent memories, we eventually headed off in search of Arlanda and the next leg of our adventure.

 

Arlanda International Airport - Stockholm-Arlanda, Sweden

On approach to the airport, we made laughing comparisons to T-Centralen for all the confusing and insufficient signage for returning our rental car. We did finally find the correct lot, which involved a couple U-turns, one circuit of the entire airport, and finally trailing an airport parking shuttle to the correct stop. Arlanda itself was an excellent place to wait for a flight. Despite being in a smaller, budget terminal, there was a large café with plenty of tables. Each spot at a table, and every bank of sleek but comfy waiting couches in the waiting area proper had at least one dedicated outlet with both jacks for both European plugs and USBs. It was one of the most pleasant airport waits right up to the moment of confusion when whispers began filtering through the café that our flight was boarding, and people began mobbing the gate ropes, only to be ineffectually forced back into an unkempt queue.

 

Keflavik International Airport - Keflavik, Iceland

The flight itself was uneventful, and Raz was asleep almost immediately after take-off. This left me to read every single article in WowAir’s inflight magazine. Wow is a low-cost, no-frills commuter line, so there were no inflight movies. When I tired of the magazine, there were myriad games on my phone that functioned in airplane mode, but I was entirely relieved when we landed and I could finally stretch my legs and look around.

 

After thirty seconds sitting in the Hyundai I10 that was the default subcompact for what seemed like every car rental agency in Iceland, we hopped out and went back to the desk to discuss upgrades. Moving up to anything larger than the I10, however tripled the price of the entire rental. Since we still wanted to be able to eat for the remainder of the trip, we decided that we could deal with a car so tiny that Raz had to pad his left elbow since it hit the door every time he turned the steering wheel. Meanwhile, I rolled the passenger seat back as far as it could possibly go and still prayed my knees would only strike the glove compartment on the most sever bumps. This might be expected for a subcompact if we were great, towering individuals. The taller of us stands only 5’5” (165 cm), however, so we’re perfectly reasonably sized adults for any country in the world, and even on the compact side for some. Had we been any taller, we may very well have had to go without food for four days in order to pay the extravagant upgrade fees. We also decided to be very happy that we make frequent stops that involve leaving the car to search the countryside for hidden objects.

 

Speaking of stops, our first one was in the town of Keflavik, which, as I understand, has been growing steadily to accommodate the tourism boom Iceland has been experiencing over the last handful of years. We figured on having a late lunch before caching our way over to Reykjavik. Alas, we were too late for the lunch menu and too early for dinner at the most interesting looking spot in town, and the bar menu did not inspire. We piled back in the car to try our luck in Reykjavik instead. Despite being puckish, though, we still stopped to hunt down a few hidden objects between the airport and our night’s Airbnb lodging. We went there first in order to find it in daylight, which was not an issue since we were still in the long days of late summer.

 

Reykjavik, Iceland

After meeting our host and wishing we had been able to pick up some basic Icelandic phrases before coming, we headed out to downtown Reykjavik to finally find food. Reykjavik is under construction at the moment, from one end to the other. The city is experiencing a fairly significant housing crisis, as people are apparently immigrating to the area in droves. Considering the recent financial crisis as well, we can only assume that the new residents are all taking positions in construction and tourism-related fields. Possibly many have positions in ecology, since that big volcanic eruption in 2010 put Iceland’s name on a lot of lips. That eruption also gave the little island nation a lucrative enterprise in ecotourism. I am, unfortunately, quite confident that Iceland as we experienced it will not be as accessible or possible even as quickly as a year from now. After all, tourists are both blessing and curse. There are few places remaining in this world that one can experience completely unspoiled natural beauty, in no small part because humans are careless visitors. The massive high-rise apartments and hotels currently shooting up all over Reykjavik are an example. As tourists have come to see the view of the northern lights over the glaciers and oceans, they have had to build taller and taller buildings in order to keep those views over what has already shot up. I shake my head at the thought, feeling a deep empathy for the locals since I too come from a home dependent on the double-edged sword of tourism.

 

We wended our way through the crowded streets of Reykjavik, searching for somewhere, anywhere, to park. Finally, we found a spot in a pay-lot outside a small market. Alas, neither the parking meter, nor the ATM attached to the market would take our cards. This brought to mind some advice I’d read back in 2016 and then promptly forgot: European ATMs and many automated meters require a chip-and-PIN card, while most American credit cards are chip-and-signature. We hadn’t been careful about acquiring or remembering our credit card PINs since it had been 2 years since a metro ticket machine had asked for them. By the time we exhausted every possible avenue for paying for our spot, however, we realized we were within 5 minutes of evening free parking anyway, so we determined we were parked and went on-foot in search of food.

