I don't really have anything to say about pretzel sticks. The 'pr' was in keeping with my alliterative title. We did have some pretzel sticks at some point. They were kind of ok with peanut butter...but the Skippy Smooth here comes in a glass jar and is bland and grainy enough to suggest that the other option, Skippy Crunchy, must just be unsweetened peanut halves in a layer of oil.
It's that time of the trip where you grow disillusioned with the food, smelling funky, and sleeping outside.
It's been a month since we've slept indoors.
We are now in Skaftafell, a far cry from Vestmannaeyger, where you last heard from us...about 200 miles of a far cry, really, including some ocean travel...so an explanation is certainly in order.
We've been busy planning a wedding, dodging the ever inclement weather, and camping in places without appropriate Wi-Fi services, let alone a bathroom.
We've been busy planning a wedding, dodging the ever inclement weather, and camping in places without appropriate Wi-Fi services, let alone a bathroom.
So, let's backtrack, shall we?
If you follow us in the gossipy folds of the Facebook matrix, then you surely know by now that Christopher proposed at Seljalandafoss, a misty hollow of a campsite at the base of several fantastic waterfalls. The popping of the question coincided with the popping of DOMA, which was a lovely surprise for us, and adds an important element of equality to our upcoming wedding...which happens to be three weeks away!
If you follow us in the gossipy folds of the Facebook matrix, then you surely know by now that Christopher proposed at Seljalandafoss, a misty hollow of a campsite at the base of several fantastic waterfalls. The popping of the question coincided with the popping of DOMA, which was a lovely surprise for us, and adds an important element of equality to our upcoming wedding...which happens to be three weeks away!
But proposal story first. For once, I will attempt linearity, as my preferred method of Homeric-spaghetti-western-mish-mash may prove too much for the amount I need to relay (in less than three hours, too, since Skaftafell is a National Park and you have to pay for everything here).
It was a dark and stormy night. Really. Gray, wispy clouds floated visibly across the changing sky, physically pushed by the "breeze" that had earlier acted as our first tailwind of the entire trip, shoving us from the harbor to Seljalandafoss in record time. Christopher, positively squealing at first sight of the messy white Seljalandafoss and her neighboring falls, plunked our tent as close as possible to the mouth of a cave into which a foamy foss tumbled. Any closer and we would have been sleeping in the stream.
After delighting ourselves with the pair of Angora rabbits our camp supervisor kept, we settled inside the steamy, red-and-wood camp house and reveled in being warm and dry.
My book was out and my tea in hand when I saw disaster out of the corner of my eye.
A vivid orange 11 pm sun was bursting through a jumble of clouds, and the entire sky was turning a sugary, tropical pink. This Icelandic 'sunset' was on the opposite horizon from Seljalandafoss. As a devoted girlfriend to photography incarnate, I mean Christopher, I saw the shot, too.
You can stand behind Seljalandafoss. It's unique in that way. At that moment, if you stood with a tripod and a lens wiper (my sleeve) behind Seljalandafoss, you would get a picture of a magnificent sunset, one caused by the first sun we had seen in weeks, accented by a sleek, powerful, cliffside waterfall.
And at that moment, I had also just poured a hot cup of tea and gotten my book reader thing to turn on.
It was so warm.
Two minutes later, my clothes were covered in my outsized rain gear, tea and book reader thing resting forlornly by my air mattress, and we were off, squelching sloppily through the Killarney green grass into deep pockets of mud. As we approached Seljalandafoss, we were joined by other insane fanatics with tripods, I mean photographers, who had also been waiting weeks for anything besides rain and sheep.
The 200 foot falls are massive and put off a mist so thick that rain would be an improvement. In seconds, we were all soaking and frozen, which is when I noticed that Chris was using his rain coat to shield his lens...not his down jacket and pants, which were now thoroughly wet through. I, meanwhile, looked like a blue octopus, my head rounded off in a giant hood and my arm flaps dangling limply against my black MC Hammer pants (it was only upon arrival that we realized my rain gear was an XS Mens).
We looked good.
Chris and the others battled the spray while I devised differing ways to use my arm flaps to keep Chris and his gear a little more protected. He, of course, was trapped in that netherworld of light and shadow that engulfs him during photo sessions, allowing him to be blissfully unaware of our ever reddening hands and faces.
Around midnight, the light began to soften and the other sopping photographers began to retreat. I was braindead with cold and started to follow an old man back to camp, but Chris wasn't budging. His gear was all put away, but he was motionless, hands in pockets, staring out at the sunset with a glazed grin on his face. I went back to him and tried to get him to go, but he said, "Let's wait a minute."
In retrospect, this was probably the point at which Chris intended to propose.
This is what happened instead:
A man and his son appeared on the other side of the falls. We watched, transfixed, as the boy, about 17, started to take off his clothes. Chris was muttering, "You've got to be kidding me," over and over (which is very funny now) as the boy proceeded into the frigid pool while Dad filmed, whooping and splashing as if it were not 35 degrees in Iceland. Soon, the boy was done with his display and Dad produced a billowing red poncho. They flip flopped proudly by us, probably expecting congratulations, while we stared in open-mouthed silence.
Chris reached for his bag again.
This is the second time he, unbeknownst to me, tried to propose.
This is what happened instead:
Dad and Boy made it to the foot bridge over the stream leaving the falls. Instead of going on, though, Boy got naked again and proceeded to collect the coins at the bottom of the stream, thus desecrating the hopes and wishes of countless Icelandic children.
After one more, "You've got to be kidding me," Chris must have accepted that our engagement story was destined to be weird, so he pulled out a copy of Steinbeck's The Pearl while I watched the Nordic treasure hunters, and put it in my arm flaps.
