Winter is a spellbinding time of year in Iceland.
It's the time when the forces of nature strike a blow at one another, leaving the local population and visitors bound to the comforts of their home.
This past January was dim and dreadful. Streets and grassy fields were clad in nature's very ice rink and human paws fell prey to its slippery ways.
Waking up in the pitch black morning was a torturous exercise with the light of day only appearing as noon approached. Then, as professionals and students finished their day of dutiful diligence, they walked into the dimly lit afternoon that is already blackened well before the early evening settles in its place.
We lived in the shadow of daylight, treading carefully across the ice rink as the cold wind blew us in all direction.
But then, all of a sudden, the enchanting month of February came and swept away the shivering creeps of January blues with its orange companion by its side, sending rays of sunlight to our pale faces and giving us hope for a brighter and better season after our time in the darkness.
In February, the world is truly veiled with magical and wondrous beauty.
The grim navy blue skies transform to an exquisite shade of animated royal blue. The air is still in the crisp night, and the stars spark like glitter drifted in no particular order across the already animated canvas.
When the moon is out in all its glory, the night is a wonderland where nature's magic thrive and just about anything can happen. A slow walk in the night is a journey through an enchanted highland and a mysterious city where the hopeful fall in love and aspirations for a beautiful life are born.
The hard cemented city rues are nearly deserted of life, and the crisp air of the distant highlands gives reason to indulge in an intimate cuddle to make this magical moment in time last a little longer, or until the cold has finally settled in our very bones and the inevitable escape to the warm comfort of bed is upon us.
February is truly the time to take late night walks, travel to Iceland's secret destinations that are beautiful beyond belief in the company of seasoned guides whose knowledge and enthusiasm for the land they inhabit give a deeper understanding of this strange terrain.
The Northern Lights seem never more alive than on those exquisite nights when all the elements come together and a rare moment in time is temporarily upon us. The Aurora bathes in the glory of this real-life animation and dances from joy across the canvas far above the sleepy sea, a sea that is already gleaming with joy on this perfect night.
It is the parisian spring, a glorious African dawn to a flawless summer day and the kaleidoscopic New England autumn. No time of year brings out Iceland's true magic as the month of February.
It is the month of hope and glory for locals, and an adventure to an animated world on the very edge of the inhabitable world for the visitors who come for an out-of-this-world experience.
It is the time of year when the magic of animation comes to life and life is simply beautiful.
February is truly fabulous.
Sunday, 16 February 2014
Tuesday, 28 January 2014
Passage to the Past
A new year - a new start.
But while it is important to look towards the future, the past must be remembered and allowed to pass into our memory, both the good and the bad, to make the future a better place.
To travel wide and far teaches a person tolerance, a sense of humility and understanding of concepts previously foreign to one's spectrum of worldview.
Growing up on an island is in some ways a wonderful experience. The island landscape is naked in the face of vile winds blowing across the seas to the vulnerable and barren landmarks, and is an oasis in the midst of a watery world where violent gray waves crash onto the shore in the darkest and vilest of days. But sometimes, in more gentler times, the blue and subtle waves stroke the surface of the sea, hypnotizing the islanders in their isolated world as the sun lends her rays to light up the world.
Desolation and isolation is in many ways an enchanting environment. It allows a culture to grow and mature colloquial quirks and amusing twists and tangles in traditions and beliefs.
So much of Iceland's charms stems from the isolation in the desolate landscape that prevails, and the imagination gives birth to tales of strange creatures living outside the human realms. Its thirteen yule lands, the hidden elf people and grim tales of trolls petrified at dawn are just among few.
The tales of Icelandic vikings and their violent but intellectual ways are an interesting account of man's response to the isolation in a landscape that is truly desolate.
A peculiar cultural heritage is the strange approach Icelanders adapted in the cultural view of our so-called yule lads, lads that were once upon a time a far cry from skinny and somewhat loud lads who visit children who still believe in their existence. These lads, and the tales of misdemeanor told to young children once upon a time evoked fear in them, and no child would celebrate Christmas Eve without a new item of clothing on their back and gratitude for but humble provisions. Tales of the lads' grim mother, Grýla, who according to legends had a taste for children and her foul husband, Leppalúði, with his miniature and frail stature, evoked an ever greater fear in the young.
These days, the yule lads are but friendly mischievous lads, forever young in body and spirit. They obey their vixen-like mother and return to their highland inhabitation when the holiday season is over, but their mother no longer threatens to eat them or offer them as snack to her black cat.
In the place of my birth, Akranes, the most prominent feature is Akrafjall, a mountain that guards the small coastal town that was previously a fishing community. According to legends, it is the resting place of a petrified troll who took too long in seeking shelter from the sun.
Few have much faith in these old tales nowadays but they are nonetheless an amusing heritage to pass on from one generation to the next.
But the isolation of island life is not without fault, as local legends do not make a citizen of the world out of us.
Iceland's geographical location lies within the European continent, and our closest contact, a former ally and foe, was Denmark. For a long time, our island was so isolated and its inhabitants so alone in a hostile wilderness, that the peculiarity and perhaps at times ignorance of the world in the locals could be excused to some extent.
Our introduction to the world was abrupt. As the European mainland faced the horrors of yet another catastrophic war, the WWII, the Icelandic authorities fostered a neutral position while being host to the allied armies of British and American descent. To the authorities, their presence was disruptive and young Icelandic ladies were supposedly morally mislead by their charms. The authorities listed and temporarily placed young women, aged 12 and older, to work camps in rural Iceland to prevent them from associating further with the foreign "invaders."
At the end of the war, Iceland emerged into the world as a candidate for a first world country, and grew and developed rapidly into a western country in the twentieth century.
After I learned about the atrocities of the WWII in the early 1990s, I asked both of my grandmothers about the war in Iceland. Both of them were reluctant to communicate on the topic and there was a time I was bewildered by their responses. As an adult, I have come to understand that even without combat and bloody warfare, war is always a sore spot and its survivors and their descendants to be treated with dignity and respect.
Following a recent controversial and scandalous comment made by a young comedian and television host during a match in the European Handball Cup, I was abruptly reminded of how disconnected the generations of late, my generation even, have become to one of the ugliest and most appalling wars fought in modern history. The utter ignorance of the commentary in historical context is bad enough.
But to compare the Icelandic Handball team to a Nazi regime slaughtering its opponents in the European Championship in the sport, is beyond belief and so offensive and disrespectful, that I was surprised to see him back on the screen.
To his credit, he did apologize and seemed sincerely regretful and ashamed of his action. To refuse to accept the apology, an apology made to all those who were appalled by the ignorance and recklessness of the statement, would be wrong.