 

Reykjavik is built on a series of small but steep hills, and by the time we climbed down from our parking spot to the businesses below, we were quite voracious. We went to the very first shop we saw, Icelandic Street Food, and after being warmed and filled with some of the most delicious soup ever, took a brief stroll around the area. We admired the street art, painted brightly in defiance of the too-often-grey weather before climbing back up to our miniscule car and driving back to the semi-remote neighborhood where our host was located. The view from our host’s flat was impressive, but we did not stay awake long to enjoy it, as all the hiking from the moment we first crossed Bucharest the week before caught up with us. The sun was still far above the western horizon when sleep came.

 

August 25, 2018

Reykjavik, Iceland

I was pretty sure the sun had set at some point while I slept, since it was high above the eastern horizon when I woke ready to explore the beauty of Iceland. As this was our first visit to the country, I had planned for us to take a leisurely tour of what is known as the “Golden Circle.” Travel blogs and articles I had researched included a varying number of sites in the “Golden Circle,” but all agreed that Þingvellir, Geysir, and Gullfoss were the primary must-see marvels of nature. Many sites also encouraged visitors to see the Kerið crater, Faxafoss, and the Reykjadalur hot river as well. I figured that since the “golden Circle” tours all took only a single day, two days would be plenty to drive ourselves. Plus, we would get extra sights by stopping all along the way for caches.

 

Þingvellir National Park - Southern Region, Iceland

The journey to Þingvellir was a winding exploration of wide greens dotted liberally with fluffy, white sheep. Even knowing from my research that Iceland had been quite nearly deforested centuries ago by its first Viking settlers, the utter lack of trees seemed so very strange. The first woody plants taller than my waist we had the pleasure of witnessing in Iceland were all in the ornamental grove within Þingvellir park itself. Happy as those little trees were, we weren’t here to see them. We were here, instead, to marvel at the magnificence of two major tectonic plates rising above their divergent boundary. The grand chasm between the plates is improved as a walking path. As the bare bones of the earth towered above us to either side, creeping slowly and constantly away from one another, we couldn’t help but feel acutely our own insignificance in comparison to the might of our mother planet.  It is a humbling experience indeed to venture down through the mighty crack between Eurasia and North America, crossing a bridge over an even deeper crevasse stretching down into the very foundations of our home world.

 

Thus humbled, we exited the other side and wandered to the old Þingvellir church and its outbuildings, where centuries ago, a people simply voted to set aside the differences of religion and convert to a single faith in order to unify their nation rather than crumble into warring states. This bloodless religious reformation is doubly impressive, considering those who managed it were known the world over for the might and ferocity of their warriors and raiders. Somehow in finding themselves left only with one-another’s support against the long dark of the subarctic winter, the Vikings of Iceland discovered peace and accord. Perhaps those early statesmen had to walk through the bones of the earth as we did, and thus impressed with their own insignificance could drop all pretension and reach harmonious consensus. Perhaps the seed of accord is within us all, and we simply need to face down our own arrogance to find it. Either way, the Alþingi united the people of Iceland, and together they survived and left their descendants with a passion for harmony and accord. Our minds swimming with the dual wonders of a split earth and a united ancient people, we wandered back through the great rift and onward to more wonders.

 

We had opportunity again to see the splitting earth up close a short time later, as we first went every possible wrong way, then found our desired cache deep inside a fissure. The warmth of the magma so close below an active spreading center made the summer day warm and green, despite our being at the latitude where permafrost predominates the groundcover elsewhere in the world. We admired the plants, and even the insects, having not seen their like elsewhere in our travels.

 

We traversed the well-kept roads between Þingvellir and Gullfoss, pulling off at pull-outs and meandering side-roads to stop for photographs of just about everything. Raz grumbled about my insistence not to stop on the road for even a moment, but as we passed sign after sign repeating the same warning, he finally acceded to my greater research and understanding of local laws. I could definitely see why the regulation had to be passed, and every car rental agency and travel guide needed to remind tourists not to just stop in the road for photos. The nation of Iceland is rife with such unique splendor that the temptation to abandon decorum for experience is almost overwhelming.

