Letter from Reykjavík

Stephen Price

Mention plans to holiday in Iceland and you’re usually met with three responses from those who have yet to make the trip themselves.

First: “It’s very expensive…”

Second: “Too cold for me – I want sunshine!”

Or more often than not: “Ooh that’s on my list.”

I fell into the latter camp for close to three decades, mostly through an obsessive teenage fanship of Björk, but for some reason, other holidays always won-out with a vague recollection of an article about excessive tourism meaning it probably wouldn’t have been the holiday I’d once wanted it to be.

This year hasn’t been my year, and nor were a few before that, such is life, and following the death of my dad in April, an inquest, much more admin and sorting out to do when it’s the death of a second parent, impossible quests to adapt a headstone etc. etc. I needed something exciting to break through the fog.

Iceland. It had to be.

Finally, it was time.

How much?!

At the outset, arranging a visit to Iceland felt different to any other before.

I’ve always just winged my breaks and done pretty well so far, with decades of reading, of wanderlust, of listening and watching always paying off, but this one I thought I’d better at least do a little more prep than usual.

So, of course, I began at Debut, and worked my way through the entire Bjork discography right up to Utopia. All on CD of course.

B sides, remixes, sleeve-notes.. what a joyous prep that was, having ignored Iceland’s most famous world export for the best part of a decade as her output’s quality went a little off-kilter.

Prep done. I was good to go. (Luckily, I have a very organised partner to complement my malwired brain).

Tips for those who have yet to book, you ask? Prep. Prep properly.

And so, we found ourselves in Keflavik Airport at around 10pm on a wild and wet Tuesday in October, with the bus transfer to Reykjavik pre-booked (not by me of course), almost an hour away, and a 20 minute walk from there to our hotel in the centre.

One of the obvious sights to take in when staying at Reykjavik is, of course, Hallgrímskirkja – the iconic parish church and sanctuary which sits atop the city.

To have stumbled upon it, en-route to the hotel, lit up at night, was to begin on the highest of highs. A choir heard and glimpsed from the slim windows adding the most gentle, transcendental music to the experience.

I was there, finally.

Perhaps it could be a good year after all.

“I’ve a feeling we’re not in Reykjavik any more”

Wandering Reykjavik’s streets the following day, the city unfolded in its (literal) rainbow colours.

Reykjavik, it seems, is either desperate for the pink pound, or is simply being as Scandi as can be in its attempt to welcome the gays. “Straights? I pity the fools!”

Tourists, mostly Asian, pose for pics on rainbow-coloured roads, rainbow signs on shops, on pubs. It’s all very ‘now’, but also for this gayboy, a little bit ‘OK, even I’m over it..’ but I digress.

Wandering the city for the first day, I gave myself a self-imposed mission to take photos of the most charming corrugated iron houses and buildings, creating, you guessed it, a rainbow of my own.

And how charming their buildings are. How simple, utilitarian, and utterly gorgeously, wonderfully Icelandic.

I longed to call my folks to tell them I’m OK, I’m having a lovely time, and that I miss them. But this was my first holiday without any folks to call – something I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to.

Next stop Giant’s Causeway

One of the great ironies of being a tourist oneself, is the annoyance found in other tourists. A blatant hypocrisy, an invisible cloak fooling only its wearer.

The sheer nerve of hordes of people from Asia, Australia and the USA (I didn’t overhear that many Brits abroad in comparison, one saving grace) holidaying at the same time. The audacity.

Nowhere before a few locations during this holiday, save perhaps for Venice and Giant’s Causeway, felt quite so blighted, dare I say, by the sheer number of tourists in certain spots – a living, breathing example of what overtourism can look like, and how unappealing that must certainly be to the Icelandic folk left paying the price.

Iceland, with its population of less than 400,000, smaller than that of Cardiff, in a country five times the size of Wales, is a sparsely populated land – one of the least densely populated in Europe and, indeed, the world.

Its native population is, perhaps cursedly, centred around Reykjavik, the tourism hub where most of the 2 million plus annual visitors are sure to visit. And sadly, in my typical ‘I’m not one of those tourists’ ways, I couldn’t help but empathise.

As The Journal shared recently: “Iceland is in a housing crisis.

“Despite being an island larger than Ireland with a population less than one-tenth of the size, its capital and only city Reykjavík doesn’t have enough housing available for the number of locals who want to live there (partly due to the proliferation of short-term rentals for tourists).”

One of the ‘in’ things in right wing corners of the internet and social media, is a theory of population replacement, and a theory taking up no space in Nation Cymru’s virtual columns, but here, in real time, a strange replacement can’t be denied.

Tourists in place of living, breathing, functioning and thriving communities.

It somehow didn’t feel quite real. A more modern Bruges perhaps. Somewhere that has left its own people behind.

The hotel we stayed in was a perfect example of the beast of tourism trumping the needs and functionality of the natives – its reception workers, barmen and the young women cleaning the rooms – a reflection of guests from across the world, and not of the land itself.

Is this how it’s supposed to work, this tourist benefit? Benefit for whom?

On day three, we took the golden tour, thronged front, back and side by tourists from across the globe. More tourism, more money, more people, more workers from elsewhere to feed the monster.

More shark and puffin meat sold to hungry tourists, keen to taste a reductive, phoney Iceland. Another stop on the selfie-tour before it’s on to Paris, Venice and Stonehenge.

Free trade

Interestingly, Iceland and China have a free trade agreement (FTA) that entered into force in 2014, which lowers or eliminates tariffs on a wide range of goods for both countries.

This landmark deal was the first of its kind struck between China and a European country, covering goods, services, intellectual property, and investment, and has been credited with boosting bilateral trade, particularly in Icelandic fisheries and geothermal energy exports.

The vast majority of tourists, at least during my visit, reflected this swanky Chinese deal. And the Asian country’s presence could be felt at every turn – from eating establishments, to gift shops, and an imposing embassy building boasting the country’s power, might, and clear presence in this most strategic of locations.

To be in Reykjavik is to be very aware of China’s global reach. And, indeed, its early days of such reach.

Iceland’s short term gains, I hope, lead to long ones too. As an outsider looking in, however, it felt like there will only be one winner.

Fire and ice

Back to the city and its environs, though.

The reason I and so many million others visit, and then visit again… where to begin?

Its museums (no, not the willy one), its support of the arts, of poetry, of its own history.. its outdoor works of arts, its cleanliness, its order.

Its existence aside black lava, ocean, ice and fire. The primal and futuristic in blissful union.

The ‘Sólfarið’ or ‘The Sun Voyager encapsulates just how moving public art can be – perhaps one of the most striking pieces I’ve ever stumbled upon.

To list places that moved me, from Lucky Records, Braud and Co, the Blue Lagoon, the list goes on.. this is a world-class city that belongs on everyone’s list.

Only, again, at what cost?

When people talk of Iceland, they naturally mention the cost of things, but savvy supermarket shopping and giving-in to the experience just in case it really is a once-in-a-lifetime mean nothing is really out of reach.

Eating out is a must, and the land should be much more widely known for its culinary offerings than it is.

Alas, I didn’t bump into Ms Guðmundsdóttir, or that many Icelandic folk at all, during my brief visit, but its job of making a not-so-pretty year a little prettier, was a successful one all the same.

And, in further hypocritical tourist mode, the land itself began calling me back even before taking the flight home.

So much more to see away from the tourist trail, next time.

A mission to make the unknown a little more known, a little more understood.

With Reykjavik and its current act as a tourist playground done, and miles upon miles of the rest of this magical, potent land barely scratched, I have some serious saving to do.