I took an extraordinary interest in the WWII period at an early age. My innate interest in people and the incredible strength that humanity possesses, both under oppression and when raised by a spirit of hope, speaks to me and I find myself constantly in search of answers.
It was the unspeakable cruelty humanity proved to be capable of under the extreme circumstances of Nazi-occupied Europe that at first nauseated me, and then forced me to look deeper and make it my duty to know more so that I understand my duty as human being to be an ambassador to peace - a role I believe most of us are in possession of in our own special way.
I have read literature written about ordinary Germans who find themselves in the centre of propaganda while being punished for a sake of selected monsters of men, as well as seen films and documentaries about the many different sides of the WWII.
I have made it my mission to expand my bank of knowledge about human atrocities, and perhaps as a result of that research and peculiar interest, felt utterly disgusted, to the very core of my being, when the scandalous comment about the Icelandic Handball team was uttered.
I simply could not believe anyone could say such a thing. From the very beginning that I came to know the history of the war years, I was immediately shattered and heartbroken by the atrocities.
But then, after an emotional outrage, I got thinking. Could this be the fault of blissful ignorance?
In hindsight, my history book consisted of a single chapter on the topic of the World War II. It was my own initiave to see Schindler's List, and my own curiosity that has brought me to unofficially study the history of this war. This war has ignited an interest in me to explore the Great War, WWI, the source that partially ignited the Second World War in the mid-twentieth century. Somehow I feel compelled to understand the condition of men.
All the research is and was my own. So, is this the fault of the education system? And if so, what is the answer to blissful ignorance?
In my mind, to travel is a great answer.
In Europe, it is not out of the ordinary that schools organize excursions to war memorials on the mainland. Many schools choose to travel to Auschwitz, where history takes shape before their very eyes and the war is very much a part of that heritage.
So, why is it that Icelandic youngsters are not exposed to history in the same way? Historical tourism is a fundamental way to educate the generations to whom the horror are but paragraphs describing unspeakable atrocities. It is a way to come face to face with history in camaraderie and feel more a part of the European community and the world as a whole.
After all, traveling is not always about having fun and having beautiful experiences. Sometimes, it's an opportunity to physically penetrate the past and learn about a chapter in history that is without beauty.
In the case of Auschwitz, that is a display of beastly proportions where humanity lost all what is beautiful about humanity.
By infusing travels into the education of adolescence and young people, the lessons become a visit to the past, as if you are knocking on the door of history, waiting to be initiated into the kind of knowledge that teaches us to be better people and preservers of peace in a world, that for some reason, is always in conflict.
Iceland is after all a member of the European continent and our shared history, yes shared, is for all of us to learn and appreciate, and it is time for Icelandic authorities to understand their role as part of the greater world, as I believe, many Icelanders already do.
To travel beyond the watery border is our way to reach out and join hands with the rest of the world.
But while it is important to look towards the future, the past must be remembered and allowed to pass into our memory, both the good and the bad, to make the future a better place.
To travel wide and far teaches a person tolerance, a sense of humility and understanding of concepts previously foreign to one's spectrum of worldview.
Growing up on an island is in some ways a wonderful experience. The island landscape is naked in the face of vile winds blowing across the seas to the vulnerable and barren landmarks, and is an oasis in the midst of a watery world where violent gray waves crash onto the shore in the darkest and vilest of days. But sometimes, in more gentler times, the blue and subtle waves stroke the surface of the sea, hypnotizing the islanders in their isolated world as the sun lends her rays to light up the world.
Desolation and isolation is in many ways an enchanting environment. It allows a culture to grow and mature colloquial quirks and amusing twists and tangles in traditions and beliefs.
So much of Iceland's charms stems from the isolation in the desolate landscape that prevails, and the imagination gives birth to tales of strange creatures living outside the human realms. Its thirteen yule lands, the hidden elf people and grim tales of trolls petrified at dawn are just among few.
The tales of Icelandic vikings and their violent but intellectual ways are an interesting account of man's response to the isolation in a landscape that is truly desolate.
A peculiar cultural heritage is the strange approach Icelanders adapted in the cultural view of our so-called yule lads, lads that were once upon a time a far cry from skinny and somewhat loud lads who visit children who still believe in their existence. These lads, and the tales of misdemeanor told to young children once upon a time evoked fear in them, and no child would celebrate Christmas Eve without a new item of clothing on their back and gratitude for but humble provisions. Tales of the lads' grim mother, Grýla, who according to legends had a taste for children and her foul husband, Leppalúði, with his miniature and frail stature, evoked an ever greater fear in the young.
These days, the yule lads are but friendly mischievous lads, forever young in body and spirit. They obey their vixen-like mother and return to their highland inhabitation when the holiday season is over, but their mother no longer threatens to eat them or offer them as snack to her black cat.
In the place of my birth, Akranes, the most prominent feature is Akrafjall, a mountain that guards the small coastal town that was previously a fishing community. According to legends, it is the resting place of a petrified troll who took too long in seeking shelter from the sun.
Few have much faith in these old tales nowadays but they are nonetheless an amusing heritage to pass on from one generation to the next.
But the isolation of island life is not without fault, as local legends do not make a citizen of the world out of us.
Iceland's geographical location lies within the European continent, and our closest contact, a former ally and foe, was Denmark. For a long time, our island was so isolated and its inhabitants so alone in a hostile wilderness, that the peculiarity and perhaps at times ignorance of the world in the locals could be excused to some extent.
Our introduction to the world was abrupt. As the European mainland faced the horrors of yet another catastrophic war, the WWII, the Icelandic authorities fostered a neutral position while being host to the allied armies of British and American descent. To the authorities, their presence was disruptive and young Icelandic ladies were supposedly morally mislead by their charms. The authorities listed and temporarily placed young women, aged 12 and older, to work camps in rural Iceland to prevent them from associating further with the foreign "invaders."
At the end of the war, Iceland emerged into the world as a candidate for a first world country, and grew and developed rapidly into a western country in the twentieth century.
After I learned about the atrocities of the WWII in the early 1990s, I asked both of my grandmothers about the war in Iceland. Both of them were reluctant to communicate on the topic and there was a time I was bewildered by their responses. As an adult, I have come to understand that even without combat and bloody warfare, war is always a sore spot and its survivors and their descendants to be treated with dignity and respect.
Following a recent controversial and scandalous comment made by a young comedian and television host during a match in the European Handball Cup, I was abruptly reminded of how disconnected the generations of late, my generation even, have become to one of the ugliest and most appalling wars fought in modern history. The utter ignorance of the commentary in historical context is bad enough.