 

Gullfoss - Southern Region, Iceland

We drove through the sulfur steam of Haukadalur and pushed straight on to Gullfoss. Our caches in the area were the containerless kind that get you to learn interesting and often useful things about the planet. Within the echoing roar of the Gullfoss cascade, we learned about the fight to preserve the mighty falls in their natural condition rather than to harness them for their hydroelectric potential. They were compared in many places to Niagara Falls. Having been to both, we found no good point for true comparison. After all, the Niagara was harnessed for its energy, and much of the canyon rim is covered in generating stations, casinos, hotels, and myriad other businesses dependent upon that harness. Gullfoss, on the other hand, pours its raging flood of glacial melt over its precipice without the interruptions of mankind. Only a single improved trail winds down the ravine to give the visitor access to view the falls, though the chill spray of the golden glacial melt going over the falls was much too frigid for Raz and I to brave the lowest viewing platform for the falls. Climbing up the path and its impressive staircase brought us to a platform from which we could not only gaze at the plunge of the cascade to its ravine far below, we could also look out on the not-so-distant glacier that feeds the Hvítá river making all its fuss right next to us. The single visitor complex that contains gift shops and a café was an incredibly modest accession to human need, and did not distort the view at Gullfoss the way the casinos did at Niagara. After our on-site research and around a thousand pictures of the majesty of unbridled nature, we grabbed a quick bite of delicious soup at said gift shop before heading out.

 

When putting together the trip itinerary, I had wanted to stay near Gullfoss, however there had been no listings for on-site lodging. As we took in the wholly unspoiled beauty of the Hvítá River and the high plateaus surrounding it one last time, I finally understood why.

 

Geysir - Southern Region, Iceland

There were “affordable” cottages at Geysir in the Haukadalur area, for at least some measure of affordable. Sticker-shock in Sweden had been eye-opening, but Iceland’s prices were downright ludicrous compared to home. We figured, after doing the currency and unit conversions that fuel was upwards of $10.50/gallon when we topped off the tank. We had similar palpitations over the hotel bill when we checked in for our stay, but at least I had been prepared for those.

 

On realizing when reached our cabin that we were literally right across the street from the area’s natural wonder, I got entirely over my palpitations. The Great Geysir doesn’t really erupt without assistance anymore, but the smaller Strokkur sends its steaming plume several stories up on a schedule regular enough one could almost set clocks by it. Being the first geyser I had actually experienced close up, I was deeply impressed at the sight, sound and even sulphurous smell. I simply stood in fascinated awe through three full eruption cycles, watching the churning of the waters within a seemingly small pool suddenly crescendo into an explosive finish. My own gasps and applause at each eruption were joined by a hundred or more other voices and pairs of hands from the other transfixed spectators milling about. Raz did not add his voice to the din, as he was far too busy rushing from point to point about the site to catch every angle of the spectacle with his camera.

 

We could hear the regular hiss and boom of Strokkur’s eruptions as we left the site and went to seek out one more modest evening meal. We found more soup at the Geysir Center, and I made the error of overfilling my to-go-cup. As we strolled from the soup counter with our cups in-hand, mine slipped, and scalding soup squished up as I reflexively tightened my grip so as not to drop it. The lid popped off and the contents spilled over my hand as I dropped to my knees and set the cup on the ground to prevent spilling the scalding liquid on other parts of my anatomy.

 

When an incident like this occurs in the States, there is an immediate rush of staff members and bystanders toward the cry of pain, and you usually have to tell at least one person not to call 911. A meeting with a manager, a flurry of activity with a first-aid kit, and a short stack of paperwork generally follow to ensure that the injured party does not sue the pants of the establishment. Iceland, however, is not a litigious society. The gentlemen running the lunch counter where we had purchased the instrument of my injury went about their business without even glancing toward my cry of pain and alarm. One lovely lady from over in the gift shop did come over to ask if I was well. I replied “only a little burnt,” as I struggled to remove the thick and searing liquid with the small handful of napkins I had grabbed when I filled the cup. The single responding staff member rushed over and filled me a cup of cool water with which to soothe my hand. Eventually, as I soaked my hand and sent Raz for more napkins, the responder left to fetch some burn cream and bandages while I cleaned up the slick spot created by my hot soup spilling over the sides of the cup and onto the floor.

 

Fortunately, the scalding was to my non-dominant hand, and I had received the cool water fairly soon after the initial burn. With a little burn cream and an early night, I hoped to be fully functional by the morning. I was vaguely nonplussed that the proprietors of the soup counter never even came by to confirm the level of my injury. Chalk it all up to cultural differences, I guess.

 

August 26, 2018

Haukadalur, Iceland

My hand was still red and a little tender, but as functional as I needed in the morning. It didn’t blister or peel, for which I counted myself fortunate. I was also not in charge of driving, so that made dealing with the burn even a little easier. The morning was bright and clear, but remarkably cold as soon as we left the geothermal hotspot of the Haukadalur valley.

