What’s that sulphurous smell in the bathroom? A small price to pay for an unlimited hot shower, that's what. Like any self-respecting geothermal wonderland, Iceland has an inexhaustible supply of hot water, piped directly into every house for heating, showering, washing, and channeled under city streets for melting snow in the winter. I rather liked the whiff of rotten egg that clung to us long after our ablutions; it brought back happy childhood memories of holidays in Rotorua.
We'd slept till lunchtime that first day, but no worries; at least ten hours of daylight lay between us and bedtime. We would get around to the sights and sounds after sampling the smells and tastes. Thor had stocked up the mini-kitchenette with a few breakfast supplies: ham, cheese, some fine local muesli, wholesome wholemeal bread, and blueberries flown in at great expense from somewhere else. Also, several tasty examples of one of Iceland’s local treats: skyr.
You don’t grow up in New Zealand without developing a healthy appreciation for dairy products, as well as a patriotic conviction that yours are better than anyone else’s. But this was divine: a super-creamy yoghurt, somewhere between fromage frais and quark. Plus, the name alone: skyr. Skeeeeerrrrrrrr! Even a baby could pronounce that with relish, although ours was too busy shovelling it into his mouth to even try.
Because Iceland is horribly expensive -- up there with Tokyo and Hawai’i -- I’d come over all prudent, and crammed our luggage with random consumables, like Trader Joe's macaroni and cheese, dried fruit, muesli bars, and more diapers than one small bottom could possibly get through in a week and a half. But the boys hoovered up the supply of skyr and demanded more. It was time to get our wheels on and reconnoitre a local supermarket.
I know. Shopping. For groceries. On holiday. Once upon a time (i.e. before children), we'd have launched ourselves out into the first morning with a cafe breakfast at a people-watching spot, followed by a day of hitting the must-see museums and cultural attractions. But if you’re domestically inclined, or small and hungry, a grocery shop can be at least as much fun as a museum.
We did dutifully stop in at one museum on the way -- the brand new Reykjavík 871 +/- 2, which preserves the remains of a settlement-era Viking longhouse accidentally unearthed a few years ago. (Reykjavík's settlement is dated to 871, give or take a couple of years, hence the museum's pedantic name). It's pretty minimalist: what you see is what you get, and what you see is - surprise! - the remains of a settlement-era Viking longhouse, carefully preserved in a darkened room, with a few explanatory displays. I found the scenes on the walls, inset with ghostly moving images of the earliest settlers, more affecting and illuminating than the ruins themselves. Meanwhile, the kids got their money's worth out of the glass-walled circular elevator.
Back up at street level, we made our way towards Laugarvegur, the main shopping street. But first we helped a local man shepherd a lost mother duck and her ducklings through the cobbled streets and towards the Tjörnin, the lake at the heart of the city. As we approached the lake, James impulsively reached out to touch a duckling, wondering what they might feel like. The old chap who had superintended the ducks' progress murmured "Nej, nej," in the most gentle tones imaginable, thus preserving both the tiny ducklings and James's feelings (more evidence of Icelandic kindness towards children - I had expected a brisk scolding). The birds looked very glad to be back in the water after running the gauntlet of cars, bikes, scooters, tourists with cameras, and curious children trying to cop a feel.
What a kind town this is - and a tiny one! Laugarvegur turns out to be a cobbled one-way street, lined with small shops, swanky boutiques, and coffeehouses that turn into bars after dark. Halfway along, in a small market called Bonus –- whose emblem is a preposterously fat and happy pig -- we find everything we’re looking for, and more. In the dairy section we discover that skyr comes in many flavours, including drinkable. And as well as milk, or mjölk, there is kökö mjölk, which becomes an addiction during our stay. It’s not that different from the chocolate milk at home, except not as sweet, and the muscled soccer-playing cat on the package has such a goofy, irresistible charm that he’s been immortalized in graffiti.
The local icecream brand is Emmessis, which must seem a sour joke to
anyone who has groaned her way through a case of hyper-emesis
(debilitating morning sickness). But James is thrilled to discover they
make a bar named after his current cartoon craze: only here, the cat and mouse are
named Tommi og Jenni.
Manoeuvring around the tiny shop, we find what we need, and price-wise it's no worse than New York or Tokyo. Perhaps I was too hasty with my smuggled hoard of consumer goods. It’s in the baby aisle that I really regret my frugal packing. Behold, Libero diapers, made in the Netherlands. My eye is first caught by the groovy Euro-kiddos on the packaging. That denim cap on the swingin' guy at left is Donovan at his Mellowest Yellowest. And the healthy-looking child on the right is positively an advertisement for socialized medicine and a bicycle-based lifestyle -- note also that unlike most American diaper models, s/he is both gender ambiguous and fully clad.
But an even closer look reveals the true excellence of these diapers. These are no ordinary nappies, but the
Limited Edition Spring Collection. With three mind-blowingly cool designs! Which will it be this morning, young sir: the gold buttons, very Versace, very Admiral of the Fleet? The mad, bad, and dangerous studded leather belt? Or the lurid Make Love Not War badge at crotch level? More importantly, can I sell my suitcase of cheesy Cookie Monster-bedecked American diapers on the black market to drum up enough cash for a box of these babies?