But to compare the Icelandic Handball team to a Nazi regime slaughtering its opponents in the European Championship in the sport, is beyond belief and so offensive and disrespectful, that I was surprised to see him back on the screen.
To his credit, he did apologize and seemed sincerely regretful and ashamed of his action. To refuse to accept the apology, an apology made to all those who were appalled by the ignorance and recklessness of the statement, would be wrong.
I took an extraordinary interest in the WWII period at an early age. My innate interest in people and the incredible strength that humanity possesses, both under oppression and when raised by a spirit of hope, speaks to me and I find myself constantly in search of answers.
It was the unspeakable cruelty humanity proved to be capable of under the extreme circumstances of Nazi-occupied Europe that at first nauseated me, and then forced me to look deeper and make it my duty to know more so that I understand my duty as human being to be an ambassador to peace - a role I believe most of us are in possession of in our own special way.
I have read literature written about ordinary Germans who find themselves in the centre of propaganda while being punished for a sake of selected monsters of men, as well as seen films and documentaries about the many different sides of the WWII.
I have made it my mission to expand my bank of knowledge about human atrocities, and perhaps as a result of that research and peculiar interest, felt utterly disgusted, to the very core of my being, when the scandalous comment about the Icelandic Handball team was uttered.
I simply could not believe anyone could say such a thing. From the very beginning that I came to know the history of the war years, I was immediately shattered and heartbroken by the atrocities.
But then, after an emotional outrage, I got thinking. Could this be the fault of blissful ignorance?
In hindsight, my history book consisted of a single chapter on the topic of the World War II. It was my own initiave to see Schindler's List, and my own curiosity that has brought me to unofficially study the history of this war. This war has ignited an interest in me to explore the Great War, WWI, the source that partially ignited the Second World War in the mid-twentieth century. Somehow I feel compelled to understand the condition of men.
All the research is and was my own. So, is this the fault of the education system? And if so, what is the answer to blissful ignorance?
In my mind, to travel is a great answer.
In Europe, it is not out of the ordinary that schools organize excursions to war memorials on the mainland. Many schools choose to travel to Auschwitz, where history takes shape before their very eyes and the war is very much a part of that heritage.
So, why is it that Icelandic youngsters are not exposed to history in the same way? Historical tourism is a fundamental way to educate the generations to whom the horror are but paragraphs describing unspeakable atrocities. It is a way to come face to face with history in camaraderie and feel more a part of the European community and the world as a whole.
After all, traveling is not always about having fun and having beautiful experiences. Sometimes, it's an opportunity to physically penetrate the past and learn about a chapter in history that is without beauty.
In the case of Auschwitz, that is a display of beastly proportions where humanity lost all what is beautiful about humanity.
By infusing travels into the education of adolescence and young people, the lessons become a visit to the past, as if you are knocking on the door of history, waiting to be initiated into the kind of knowledge that teaches us to be better people and preservers of peace in a world, that for some reason, is always in conflict.
Iceland is after all a member of the European continent and our shared history, yes shared, is for all of us to learn and appreciate, and it is time for Icelandic authorities to understand their role as part of the greater world, as I believe, many Icelanders already do.
To travel beyond the watery border is our way to reach out and join hands with the rest of the world.
Tuesday, 19 November 2013
End of an Era
London, my beloved city of London, is changing. She is maturing, distancing herself from her days of late nights in establishments that once upon a time were the very centre of Snakebites and flirtatious encounters of youth in heat.
In recent weeks and months, sudden news of unsuspecting closedowns have come as a surprise to this now-once-upon-a-time-resident-but forever-a-Londoner-at-heart.
London is a city that brings out the nostalgia in me and as memories pour down on me my face lights up with joy. I have wonderful memories of good times with friends, solitary times with a grande latte in one hand and a wrinkled book in another, and beautiful summer days with my then boyfriend and now husband.
It's the city where I watched my first Rugby Union World Cup match in 2004, where I watched a moving performance from the cast of Les Miserables, and where I lived in a beautiful semi-attached brick house in North Finchley.
It's where I got my first real job as a professional and where I fell in love with the man who is now my partner in life.
I never feel like an outsider in the city. London is home to anyone who wants to make it a home, and who wants to lead a life full of beauty and intrigue. It is a multicultural city in the deepest sense of the word. Residency is not dependent on birthright, race, gender, sexuality, religion, and overall, cultural background.
To be a Londoner is to live in the city and love it with a tender heart.
But despite the city's exuberant spirit and heart of a wild rose, an era is indeed coming to an end. The era I knew to be the London of my bursting youth is slowly disappearing.
In 2003 and 2004 I got to know London for a few months and I immediately felt a connection to the city. However, at the time, I wasn't quite ready to stick around for the summer as I wanted to spend the summer far away from the cityscape on a beautiful little island.
Then in 2005, I was ready to make a deeper commitment to the city and returned to find a proper professional job and proper place to live. With both goals accomplished (and while accomplishing them) I so enjoyed my life in the city that never sleeps.
As before, I frequented my usual beverage establishments from previous years while discovering new ones along the way.
An old-time favourite remained to be the Walkabout. Yes, it could be bit cheesy at times. But maybe, just maybe, it was the slice of cheese that made a night out at the Walkie in Temple, Shaftesbury Avenue and even the one in Covent Garden, such a carnival. The Temple was my absolute favourite. The mood was light but amicable, and the nights were a mix of youthful enthusiasm and liquid happiness.
Much to my surprise, news of the original Walkie in Shepherd Bush and the Covent Garden one, reached my ears early this year. I hope the Temple one won't be met with the same fate but who knows, perhaps the face of London is changing and a new chain of international bars will be the new hangout for the natives of the nations down under, as well as everyone else.
Even more disappointingly is the shocking news that the Slug and Lettuce in Fulham is closing its doors. The reason it is particularly upsetting is the fact that it holds a special memory of a night I'll never forget.
After a couple of months of convincing myself I was not interested in my now husband as anything more than a friend, I had to catch my breath when an attractive female showed him the interest I had not allowed myself to do. Thankfully, he picked up on my sudden burst of realisation and we've been together ever since.
We have always talked about going back to the Slug and Lettuce for a snakebite or two when we are in London, but it simply never happened and I suppose it's too late now. The memory lives on whether the Slug and Lettuce is open or not. It just would have been something special to return if only for one night.
Being a young person in London with family an airplane crossing away, it is the friends who assume the support role of a family and that is enough in a city where life is about discovering your identity and have an adventure.