 

Faxafoss - Southern Region, Iceland

Our first cache brought us to a lesser-known but quite impressive feature of the region, Faxafoss. Here the wide river Faxi cascaded down from a high plateau into a lush, green valley a few stories below. While not nearly the grand spectacle of Gullfoss, these smaller falls could be approached up-close and personal. In fact, a trail led right up to the top of the falls, and down again to their base beside a small channel looking for all the world like a ladder created to get fish upstream. We would have been able to get right in the falls were the water not quite so prohibitively cold. As the cascade was so chill, and we ourselves were bundled in several layers of woolen underthings, we were quite content to simply photograph the falls and the remarkable rainbows which their spray created.

 

Skálholt, Iceland

Filled with the particular joy that comes with being right up close with the unrestrained glory of nature, we went onward to our next cache. The landmark the cache was intended to highlight was a simple stone monument with the inscription “Jón Arason biskup - ljet hjer lífið fyrir trú sína og ættjörð - 7. nóvember 1550.” The inscription underplays the tragedy it memorializes. You see, while the initial conversion of Iceland from the Norse pagan traditions to the Christian faith had been managed a few hundred years prior through a vote and peaceful accords, the forced change from Catholic to Protestant rites and religious doctrine required by the Danish kings in the mid-1500s was met with bloody opposition. On the site of the stone, the last Catholic Bishop of Iceland, Jón Arason, was cut down by an axeman, along with his sons, thus completing the reformation. The humble, white kirkja just a short distance away likely already had its foundations laid at the time of its bloody repurposing. It being a Sunday morning, we did not disturb the faithful to get closer pictures of the idyllic lakeside kirkja. Instead, we found the cache and wandered merrily onward to the next major geological attraction of the Golden Circle.

 

Kerið crater - Southern Region, Iceland

As both web searches and the informative signs at the crater itself will tell you, Kerið is the remains of a volcano that managed to empty its magma chamber. After spilling its contents down the up-thrust mound of sedimentary crust, the process of erosion reduced the neck and cone of the volcano to rubble, which collapsed down into the open vault of the empty magma chamber. Groundwater seeped into the chamber as well, leaching various minerals out of the rubble and assisting with oxidation of others. The final result of all these tedious destructive processes, that I can’t seem to not be distracted by ever since learning them back in eight grade science (no matter how hard I try), is the most breathtaking spectrum of colors one could imagine.

 

The oxidized iron of the former lava flow is strikingly red against the soft greens of the plantlife overgrowing the surface of the surrounding plane, slowly decomposing the rich mineral stone into lusciously fertile soils. That green extends down the one gently-sloping side of the crater, almost to the pool at the bottom. The surface of the pool is a brilliantly reflective and crystalline turquoise, no doubt a product of copper-rich minerals down in the old magma chamber. Above everything stretches the brilliant blue sky of the far-northern summer. Fluffy, white clouds float merrily across that expanse, occasionally casting shadows over the ground that magically shift the whole color palette, and force anyone trying to describe the beauty of the site to start all over again.

 

We walked up and around the whole crater, marveling at its amazing array of photogenic sides. As we trod over the remnants of sunflower seed shells and retrieved a bit of plastic food wrapper from the foliage along the trail, we became glad that fees are assessed to visitors to cover the cleaning and maintenance of this natural wonder. Having watched birds, rodents, and even monkeys break open seeds and fruits, casting away the coverings, I realize that it isn’t just a human habit to be careless with packaging. The uniquely human habit is actually cleaning the area after ourselves or others have used it, so that the next visitor can experience the beauty as we have. I was glad that I was able to retrieve and pack-out the plastic wrapper before it ended up in the pool below, where those that maintain the park might need special equipment to retrieve it. I found myself reflecting on those shells, and recalling that we had not seen any more sunflower seeds for sale here than we had in Sweden. Thus, a prior visitor had to have brought those shells from some other country to despoil this beautiful site. I was grumbling to myself about the carelessness of my species as we returned to our vehicle and moved onward.

 

Reykjadalur - Southern Region, Iceland

I couldn’t keep up my rant for long, though, since every foot of road seemed to bring some new and wondrous site to my attention. My last goal for this day’s explanation was to hike Reykjadalur and bathe in the hot river there. We followed small, winding roads, stopping and pull-outs and side-paths frequently to capture the strange phenomenon of white plumes rising from the ground at seemingly random intervals across lush, green hillsides. Being from a desert prone to wildfires, we actually stopped the first time concerned that we were witnessing the beginning of a brushfire. Seeing no tell-tale flame or grey/black discoloration of smoke in the white plumes, we realized we were seeing the natural steam vents I had read about, and we felt silly for our concern.