There is an inscription in this book...but it's only mine to know...followed by a word game that, when I giddily solved it, asked, "Will you marry me?"
This is when I looked up, saw Chris on one knee with an open, water-stained box, and started swinging my arm flaps up and down like a kindergartner at recess. Apparently, instead of giving an appropriate response, such as yes, I proceeded to hop around in the mud, laughing, flapping my arm flaps like a handicapped puffin, and shouting, "Really? Really? Really?" in Christopher's face.
You know. Because I'm classy.
And that is how I wound up with a gigantic pearl on my left hand (and Chris a gigantic mud stain on his left knee) and a July 27th wedding date.
Because who wants to wait, or spend the equivalent of the national debt of a developing country to hang out with people you don't know and have them throw food at you?
After a few more days at Seljalandafoss chasing sheep out of our food bag, making grainy Skype phone calls, and booking an entire wedding in half hour, it was time to move on to Skogafoss. We had spent the days subsequent to our engagement waiting out nearly ceaseless rain and bitter cold, and we were relieved to see a break in the weather. As we cycled past Selfjalandafoss that last time, though, I felt a bit of a pang in my heart.
It's not many people that get to relive their lovely, ridiculous engagement story over and over for days after.
We got a surprise when we hit the Ring Road. The gusty wind that had been whipping us around on the campsite road was doing something really bizarre.
It was pushing only at our backs. Not at our wind burnt, bug spattered faces. Not at our sides, targeting the wheels with the most weight. Not every which way, making it impossible to find a comfortable grip without being blown severely off course.
The blessed/cursed devil wind of Iceland was pushing us to racing speeds, and we weren't even paying for it with rain or terrible traffic.
We made the 25 miles to Skogafoss in an hour. I think it was the first time we actually had pure fun on the bikes.
It was pushing only at our backs. Not at our wind burnt, bug spattered faces. Not at our sides, targeting the wheels with the most weight. Not every which way, making it impossible to find a comfortable grip without being blown severely off course.
The blessed/cursed devil wind of Iceland was pushing us to racing speeds, and we weren't even paying for it with rain or terrible traffic.
We made the 25 miles to Skogafoss in an hour. I think it was the first time we actually had pure fun on the bikes.
Aptly located in the piddly farm town of Skogar (per Icelandic grammar rules, the names and spellings of towns and their attractions change according to context, making map reading a joy), Skogafoss was a touristy little nightmare. The falls were massive and majestic, but Christopher could hardly get a shot without also capturing a twenty-something girl in full North Face regalia 'leaping' into the air with her mouth open so that her friends could take a picture of her with their iPads. (When that is all done, for the record, they immediately get back on the bus that's been bumping Chris in the ass while he tries to work.)
That style of interaction with nature is enough to make me want to sell all my stuff and give the cash to WWF to save us all...but this trip has also carried an added factor that makes encounters with tour buses nearly unbearable.
You see, for the tour buses, Chris and I are apparently part of the tour. We are a spectacle. Cycling up to Skogafoss was like walking the red carpet; suddenly, a gigantic waterfall wasn't nearly as interesting as a man and a woman with geared up bikes. All iPads were on us - us cycling up the dirt road, us parking our bikes against a picnic table, us taking our helmets and reflective vests off, me staring at the cameras with my arms out like, "What? I am not a zoo animal."
We have been photographed as if we were Bear Grylls on assignment in Iceland, not just a couple of raggedy kids in bike shorts. The iPads with hands can't get enough of us.
And when Christopher reveals he's a photographer, it's all over. That tripod comes out and all sense of propriety is erased, blown away in the endless wind. Wherever he goes, the iPads go. Whatever angle he attempts, a group of iPads clusters behind him, jostlin to see his screen and take whatever picture he takes. Because Chris is nicer than me, he feels bad because he knows that what he is getting is not what the iPad hands are going to get, and they are consequently taking odd, unflattering photos.
I think it serves them right for being all up in our business...
Anyway, Skogafoss was ridiculous in all the ways I described, so after our first meal at a real restaurant (expensive, but a necessary treat), we took advantage of that glorious tailwind and escaped Skogar for Vik.
That style of interaction with nature is enough to make me want to sell all my stuff and give the cash to WWF to save us all...but this trip has also carried an added factor that makes encounters with tour buses nearly unbearable.
You see, for the tour buses, Chris and I are apparently part of the tour. We are a spectacle. Cycling up to Skogafoss was like walking the red carpet; suddenly, a gigantic waterfall wasn't nearly as interesting as a man and a woman with geared up bikes. All iPads were on us - us cycling up the dirt road, us parking our bikes against a picnic table, us taking our helmets and reflective vests off, me staring at the cameras with my arms out like, "What? I am not a zoo animal."
We have been photographed as if we were Bear Grylls on assignment in Iceland, not just a couple of raggedy kids in bike shorts. The iPads with hands can't get enough of us.
And when Christopher reveals he's a photographer, it's all over. That tripod comes out and all sense of propriety is erased, blown away in the endless wind. Wherever he goes, the iPads go. Whatever angle he attempts, a group of iPads clusters behind him, jostlin to see his screen and take whatever picture he takes. Because Chris is nicer than me, he feels bad because he knows that what he is getting is not what the iPad hands are going to get, and they are consequently taking odd, unflattering photos.
I think it serves them right for being all up in our business...
Anyway, Skogafoss was ridiculous in all the ways I described, so after our first meal at a real restaurant (expensive, but a necessary treat), we took advantage of that glorious tailwind and escaped Skogar for Vik.
We rode with a tour bus back to the highway.
All iPads were pointed at us.
All iPads were pointed at us.
We made it to Vik and beyond...but you'll have to tune in again (maybe tomorrow?) to hear more! There's only so long I can sit without exploring. That limit is now.
More stories to come!
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