Flat sharing, Sunday sessions, weekend trips out of the city and even to the mainland, riding the night bus home, and experiencing a truly serendipitous encounter with a man who literally comes from the other side of the world are just among a few fond memories I cherish oh so much.
Granted that the last surprise turned out to be a South African richer in kindness and patience than any man I'd ever met before (despite my having frequented an Aussie bar over the years, and yes, scoping out a few native men while at it) is truly the most beautiful chapter in my London story.
Change is, after all, the natural rhythm of life...
In recent weeks and months, sudden news of unsuspecting closedowns have come as a surprise to this now-once-upon-a-time-resident-but forever-a-Londoner-at-heart.
London is a city that brings out the nostalgia in me and as memories pour down on me my face lights up with joy. I have wonderful memories of good times with friends, solitary times with a grande latte in one hand and a wrinkled book in another, and beautiful summer days with my then boyfriend and now husband.
It's the city where I watched my first Rugby Union World Cup match in 2004, where I watched a moving performance from the cast of Les Miserables, and where I lived in a beautiful semi-attached brick house in North Finchley.
It's where I got my first real job as a professional and where I fell in love with the man who is now my partner in life.
I never feel like an outsider in the city. London is home to anyone who wants to make it a home, and who wants to lead a life full of beauty and intrigue. It is a multicultural city in the deepest sense of the word. Residency is not dependent on birthright, race, gender, sexuality, religion, and overall, cultural background.
To be a Londoner is to live in the city and love it with a tender heart.
But despite the city's exuberant spirit and heart of a wild rose, an era is indeed coming to an end. The era I knew to be the London of my bursting youth is slowly disappearing.
In 2003 and 2004 I got to know London for a few months and I immediately felt a connection to the city. However, at the time, I wasn't quite ready to stick around for the summer as I wanted to spend the summer far away from the cityscape on a beautiful little island.
Then in 2005, I was ready to make a deeper commitment to the city and returned to find a proper professional job and proper place to live. With both goals accomplished (and while accomplishing them) I so enjoyed my life in the city that never sleeps.
As before, I frequented my usual beverage establishments from previous years while discovering new ones along the way.
An old-time favourite remained to be the Walkabout. Yes, it could be bit cheesy at times. But maybe, just maybe, it was the slice of cheese that made a night out at the Walkie in Temple, Shaftesbury Avenue and even the one in Covent Garden, such a carnival. The Temple was my absolute favourite. The mood was light but amicable, and the nights were a mix of youthful enthusiasm and liquid happiness.
Much to my surprise, news of the original Walkie in Shepherd Bush and the Covent Garden one, reached my ears early this year. I hope the Temple one won't be met with the same fate but who knows, perhaps the face of London is changing and a new chain of international bars will be the new hangout for the natives of the nations down under, as well as everyone else.
Even more disappointingly is the shocking news that the Slug and Lettuce in Fulham is closing its doors. The reason it is particularly upsetting is the fact that it holds a special memory of a night I'll never forget.
After a couple of months of convincing myself I was not interested in my now husband as anything more than a friend, I had to catch my breath when an attractive female showed him the interest I had not allowed myself to do. Thankfully, he picked up on my sudden burst of realisation and we've been together ever since.
We have always talked about going back to the Slug and Lettuce for a snakebite or two when we are in London, but it simply never happened and I suppose it's too late now. The memory lives on whether the Slug and Lettuce is open or not. It just would have been something special to return if only for one night.
Being a young person in London with family an airplane crossing away, it is the friends who assume the support role of a family and that is enough in a city where life is about discovering your identity and have an adventure.
 |
| The blue house (not the house with the blue door if you catch my meaning) in Notting Hill continues to be my dream house in the city. Photo by JB. |
Granted that the last surprise turned out to be a South African richer in kindness and patience than any man I'd ever met before (despite my having frequented an Aussie bar over the years, and yes, scoping out a few native men while at it) is truly the most beautiful chapter in my London story.
 |
| Portabello Road is as charming in autumn as it is in the height of summer. Photo by JB. |
Perhaps, as we have grown into a new life together and learned a great deal since about the people we are and want to be, the city of London is changing too. Perhaps, it is time for a new chain of bars to be the place of legends for a new generation of twenty-somethings in search of adventures.
Change is, after all, the natural rhythm of life...
Sunday, 17 November 2013
Lightning and Snow
In the wee hours of an enchanting wintery morning, the residents of my quiet borough were woken up abruptly by a rare phenomenon. A lightning struck at the rooftop of Hotel Saga, one of the more established hotels in the city, striking an aerial and causing temporary breakdown in a radiotelephone network.
The encounter caused a roaring explosion heard in several boroughs in the city and certainly caught my attention. We can see a section of the hotel and the rooftop from our bedroom window and had the blinds been up, we'd actually seen the occurrence for ourselves. At the very least, I would have seen the flicker of light in the distance.
But I only heard the lightning strike from the other side of my blinds. Nonetheless, it was an extraordinary way to jumpstart the day (not that I didn't go back to sleep…).
It was simply the perfect start to a perfect winter day.
As is to be expected, I was reluctant to retire from the comfort of my cozy home on this cold winter day. At roughly 10 o'clock in the morning, I could no longer avoid the dreaded first toilet-break for my adorable dog Emma. It was surprisingly refreshing to step out into the bright morning and let her do her thing. There are times when the weather is not so perfect and I have rushed her to finish as quickly as she can, but this morning it was lovely to step out and feel the sun's warm rays.
It was still cold and as Sunday mornings go, it's always tempting to do as little as possible - no matter how perfect a day is, the cold always comes as a surprise.
But when I finally did leave my warm bubble, it was more than worth it.
Her fascination with the world, the way she holds her head up high no matter how strong is the wind, or how the snow flakes blow in her cute Labrador Retriever face, is illuminating and a gesture to actually look out into the world.
The encounter caused a roaring explosion heard in several boroughs in the city and certainly caught my attention. We can see a section of the hotel and the rooftop from our bedroom window and had the blinds been up, we'd actually seen the occurrence for ourselves. At the very least, I would have seen the flicker of light in the distance.
 |
| Hotel Saga in the background. Photo by JB. |
It was simply the perfect start to a perfect winter day.
 |
| The perfect snowfall - just enough to light up the world. Photo by JB. |
And as winters go, I wouldn't mind a mild but a snowy winter season like that of today.
As is to be expected, I was reluctant to retire from the comfort of my cozy home on this cold winter day. At roughly 10 o'clock in the morning, I could no longer avoid the dreaded first toilet-break for my adorable dog Emma. It was surprisingly refreshing to step out into the bright morning and let her do her thing. There are times when the weather is not so perfect and I have rushed her to finish as quickly as she can, but this morning it was lovely to step out and feel the sun's warm rays.