 

We stepped out of the car in the public parking area at the Reykjadalur trail head and immediately wondered if we were still in Iceland. Our outer layers immediately came off and sweat threatened to break out all over our bodies. We began the trek through the badlands just beyond the parking lot, and swarms of gnats we had not experienced anywhere else in the country flew at our faces. We pushed onward, up a steady incline, feeling ourselves already beginning to overheat as there had been no reasonable place to remove our woolen underthings. I very much wanted to hike Reykjadalur, but when the heat, sulfur-steam, gnats, trail dust, and finally horses coming the other way overwhelmed my ability to filter the air and set of my asthma, I knew there was no way we were going to manage it at the time. The horses, however, convinced me that we were going to come back at some point in the future and I would research horseback tours of Reykjadalur. I do actually ride quite well, and though there is a lot of work that goes to remaining in the saddle, the higher elevation of a horse’s back puts one above a great deal of the road dust of foot travel. Feeling energized by a new adventure plan, rather than depressed at my physical limitation, Raz and I turned back to the little café we had spotted at the edge of the parking lot. Internet research proclaimed that this little shop would have fresh, local ice cream, and I was looking forward to that refreshment after the sudden heat.

 

There was no ice cream to be had, as the proprietress of Dalakaffi advised they no longer serve it. What they did have was a thing called Skyr Cake that was as out-of-this-world to the taste buds as the country itself is to the rest of the senses. We ate our tasty treats and compared notes of abject wonder at everything we had experienced for the last two days. Feeling thus bolstered, we turned our wheels toward Reykjavik.

 

Reykjavik, Iceland

Raz’s step tracker was already reporting upwards of five miles on our feet between the last few stops, so we decided to skip most of the remaining caches I had planned between Reykjadalur and Reykjavik. We kept only one, a waypoint for the neighborhood of our Airbnb host. The cache ended up being on a steep, forested hillside that was part of a large public park. We attempted to move about carefully through the wild tangle of plants. Once again, we found refuse cast about in this semi-wild place, and packed it back out with us in hopes of doing what we could to preserve the beauty for the next intrepid adventurer.

 

We gave an alert to our hosts that we would be arriving soon and searched around various roundabouts and cul-de-sacs, getting reversed in directions a few times but never completely lost. Our hosts were a kind and polite family with two small children. I gathered through several inferences that at least one parent was on family leave due to the newest addition. Both parents may have been, and due to the recent economic crisis and heavy inflation, the family was very happy to have Airbnb guests to offset living costs. We were very grateful as well, as our budget would not have otherwise been able to handle three nights in Reykjavik. The lowest cost private hotel rooms I could find had been around $300/night, and when I checked out of curiosity, the lower range on luxury accommodation was more than the cost of the entire trip (airfare included) for three nights. After receiving our key to get back in for the night, Raz and I made the voyage across Reykjavik, intending to go have our fill of the soups at Icelandic Street Food once more.

 

We came up the hill behind Hallgrímskirkja, and took advantage of a recently vacated tourist group to snap up a non-pay spot. We captured the church exterior in the soft light of early evening, then wandered inside. We learned that we could still get a ticket and go up to the bell tower for the evening, so we did. Reykjavik is quite breathtaking by the golden light of the waning sun. We were able to have clear views for incalculable distances over ocean, and right up to where the rise of distant mountains blocked the glaciers behind them from view. Rather than echoing with the excited voices of the myriad tourists, there was a reverent hush within the tower as we all captured images of the world stretching out to each horizon.

 

We climbed down the hill from Hallgrímskirkja toward our intended meal. We had not only been craving the soups there, but it was the only place we’d found so far that didn’t tighten my chest with sticker-shock. My burned hand was no longer bothering me, but to be on the safe side, I opted for dinner in a bread-bowl rather than trust to another potentially treacherous cup. As I tore pieces from the side of the bowl and let them soak up the rich broth of my fish stew, I congratulated myself on an excellent safety call.

 

We wandered briefly about the hills of Reykjavik in the evening twilight, but only briefly since we’d already had a rather epic adventure. We opted to stop at a grocery store and gather basic provisions for the following couple days on the way back to our hosts’ home. Surprisingly even with an hour of wandering about a half-filled supermarket to find exactly what we wanted for the next few breakfasts and lunches, it was still light when we reached our lodging. This is a feature of extreme latitudes called astronomical twilight that we experience to a much lesser degree down closer to the tropics. Of course, the massive mountain shadows both east and west of home might also contribute to our understanding of darkness lingering right up until dawn and falling immediately following sunset. Either way, I had no need even to turn on a bedside lamp to find my pjs and tuck myself in somewhere around 2300.

