I recently came across this song after not hearing it for a very long time; I’d almost forgotten how much I like it, how fun a good song can suddenly make my day, especially one about finding those little pearls in your life that you hold onto with all your might.
In light of recent transitions — most notably, one to Copenhagen for the time being — I’ve been thinking a lot about what makes me most happy. I’ve always been a very free and independent individual, someone who values freedom and opinions, experiencing new cultures and immersing myself around interesting people. There is little more that makes me feel alive than the stimulation of interacting with others who have a story or two to tell; it inspires me to be more than I am, to assess that paths that I have already chosen, to live my life a little more fully than I have. To that end, I’ve found Denmark to be both a little daunting and frustrating so far.
My first impressions of this country, coming here in the dead of winter, the coldest in 14 years, was that it is a gray, flat, dreary place with considerable potential. I didn’t see the sun for nearly two weeks, and never thought I could be so happy to see blue skies again. It wasn’t hard to imagine how a place like this could produce the likes of Lars Von Trier, until I realized how well people generally live, how positive their countenances are, how relaxed things are overall. Coming from a place like the US, surely not the most difficult countries one might be born in, but also not one that makes day-to-day responsibilities and needs very easy to meet, the different mentalities and generally easy going pace sticks out like a sore thumb. Even being in Iceland these days, one gets the sense that people are enduring the hardships that came after the economic bubble burst in 2008.
Still, along with a smaller, somewhat isolated country comes a sense of homogeneity and aloofness that is a little less often demonstrated by people living in less remote cities in the world. I don’t mean to suggest that this is necessarily a bad thing, per se. While I don’t think I would have been able to live here when I was 22, as I needed to get big city living out of my body, now that I’m older, I crave things like safety and peace, a society that ostensibly encourages creativity and the arts, and being around people who generally haven’t yet been jaded by life. I’ve suffered and sacrificed enough these last years, and it’s time to do the very things that now make me happy.
Over the past few months there’s been some serious Iceland-or-not debate going on, and for the time being, A opted for a job in a more stable economy. Based on the world media and the currency and the dirty politicianing, it might seem like the last place someone would choose to stay. And yet, over the past few years, it’s somehow become my own place, the place in which I most feel at home. Living in a foreign country with a fairly obscure language and sometimes a mysteriously different culture can be frustrating at times, but there’s just so much going on there that’s impossible to find in one place anywhere else. Most of these are the sorts of things that don’t cost money. For instance, at home, one can open the window on clear winter nights and take photos of the Northern Lights directly from their home, resting the camera on the windowsill. Whenever it’s stuffy, an open window brings a swirl of that only-in-Iceland air that’s the first signal that I’m back when I arrive at the airport. It’s that tap water I always miss when I’m in places like Paris, some of the most grungy-tasting water I’ve ever had in a major city.
On the way downtown, one passes the deep turquoise waters and the snowy peaks of Mount Esja in the distance. Near the water, one can wait at a stop light opposite a dry dock and watch the comings and goings of boats needing maintenance, then continue along a seaside road with the same huge view that can be enjoyed all day long from most buildings in the area. One can run in the crisp, cool air along similar paths, where the wind is a near-constant training partner, but where the music of said run is the ocean’s surf, accompanied by what might be some of the best sunrises and sunsets in the world.
Not long ago, A and I went on a road trip whose goal was to hunt for hot pots and soak in as many of them as possible. Our first stop was a place where one can lie in a shallow pool where the water spills over and admire the view of a protected valley. It was a day when the sun finally felt like it had returned after the long darkness, so I lay for as long as possible in the gravelly pool with my toes turned to the sky. This is a good way to spend the weekend.
The future here is definitely a bit unknown, and the situation may require reassessment as the battles over IceSave and EU membership resolve in Iceland, but for the time being I’m pining for the returning sun and the dazzling view over the turquoise ocean to the snowed mountains, and for the time being, admiring the blue-green waters in another land. Right now, simple things like that are what make life worthwhile to me.
Revelation
The year before, we’d stayed in a lean-to where we discovered — conveniently after we’d settled in for the night, dusk had fallen, and coy dogs began howling in the distance as they made their way down to the waterfront — that we were at the sight where a teenager had drowned a couple of weeks prior after boating out to the middle of the lake, and then capsizing while drunk. His friends didn’t notice he was missing until the following morning. They had written in a journal left in the lean-to — the last entry in it — right before the incident.
On my hike the following year, I skipped that lake. It was the first time I’d been in the wilderness alone, save for a couple of short day hikes. And it hit me hard as the sun began to cast its shadows over the lake that I chose, as I scrambled to find enough dry wood for my fire, and the fog settled in, eerily hovering above the lake. I kind of wondered what the hell I was thinking when I decided to venture out into the woods alone.
There were numerous stories of people disappearing or being bludgeoned to death on the Appalachain Trail. It’s the perfect place to plan a crime if you think about it — the only witnesses could never speak. It’s really not such a smart thing to do. A very dear friend of mine entered the woods alone in Vermont the summer after his first year of college and he never really fully returned.
I made a campfire, boiled some water to make some tea, laid out my sleeping bag, and sat at the edge of the lean-to, humming to myself. One’s mind can really do wonders when you’re surrounded by complete darkness. Every sound sent an electric shock through my body. Up until that point, I had never felt so scared and alone in my life. All I really wanted was to find some peace and have some time to think about things — college, moving away from home and leaving friends and family, becoming an adult, what I wanted out of life, etcetera, without having to deal with people.
Suffice it to say, that night was pretty damn scary. As soon as the sun set and I finished my tea, I jumped into my mummy bag, covered my head, and prayed that I fell asleep fast and painlessly.
The hike to the lake that day had been relatively quick; I think I made it there in less than four hours. I didn’t really think about anything as I walked — mainly just observed the scenery, said hello to a couple of hikers that I passed by, and listened to the sound of my footsteps.
But that night, as I laid there alone, my mind would not cease with its thoughts. I mainly thought about where I’d been over the past four years and where I would be heading in the future. I felt like I bore the weight of the world on my shoulders and needed to figure everything out right there and then that night — that if I waited too long, I’d miss out on an opportunity that I might never find again.
In retrospect, in so many ways, I really was just a blank slate back then, as I am in many ways now, I suppose. Still, I sometimes feel that the more I see, the less I know about myself and the world around me. I don’t seem to get anything anymore.
I remember waking to a dream early the next morning about a close friend of mine who’d died about two years prior. I often dream about her when I’ve got some internal struggle going on, and the dreams are usually very vivid, often surreal, yet somehow very comforting, epiphanic. With her, the images are usually of her slowly gesturing to me with her hand to come to her, like she needs to tell me something — a secret, maybe. She usually wears yellow. And then I feel myself making my way towards her but nothing is ever spoken. Whatever she needs to tell me has somehow already been conveyed.
I lifted my head up, and as I did, I saw a doe in the distance looking in my direction through the early morning fog. My movement must have startled her, and she quickly dashed away. I got up, doused the ashes, and walked down to the lake, where I sat for a while, stared at the water’s surface, skipped some stones, dipped my toes in, then strolled back towards the camp.
I packed my bag and other belongings, ate some food, brushed my teeth, and headed back along the trail.