It was still cold and as Sunday mornings go, it's always tempting to do as little as possible - no matter how perfect a day is, the cold always comes as a surprise.
But when I finally did leave my warm bubble, it was more than worth it.
 |
| My borough Vesturbær on this beautiful Sunday afternoon. Photo by JB. |
A dog takes more pleasure from playing in the snow than us humans are ever capable of doing. My Emma's thick and fuzzy fur is warm and soft. She is not restricted to the layers that I pile on as the days grow colder and is unafraid to roll in the soft snow without feeling the cold on her paws. She so loves the cold snow and devours it every time she takes a bite from the frozen grounds.
Her fascination with the world, the way she holds her head up high no matter how strong is the wind, or how the snow flakes blow in her cute Labrador Retriever face, is illuminating and a gesture to actually look out into the world.
 |
| Life in little Reykjavík - ever-so-slightly enhanced. Photo by JB. |
Each season is magical in a unique way. Winter is always going to be cold in the northernmost capital of the European continent, and at times, exquisite beyond belief. The snow lights up the dark winter days and the mood changes. Even the fading plants glow on the snowy grounds and the whole world is a striking contrast to the grayish clouds above. It is as if the world is draped in a transcendent veil.
In the cold snowfall, all exposed flesh is unsheltered from the cold and the cheeks turn red while my Emma's fur is nearly as white as the snow. A thin set of gloves no longer suffices.
Wool gloves with fleece interior is what it takes to survive a cold Sunday afternoon...
...and probably not a bad idea for tomorrow's -5°C as the car windscreen won't clear itself.
 |
| Emma's playground. Photo by JB. |
The month of November is never more appealing than on days like today. Despite having to get used the early onset of darkness, the daylight hours are worth enjoying in this very first month of authentic winter.
And if it weren't for my dog, I'd probably miss out on days like these. And that would be the real shame.
Monday, 4 November 2013
EverLasting Impressions...
Iceland is a peculiar place to visit…
The landscape is extraordinarily beautiful. On a cold day the pure crispy air strikes a sharp blow that sends vibration throughout the whole body. The willful spirit that dwells in the depth of this enigmatic land is never more striking but on such exquisite days.
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| A beautiful Sunday afternoon in the Reykjanes Peninsula |
The orange glow of the sun spreads majestically over the horizon in the late afternoon and casts a spell on travelers passing through the lunar landscape.
The romantic in me is tempted by Lady Temptress's sensational introduction to the world of golden dawn and dusk paired with winter's silver dust drifting in the wind. I am constantly amazed how the two contrasts, the morning glow and the long night, meet halfway in the most magical of moments.
The vast space of nothingness separating the capital city and the Keflavík International airport is no wasteland despite the gloom of November rain or the wild North Atlantic wind hurling across the ancient frozen lava fields.
It's a world beyond the grasp of human existence, wild and ravishing, yet cool and dry, even soft in-between the sharp raven-black lava rock.
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| All photos by Júlíana Björnsdóttir |
...Iceland is truly a strange place...
Thursday, 24 October 2013
To my people...and the highland we shared...
On the journey of life, the most significant events usually involve people. Sometimes the journey we had originally planned comes to a halt and we abandon it for a temporary detour. A detour is by nature a turn off the chosen path.
It's never easy to abandon a path that invokes passionate response for one less aspiring. Hard times drive us off the chosen path, pushing us further and further away from the path of dreams, while pushing us even harder to get back on the right path again.
But the experiences we have on the detour count too. What keeps us going on the detour is more than anything good people, people who are on the right path in life and people who too are on a detour in life.
A couple of months ago I ran out of luck in my life and drifted off my chosen path only to find myself on a detour. The detour was brief. Driven by determination to rise from the ashes, I found my way again, and soon return to my path of words where I do belong. New exciting challenges fill me with hope once again, and the very moment the call came, I felt my spirit burst from joy and experienced a sense of personal victory over the hardship of previous months.
But despite the remarkable opportunity I now seize with all my heart's desires, I look back with a sense of admiration for the people who up until the night before last, were my companions and colleagues, people who are all in their own way remarkable.
This last detour I shall forever refer to as "Autumn Fever". Autumn because it happened this autumn and fever because it resembled at times a feverish flu and at other times a journey of intrigue and even exquisite beauty.
The fluish fever resulted from my adjusting to long hours at the front desk and a shift pattern that simply doesn't work for my body clock. I am a person of regular hours and regular eight hour sleep. I like my weekends free to pursue my academics and spend time with my little family.
I like to make dinner or watch my husband make dinner. I like to read my book of choice in bed an hour before I plan to actually sleep, and I like to watch non-sensical shows and movies at my leisure.
But for two months or so, I went against the natural currents within and worked unnaturally long hours and shift patterns unnatural to my bodily rhythm. As anyone who's ever worked in the service industry knows, it is a demanding industry and only fit for types for whom the rhythm of the job comes naturally.
Nonetheless, it was an intriguing experience that no doubt taught me more than just about my limitations. My personal inability to work long hours put aside, it was an opportunity to better myself and meet people solid as gold.
The sense of togetherness between the members of staff was unique and when we were all stressed, we worked together to make it all come together. George Orwell's Down and Out in Paris and London often came to my mind as stress over flooded the corridors, rooms and the restaurant, but friendships were not broken. Hard days were made easier with a Latté Macchiato from my favourite waiter whose charm won over the clients in a nanosecond. He moved across the room with an ease of someone in command of the room, and at the end of the night, the guests left satisfied for a night of deep sleep under the stars in the middle of an ancient lava field.
Each and every day began with a half an hour drive from an undisclosed location in the city of Reykjavík to the suburbs at the edge of the city, across the dramatic highland landscape so unique I sometimes wondered if there was indeed such a place to be found anywhere in the world.
Every working day, the three musketeers rode through the highlands while the sun rose over the mountains in the early hours of the morning. It was the perfect resolution to an imperfect means of transport.
The three musketeers is my term of endearment for my friends and colleagues who will continue to ride across the highlands with my replacement. Yes, it was not the job of my dreams and I look forward to starting my new job, but once in a while, on a beautiful winter day, I might miss riding into the sunrise in companionship of friends.
On my second to last day in the job, I found myself riding through grounds draped in dust of frost; the road too. The spectacular plains beneath the rising road was a breathtaking sight as the city horizon disappeared into the distance, and the lunar terrain of crude and choppy rock formations engulfed us in its vastness.