 

August 27, 2018

Reykjavik, Iceland

It was light again when we woke for the morning and devoured half of our haul from the grocery trip. There was a delicate fog clinging to the uniformly lovely townhouses that lined the cul-de-sac where our hosts lived. A quick check of the local weather promised significant chance of rain throughout the day, so we headed out before it could start. Alas, rain in Iceland is completely unlike rain back home. Rather than the half-day of anticipation watching towering clouds slowly mass for a quick and brutal downpour, the heavy bank of grey cumulonimbus was already looming overhead when we walked out the door. We could not tell where the sun actually was, or even if it was entirely up behind that thick mass of horizon-to-horizon cover. The fog slipped inside our jackets with us, condensing in uncomfortable places and chilling our bones as we walked the short distance to the car. Then, rather than the sky-shattering atmospheric pyrotechnics we are used to heralding our storms, rain just started leaking from the unchanging field of grey overhead.

 

The slow, steady, soaking drizzle did little to impair vision for driving, but when we tried for an outdoor cache, we became saturated, even through water-resistant outer jackets. Fortunately, despite the car itself being too small for normal human operation, the rental’s heater worked very well. We drove about for a bit, searching through my prepared list of caches to find one that might not get us completely waterlogged in retrieval, and finally routed ourselves to the Perlan just as it opened. I figured the inside of a museum perched between great tanks of geothermally heated water would be warm. Alas, I still had to wander the halls and exhibits in three under-layers and a coat, then add one more overcoat as for the tour through the ice cave exhibit. I was impressed by the level of technology the curators had used in the creation of each open display. From interactive holograms wherein the visitor’s gestures unlocked different views and accessed deeper knowledge of the presented subject, to an open theater with a force feedback seat in the shape of Iceland that also projected further imagery to reinforce the linked audio information, to a man-made glacial ice cave complete with a core sample transported across the country to serve as the model and centerpiece for the whole exhibit. Each step was a new and fascinating way to integrate science, history, and new technology the likes of which I had only previously seen in the science fiction of my youth. We opted out of our visit to the grey and wet observation deck, having had one phenomenal view of Iceland from Hallgrímskirkja the day before.

 

We ventured into Reykjavik proper as the drizzle slowed, parking at the lot set up for Höfði House to find a cache and visit the site of the summit that ended the cold war. I am unsure if Raz fully appreciates that had the historic event in this small, unassuming home never taken place, we may never have met. At the time of the Reykjavik Summit, Romania was on the eastern side of the iron curtain, and had that curtain not fallen, he may never have been able to immigrate to the USA. I appreciate the personal and historical significance all the more for the time we had to quietly contemplate the modest structure with its amazing view. The first charter busses full of tourists began to pull into the lot just as we signed the log and replaced the cache. All-in-all, we had most of an hour alone with history before we went in search of Icelandic public art and the nearby caches to bring attention to the installations. We opted to head out to the dockside after having to forego a couple caches due to ubiquitous construction fencing. That fencing cut off much of the dockside as well, and made parking an absolute nightmare. We did find an information board listing the attractions of the area and were intrigued by the description of a restaurant purported to be within the cavernous glass shell of Reykjavik’s convention center/concert hall. I had not been impressed at the aesthetics of the building from its photos on the internet, but as the filtered light of the grey morning danced off the colored glass, it took on new charm. I stop short of actually calling the giant, cubic construction of glass, steel, and stone beautiful, but it is definitely artistic. We searched through every corridor and floor of the building open to the public, only to learn that sometime between the placement of the sign on the wharf and our visit here, the restaurant we were seeking had closed and something entirely different opened in its place.

 

Disappointed and hungry, we left the concert hall to debate our other options for lunch along the wharf, and to feed the meter a little more should we come up with a new plan. Because we did have some time left on the initial expenditure, we decided to search for a cache during a brief respite we were also experiencing from the incessant drizzle. When we came upon the little train engine housing the cache, we saw five other people engaged in cacher-like behavior. Recognizing our kind of mad hobbyists, we dove right in and joined them. Having no immediate success, and the others having reported longer searches, also without a find, I researched some logs and found an image of our objective container, sharing it with the fellow cachers who wanted to see. Nearly half an hour later, my fingers closed about the container during a blind reach. We all signed the log, and my fellow cachers paused for photos, all of us feeling quite joyous about our international Geocaching collaboration.