In all my time of working at the secluded hotel with its raw and quirky design, I always felt privileged to navigate this world that is always visually enchanting. Every time I passed by the boulder at what must be the highest point of this wasteland, I imagined the sensation of being in the midst of this land as the grounds tremble to perfection.
I do realise this is entirely a figment of my imagination and that in real life, the experience would be terrifying, in particular if the boulder is liberated from its place in the world and probably frighten the three musketeers to death. Or squash us to death. Either way, my mind is irrevocably drawn to this fictional moment be it the dark of night or light of day.
Then as our motor transportation, a black delivery van in which I have spent plenty of minutes wondering whether I will throw up my dinner from motion sickness, a dinner that was at best of times a delicious feast of the ocean or meat variety, and at worst, an authentic Icelandic country dinner I wouldn't taste under any circumstances.
But on my second to last day, I needed to take in the exquisite landscape like never before. I never knew this desolate universe hid so near Reykjavík city. As we descended down the final curves of the steep slope that is the narrow road, the enigmatic Lake Þingvallarvatn appeared at the horizon, sparkling like the Atlantic Ocean on a perfect frosty day in February. I wanted to inhale the fresh and unspoiled air so that I could feel it and see if the visual ecstasy was in fact as pure as the world made it out to be.
In the final several hundred metres to our place of service, another sight caught my immediate attention. From the lowlands to the highlands and again in the lowlands, I was constantly watched by the guardian of the night, the man in the moon who rests when we wake and explores the world on his own terms as we sleep.
In the distance, behind the mountains that seem too small to be actual mountains, the orange glow of dawn creeped ever-so-slowly bedazzling us with an impressive but modest orange morning glow. The sun was on fire but in an honourable submission to the man in the moon, as she hid her face behind the row of hilly mountains until all of a sudden she emerged in an explosion of light.
The surreal terrain is indeed a playground for the imagination through which curious minds pass through on a cautious but an enigmatic journey of discovery.
The two remaining musketeers will continue to ride the lunar pathway, or until winter conquers entirely and forces them to take the long way around the majestic highland. I will miss our conversation and the sense of camaraderie we shared.
The wise man who was my always at my back and call when I solicited him for an advise or ten is a man of many talent. Words do not suffice in the most sincere of attempts to express how deeply I admire him for his rare and extraordinary view of life, and genuine kindness and loyalty to the people in his life.
Then it's the young man of twenty, whose driving skills are such, I am sure he'd be in training to become a race car driver anywhere else in the world. No less important is the remarkable maturity in spite of his young age; a kinder and gentler soul is hard to find in this fast-paced world of ours.
Every now and then, we rode the highlands with a woman of a great spirit, a woman who is not only a credited professional but a mindful companion and always ready to lend an ear.
One weekend, we rode into work with an extraordinary woman with an incredible life story, a woman to whom I said, "you should document your life in writing". The reason I did so is simple enough. She has had an extraordinary life, traveling to all corners of the world and living a life so unlike any I know or will ever know. She blew me away with her inquisitive spirit and worldly experiences, and last but not least, incredible humility accompanied by a beautiful smile.
These people, these wonderful companions, made the professional detour a quest for a growing circle of friends. I may be on the right path again but the experiences of the last two months are not regrettable in any way. The job might not have suited me but the people did indeed.
The breakfast waiter with all his passion for equestrianism and the darling pony of a sophisticated breed of horses always greeted me with a smile on his face. The chef made me a cake on my last day, only mildly sweet just the way I like it. Then it's the former dishwasher from Sweden and Ghana, whose not only kind-hearted and compassionate but also wise beyond his years, a narrator of knowledge acquired through his heritage and passion for travels.
The two night receptionists deserve a mentioning as well. The aspiring script writer who exercises his discipline when engulfed by the night, and the footfall fan who is genuinely passionate about the sport.
Ahead of me is the chance of a lifetime. And oh, I shall bathe in the opportunity and become a better and a more diversified writer for it.
I shall also embark upon the job with the humility of a learner preparing to master an art, knowing for the sake of those who still hunt for the job that gives their life a purpose, that I am only as good as I am willing to learn.
We are all searching for that opportunity, that chance to dance in the spotlight and leap into the air as the roaring crowd calls out our name. For some of my previous colleagues and friends, their work is their dream, their pride and joy even. For others, it is a temporary stopover as they navigate the world to find the profession that gives them a greater purpose.
...I have decided to call this next season "Winter Wonderland"...
I hope against hope it'll be just that for my former colleagues in search of a dream.
The universal workability of the wheel of fortune depends entirely on the faith we place in the talent we claim to possess.
It's never easy to abandon a path that invokes passionate response for one less aspiring. Hard times drive us off the chosen path, pushing us further and further away from the path of dreams, while pushing us even harder to get back on the right path again.
But the experiences we have on the detour count too. What keeps us going on the detour is more than anything good people, people who are on the right path in life and people who too are on a detour in life.
A couple of months ago I ran out of luck in my life and drifted off my chosen path only to find myself on a detour. The detour was brief. Driven by determination to rise from the ashes, I found my way again, and soon return to my path of words where I do belong. New exciting challenges fill me with hope once again, and the very moment the call came, I felt my spirit burst from joy and experienced a sense of personal victory over the hardship of previous months.
But despite the remarkable opportunity I now seize with all my heart's desires, I look back with a sense of admiration for the people who up until the night before last, were my companions and colleagues, people who are all in their own way remarkable.
This last detour I shall forever refer to as "Autumn Fever". Autumn because it happened this autumn and fever because it resembled at times a feverish flu and at other times a journey of intrigue and even exquisite beauty.
The fluish fever resulted from my adjusting to long hours at the front desk and a shift pattern that simply doesn't work for my body clock. I am a person of regular hours and regular eight hour sleep. I like my weekends free to pursue my academics and spend time with my little family.
I like to make dinner or watch my husband make dinner. I like to read my book of choice in bed an hour before I plan to actually sleep, and I like to watch non-sensical shows and movies at my leisure.
But for two months or so, I went against the natural currents within and worked unnaturally long hours and shift patterns unnatural to my bodily rhythm. As anyone who's ever worked in the service industry knows, it is a demanding industry and only fit for types for whom the rhythm of the job comes naturally.
Nonetheless, it was an intriguing experience that no doubt taught me more than just about my limitations. My personal inability to work long hours put aside, it was an opportunity to better myself and meet people solid as gold.