 

Raz and I even managed to get back to the car with a couple minutes left on the original meter, so we renewed for long enough to seek out one more cache and a little light lunch. We agreed that we wouldn’t hunt for the cache long, since the drizzle was leaking down from the sky again, but our fellows from the previous cache were at the coordinates ahead of us, and many eyes made very quick work of the second find. There were hot drinks and tasty sandwiches five steps away, and so we burned through the time on the parking meter inside and warm for the first time since we left our hosts that morning. At the end of our meal, we headed out to the University for one more cache in the rain, then off to our host’s home to dry out and warm up. It felt so nice to be warm and dry that we also had a snack and a nap, hoping that the rain would eventually be finished falling.

 

The rain was not quite done when we woke in the early evening, but we were of a mind to try hot food, so we braved the penetrating drizzle and went to get in the car. Only, there was no driving away, since we discovered a flat tire! The hour was passed 1700, but the nearest rental car office did not list its closing time, so we felt there was possibility of getting a replacement tonight. Thus we found ourselves, changing a tire in the chill damp of an unending Reykjavik drizzle. A new and frustrating problem with the Hyundai I10 came up at this point. While the car boot had been big enough to fit a doughnut spare just fine, the flat tire was far too large for the doughnut’s well, and basically took up every inch of the limited space under the rear hatch of the car. Growling about the miniscule size of the rental once more, we drove to the nearest Avis, only to find it had closed after all.

 

Deciding that we were not going to have changed the tire in the rain for no reason, we took ourselves out for some of the most delicious lamb ever in the fading light of the grey evening. We followed up the lamb with licorice ice cream. No one does licorice like the descendants of Vikings. The sweet, salty, anisey flavor of the cup full of what looked to be freshly poured concrete was worth the strange looks the other tourists gave us. The locals smiled knowingly, and quite a few found their way into the ice cream parlor behind us as we walked through the drizzle, savoring the cold treat. For the first time since we arrived in Iceland, we saw night fall. The bank of clouds was too thick for any appreciable display of sunset, but the deeply dark and starless stretch of sky overhead as we walked back to our hosts’ home was an unmistakable indication of true night.

 

August 28, 2018

Reykjavik, Iceland

Our final day in Iceland began with a light mist of a promisingly sunny day. We cleaned our room as best we could, and shared a warm and gratitude-filled farewell with our hosts. Our first order of business was to repair the tire, since we had no desire to leave our bags on display in the back seat until our flight out at 2100.

 

The closest Avis, the one we had visited the previous night, had no means to repair or change the tire, but they at least had the address for the garage that could. As we arrived at the garage, we realized we had done about 5 trips across the length and breadth of Reykjavik on a doughnut before we were finally able to get it fixed, at our own expense, mind you because tires are not a covered item, no matter how much extra you pony-up for insurance.

 

Raz had completely lost his positive vacation mood over the issue of the tire, but finding a parking spot just behind Hallgrímskirkja that did not require us to pay a meter did help. We spent what was left of the morning wandering about trinket and curiosity shops. We became enamored of one brightly painted storefront, only to realize as we drew nearer and caught its amazing aroma, that it was a bakery. We joined the queue that had begun forming as we wended our way across a street closed for construction, and admired the fresh bulle of many varieties on display in the modest window on our way to the door. They were downright decadent pastries we discovered as we indulged in a few while wandering back toward the shops. At that point, Raz became concerned that he might not have locked the car, so we hiked back and checked. He had.

 

I remembered as we checked the car, that there was one more cache I had really wanted to get. I told Raz this, and began navigating to it. What I did not realize at that time is that Raz had not been paying any attention to me, being more inclined to take pictures of the wonderfully sunny morning and wondering if we could go back for another sweet roll.

 

As I took us down some less appealing side streets, actually hoping to find more of the pretty shops we had just been in on the way to the cache, Raz got downright moody, determined in the opinion that I had plotted to trick him into wandering all over the city. I tried to go back over the conversation he hadn’t paid attention to, but there is simply no arguing with a man who has made his mind up to be angry. We did eventually find the cache I had been attempting to guide us to, the Monument to the Unknown Bureaucrat. I still had it in me to be completely amused by the statue while I tried to get a selfie with it in order to log the find of the associated virtual cache. I could not manage an even passible angle, however, so I eventually sat quietly beside a stewing Raz and watched some locals feed the ducks at the waterside. This ended up in one lady who was providing crumbs being all but mobbed by an overly excited mass of ducks and a gale of laughter that finally broke Raz’s determinedly sour mood. He navigated us back to the car, and we stopped only once on the way there, for more of the amazing pastries. We were heading to the airport a few hours before our flight, and with prices what they had been for our visit, Raz wanted us to have something to munch on that did not require the usual airport mark-up.