The sense of togetherness between the members of staff was unique and when we were all stressed, we worked together to make it all come together. George Orwell's Down and Out in Paris and London often came to my mind as stress over flooded the corridors, rooms and the restaurant, but friendships were not broken. Hard days were made easier with a Latté Macchiato from my favourite waiter whose charm won over the clients in a nanosecond. He moved across the room with an ease of someone in command of the room, and at the end of the night, the guests left satisfied for a night of deep sleep under the stars in the middle of an ancient lava field.
Each and every day began with a half an hour drive from an undisclosed location in the city of Reykjavík to the suburbs at the edge of the city, across the dramatic highland landscape so unique I sometimes wondered if there was indeed such a place to be found anywhere in the world.
Every working day, the three musketeers rode through the highlands while the sun rose over the mountains in the early hours of the morning. It was the perfect resolution to an imperfect means of transport.
The three musketeers is my term of endearment for my friends and colleagues who will continue to ride across the highlands with my replacement. Yes, it was not the job of my dreams and I look forward to starting my new job, but once in a while, on a beautiful winter day, I might miss riding into the sunrise in companionship of friends.
On my second to last day in the job, I found myself riding through grounds draped in dust of frost; the road too. The spectacular plains beneath the rising road was a breathtaking sight as the city horizon disappeared into the distance, and the lunar terrain of crude and choppy rock formations engulfed us in its vastness.
In all my time of working at the secluded hotel with its raw and quirky design, I always felt privileged to navigate this world that is always visually enchanting. Every time I passed by the boulder at what must be the highest point of this wasteland, I imagined the sensation of being in the midst of this land as the grounds tremble to perfection.
I do realise this is entirely a figment of my imagination and that in real life, the experience would be terrifying, in particular if the boulder is liberated from its place in the world and probably frighten the three musketeers to death. Or squash us to death. Either way, my mind is irrevocably drawn to this fictional moment be it the dark of night or light of day.
Then as our motor transportation, a black delivery van in which I have spent plenty of minutes wondering whether I will throw up my dinner from motion sickness, a dinner that was at best of times a delicious feast of the ocean or meat variety, and at worst, an authentic Icelandic country dinner I wouldn't taste under any circumstances.
But on my second to last day, I needed to take in the exquisite landscape like never before. I never knew this desolate universe hid so near Reykjavík city. As we descended down the final curves of the steep slope that is the narrow road, the enigmatic Lake Þingvallarvatn appeared at the horizon, sparkling like the Atlantic Ocean on a perfect frosty day in February. I wanted to inhale the fresh and unspoiled air so that I could feel it and see if the visual ecstasy was in fact as pure as the world made it out to be.
 |
| The steep slope as the morning sky awakes. |
In the distance, behind the mountains that seem too small to be actual mountains, the orange glow of dawn creeped ever-so-slowly bedazzling us with an impressive but modest orange morning glow. The sun was on fire but in an honourable submission to the man in the moon, as she hid her face behind the row of hilly mountains until all of a sudden she emerged in an explosion of light.
The surreal terrain is indeed a playground for the imagination through which curious minds pass through on a cautious but an enigmatic journey of discovery.
The two remaining musketeers will continue to ride the lunar pathway, or until winter conquers entirely and forces them to take the long way around the majestic highland. I will miss our conversation and the sense of camaraderie we shared.
The wise man who was my always at my back and call when I solicited him for an advise or ten is a man of many talent. Words do not suffice in the most sincere of attempts to express how deeply I admire him for his rare and extraordinary view of life, and genuine kindness and loyalty to the people in his life.
Then it's the young man of twenty, whose driving skills are such, I am sure he'd be in training to become a race car driver anywhere else in the world. No less important is the remarkable maturity in spite of his young age; a kinder and gentler soul is hard to find in this fast-paced world of ours.
Every now and then, we rode the highlands with a woman of a great spirit, a woman who is not only a credited professional but a mindful companion and always ready to lend an ear.
One weekend, we rode into work with an extraordinary woman with an incredible life story, a woman to whom I said, "you should document your life in writing". The reason I did so is simple enough. She has had an extraordinary life, traveling to all corners of the world and living a life so unlike any I know or will ever know. She blew me away with her inquisitive spirit and worldly experiences, and last but not least, incredible humility accompanied by a beautiful smile.
These people, these wonderful companions, made the professional detour a quest for a growing circle of friends. I may be on the right path again but the experiences of the last two months are not regrettable in any way. The job might not have suited me but the people did indeed.
The breakfast waiter with all his passion for equestrianism and the darling pony of a sophisticated breed of horses always greeted me with a smile on his face. The chef made me a cake on my last day, only mildly sweet just the way I like it. Then it's the former dishwasher from Sweden and Ghana, whose not only kind-hearted and compassionate but also wise beyond his years, a narrator of knowledge acquired through his heritage and passion for travels.
The two night receptionists deserve a mentioning as well. The aspiring script writer who exercises his discipline when engulfed by the night, and the footfall fan who is genuinely passionate about the sport.
Ahead of me is the chance of a lifetime. And oh, I shall bathe in the opportunity and become a better and a more diversified writer for it.
I shall also embark upon the job with the humility of a learner preparing to master an art, knowing for the sake of those who still hunt for the job that gives their life a purpose, that I am only as good as I am willing to learn.
We are all searching for that opportunity, that chance to dance in the spotlight and leap into the air as the roaring crowd calls out our name. For some of my previous colleagues and friends, their work is their dream, their pride and joy even. For others, it is a temporary stopover as they navigate the world to find the profession that gives them a greater purpose.
...I have decided to call this next season "Winter Wonderland"...
I hope against hope it'll be just that for my former colleagues in search of a dream.
The universal workability of the wheel of fortune depends entirely on the faith we place in the talent we claim to possess.
Tuesday, 1 October 2013
Bubbletea Café... A Dairy Queen's Dairy Dream with Pancakes
Little Reykjavík is growing up. New cultural influences are finally native to my little city and a new generation of a multicultural descent is changing the once monocultural mood of the northernmost capital city in Europe.
I love the new city I now call home. I love the energy brewing in the heart of the city and the artistic vibe that emerges from the little alleys and the colourful boutiques in old - some historical - corrugated buildings lined along the Laugavegur high street.
Laugavegur is quite possibly the only high street in all of Reykjavík. Unlike residential boroughs in the UK, suburbs in Reykjavík are quite often just that, residential quarters with emphasis on the residential aspect. That means some suburbs are without a decent commercial centre and flourishing restaurant scene isolated to the city centre.
Luckily for me, my little borough, the Westside otherwise known as Vesturbær, has been around for a while. It's one of the oldest residential quarters in the city and many of the homes were built in the the post-war years, primarily it seems in the late 1940s and throughout the 1950s, and some even pre-war. The three-storey apartment building I call my home - and share with the best kind of neighbours a family of three can ask for - was built in 1946.