 

Keflavik International Airport - Keflavik, Iceland

Turns out we needn’t have worried about the airport mark-up. Iceland is unique in our experience, since the duty-free status of airport goods more than offsets any convenience mark-up, and renders prices actually lower in the international airport terminal actually lower than anywhere in Reykjavik. I finally got the souvenirs I had been looking all over for at significantly lower prices than I had yet seen. We also picked up some snacks to munch on for the last hour or three before takeoff.

 

Our flight back to the states was on WowAir, a nonstop from Keflavik to Cincinnati. We would have a long layover at the end of that flight, since we would land about midnight local time and the first flight to Albuquerque wouldn’t leave until 0700. The cost of the flight through Wow was the only way I managed to get us within our budget for the trip, so much as I might like to, I wasn’t complaining one bit about having to treat the Cincinnati airport like a final hotel for the trip. I will say, however, that the experience definitely taught me to avoid ultra-low-cost carriers for international flights. The in-flight entertainment system is an absolute must for me on any flight upwards of eight hours. I ran both my phone and iPad out of batteries and couldn’t get at my notebook to write since it was stowed half the plane away in an overhead bin. Not that I really could have written anything with the regular pockets of turbulence on the flight. I finally kicked Raz out of his seat and one row back to an empty spot on the not-quite-packed flight so that I could stretch out on our two-seat row and try to relax enough to stave off the headache that had started creeping up on me at takeoff.

 

Much trouble as I have sleeping in moving vehicles, I managed a thirty-odd minute nap just before the flight attendants woke me to return to the upright and locked position in preparation for final approach at Cincinnati. Raz came back and napped on my shoulder until we touched down.

 

August 29, 2018

Cincinnati/Northern Kentuky International Airport – Hebron, KY, USA

Completing the customs inspection was quick and easy as we had only the smallest baggage and fewest possible souvenirs. Raz was brought to completely contented good cheer by the simple “Welcome home,” the agent gave us with a smile at the end of her questions. There is something comforting in that particular greeting, even when you have ten hours and one more flight left before you reach your own abode. The gentle return to familiar shores and the predictable rhythm of well understood organizational systems of an American airport was a potent nonpharmacological anxiolytic. It also helped that the Cincinnati airport lounge chairs just outside our departure gate were softer and more comforting than some hotel beds we’ve used. I was out like a light minutes after sinking into the comforting cocoon of the chair, and managed almost four hours of truly restful sleep before Raz woke me to move into the gate area proper to prep for our final flight.

 

That last flight was on Southwest, and I found myself refreshed and energized by the absolute efficiency of the boarding procedure. Southwest used to take a lot of flack for being “the great cattle-car of the sky,” but the more I experience the small but numerous frustrations with the inefficiency of so many varied and poorly communicated booking, confirmation, and boarding procedures of other airlines, the more I appreciate the simplicity, efficiency, and license for autonomy inherent in Southwest’s system. If you have never flown with them, they practice something called “open seating,” which means you pick your own seat at the time you board. Your boarding order is determined by how quickly you check in within the 24 hours prior to your departure time, and their nod to the classing-system of other airlines is a mark-up to automatically check in your ticket for a spot within the first 60-member boarding group. The airline has a queueing system that has the passengers arrange themselves in the correct order, so that we file ourselves through the gate single-file in an orderly fashion. Once inside, groups can find one another, as the natural tendency of fellows traveling together will help them collect in a common spot. True, the last person to board has relatively little selection in seats, but that is a natural consequence of being last to check in, so that final spot onto the plane generally falls to those patient or desperate enough to still appreciate their seat.

 

Flight crews on Southwest are also given greater liberty to express their individual personality than on other airlines. Cheerful humor is encouraged, and the required preflight information and safety briefing is often lively and punctuated by witty quips. On this particular flight, our cabin crew actually had us laughing out loud a couple times before our doors were secured and we taxied to the runway.

 

Albuquerque, NM, USA

Our friends who had ferried us to the airport when we left had encountered an emergency that prevented them from meeting us on arrival. Thus, we found ourselves engaging a cab at our home airport. We regaled our driver with the wild tales of the trip all the way home, enjoying that particular warmth and genuine concern for the lives of even complete strangers that is core to New Mexican culture and hospitality. We paused a moment on our own doorstep to soak in the dry warmth of the late morning sun blazing in a cloudless sky, then launched immediately into plans for our next adventure as we went in to unpack.