What I cherish with all my heart is that there is past to my present. History is written in the walls and in the very soil. The tall trees in the yard have been residents to these grounds since the very beginning, even longer, watching generation after generation go about their business every single day. The stories they could whisper in my ears...
Across the "rounded road" called Hringbraut is the oldest part of my borough with narrow streets and a beautiful old cemetery that overlooks the man-made lake we know as the Pond or "Tjörnin."
The centre of Reykjavík is so much more than a commercial centre. It's vibrant in culture and rich in the flavours of the world. In-between the simple but detailed carving in the walls of the city - most noteworthy being the carving in the rooftops peaking over the edge to watch life go by - are restaurants that have been around for years and decades. New ethnic restaurants are beautiful markers of the new multicultural world that has finally caught up with us.
Amidst the endless arrays of cafés is a new café, a café that is different from the traditional genre of cafés that so far have been prevalent in the capital city. The Bubbletea Pancake Café is bright and beautiful, a homely haven just a few feet from the original home of the newest and truly authentic Italian restaurant, Piccolo Italia.
Bubbletea is where I go for my sugar and lemon pancake dessert after my Chicken Tagliatelle pasta dinner.
It's where I go when I want something cool on a summer's day.
It's where I go when I want a dessert that isn't sweeter than all that is sweet.
I go there when I need a shelter away from pouring rain and when I fancy a fusion of dairy heaven and fresh fruits.
I love nothing more than the light but creamy dairy drinks they serve at the Bubbletea Café. It's the kind that is naturally sweet, an oasis that like the gentle passing of the River Nile through the golden sand of her desert banks, leaves one feeling refreshed and comforted.
The creamy drinks are flavoured with fresh fruits, and the customer can choose between a yoghurt drink or a milkshake. My favorite mix is a yoghurt drink with lemon and mango.
Then it's the pancakes... the perfect golden hue... soft and silky... it's about as perfect as it gets when topped with lemon and sugar.
Other options, well, they're seemingly endless with peanut butter, jam and cream and so much more. Being a creature of habit, I confess to having only tried it with lemon and sugar... always with my favourite yoghurt drink.
I've only just started to make my way down their menu and I am yet to try their coffee, after all, they do offer Illy, and it's a pretty decent brand. Neither have I tried their fruity ice-teas or hot tea drinks.
I am even more intrigued to try a beverage with their special ingredient. The Bubbletea Café is very likely the only place in Iceland where Tapioca is available and being a curious traveler, this is the perfect opportunity to do a little bit of culinary traveling domestically.
I am dying to try just about every single one of their drinks from the Special Drinks menu. It's the fusion of fresh fruits and tapioca that intrigues me. Most of the drinks on the menu contain tapioca. The infusion of exotic ingredients and dedication to create a feast for the palate is a divine combination, and for the health-conscious sweet tooth it's a safe haven to emerge oneself in natural sweetness.
For a non-drinker like myself, it's such a joy to finally have a café where creativity is put to work to create something sweet and distinctive, something as enjoyable as a mojito on a saturday afternoon, something that gives an impression of a celebratory cocktail.
The Bubbletea Café is most definitely the most exciting new café in the whole city of Reykjavík, offering an extraordinary selection of beverages and both sweet and savory alimentation suitable to all ages and tastes.
Amidst the endless arrays of cafés is a new café, a café that is different from the traditional genre of cafés that so far have been prevalent in the capital city. The Bubbletea Pancake Café is bright and beautiful, a homely haven just a few feet from the original home of the newest and truly authentic Italian restaurant, Piccolo Italia.
Bubbletea is where I go for my sugar and lemon pancake dessert after my Chicken Tagliatelle pasta dinner.
It's where I go when I want something cool on a summer's day.
It's where I go when I want a dessert that isn't sweeter than all that is sweet.
I go there when I need a shelter away from pouring rain and when I fancy a fusion of dairy heaven and fresh fruits.
I love nothing more than the light but creamy dairy drinks they serve at the Bubbletea Café. It's the kind that is naturally sweet, an oasis that like the gentle passing of the River Nile through the golden sand of her desert banks, leaves one feeling refreshed and comforted.
 |
| Yoghurt drink with mango and lemon..yummy! |
The interior design is simple but delightful. The walls are painted in blue, green and purple and the large window frame faces the upper Laugavegur High Street. Bar stools are lined up along the glass frame and drinks rest on the high table, almost too tempting to resist. Inside are simple wooden tables dressed with colourful table cloths, and in the corner of the café there is a shelf with handmade souvenirs.
 |
| The Bubbletea Café |
Then it's the pancakes... the perfect golden hue... soft and silky... it's about as perfect as it gets when topped with lemon and sugar.
 |
| A pancake with sugar and lemon - yummy! |
Other options, well, they're seemingly endless with peanut butter, jam and cream and so much more. Being a creature of habit, I confess to having only tried it with lemon and sugar... always with my favourite yoghurt drink.
I've only just started to make my way down their menu and I am yet to try their coffee, after all, they do offer Illy, and it's a pretty decent brand. Neither have I tried their fruity ice-teas or hot tea drinks.
I am even more intrigued to try a beverage with their special ingredient. The Bubbletea Café is very likely the only place in Iceland where Tapioca is available and being a curious traveler, this is the perfect opportunity to do a little bit of culinary traveling domestically.
I am dying to try just about every single one of their drinks from the Special Drinks menu. It's the fusion of fresh fruits and tapioca that intrigues me. Most of the drinks on the menu contain tapioca. The infusion of exotic ingredients and dedication to create a feast for the palate is a divine combination, and for the health-conscious sweet tooth it's a safe haven to emerge oneself in natural sweetness.
For a non-drinker like myself, it's such a joy to finally have a café where creativity is put to work to create something sweet and distinctive, something as enjoyable as a mojito on a saturday afternoon, something that gives an impression of a celebratory cocktail.
The Bubbletea Café is most definitely the most exciting new café in the whole city of Reykjavík, offering an extraordinary selection of beverages and both sweet and savory alimentation suitable to all ages and tastes.
 |
| The Bubbletea Café |
It's the perfect place to spend an afternoon when you need a bit of colour in your life, and since tea and coffee and fruit drinks have little to none intoxicating effect on the body (unlike traditional cocktails and alcoholic beverages) it's possible to (literally) drown one's sorrows in seasonably fruity flares beneath the rainbow walls, and walk out into the sun intoxicated with physical wellbeing.
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