Reykjavík Grapevine - 01.08.2014, Blaðsíða 49

49The Reykjavík GrapevineIssue 11 — 2014 TRAVEL
fee?” asked the clerk,
his demeanour and
his coffee refresh-
ing us back into ac-
tion. After having a
blast going down the
slide, relaxing in the
hot tubs and wrestling
in the children’s pool,
we started conversing
with Þorvaldur Ós-
kar Gunnarsson, the
21-year-old pool clerk-
slash-lifesaver who
gave us the coffee.
We had gotten the impression that ev-
erything was milk and honey in Stokkseyri,
but Þorvaldur quickly smashed our idyllic
illusions. “These towns mess you up,” he
told us. “Ten per cent of the 445 inhab-
itants are fucked up.” By the tired and
lost look of an older
gentleman we saw
playing a slot machine
later, we would get a
glimpse of what he
might have meant.
As Þorvaldur ex-
plained, leaving town
is inevitable. There’s
no doctor, no phar-
macy and no post
office in Stokkseyri.
He has to travel to
nearby Selfoss, if he
needs medical help,
wants to send a letter or go out for a drink.
“When you turn 18 and get to drive a car,
freedom follows. You're isolated in this
area and everyone knows everyone,” he
complained. “I know everyone in Selfoss
by now, so I go to Reykjavík,” he contin-
ued, explaining that he even grew out of
Selfoss’s bigger shoes. “There you can
meet foreigners, people that you don't
know yet.”
Þorvaldur recommended we check
out the Viking house in the middle of
town, which turned out to be a turf hut,
where perhaps a lot of local teenagers
have secretly made out. We did not make
out, opting instead to carve snow angels in
the pristine snowy lawn that surrounded
the hut. Our empty stomachs lead us to
another Skálinn-type place. The hot dogs
didn’t quite make our senses dance, so we
decided to fill our bellies with the famous
and truly tasty lobster soup at Fjöruborðið.
Everyone Goes To Hella
We didn't quite believe the GPS when
it told us we had arrived in Hella, even
though we were in front of a small shop-
ping centre on what looked like the main
street of a small village, which starts and
ends at a roundabout. But, we were in
Hella. We had arrived.
Wanting to avoid a gas station/grill-
type experience this time around, we opt-
ed to explore the local shopping centre,
which serves Hella’s 806 inhabitants.
Our eyes landed on a local, Ómar Ás-
geirsson we soon learned, who was right
in the middle of closing his bakery for the
evening. He thankfully took a pause from
his work to sit down and patiently answer
our questions about the area.
“Hella is a small and quiet place, it's
close to the countryside and it's a good
place to raise kids,” he told us, outlining
the benefits. “You almost don't bother to
lock the house.” That said, it should be
added, that with its population of 860,
Hella is actually one of the bigger towns
in the area, making it THE place to go if
you want to grab a beer in those parts. Not
only do they have a Vínbúð (the state-run
alcohol store), but also a few bars, hotels
and decent restaurants.
Ómar doesn't feel he's missing out
on much, either. “Big cities are good, but
you're isolated there, too,” he said. “If you
don't want to know your neighbour, you
don't have to.” Ómar’s wisdom, we even-
tually perceived, lay in the realisation that
loneliness is more a matter of emotional
than of physical distance.
His wisdom also reached to the local
river, which we had been planning to drink
from. “You've got all the farms upland, we
don't know what's going on there. We fish
Distance from Reykjavík
186 km
The Grapevine Intern Department’s
version of the Three Musketeers
is probably a bit quirkier than Al-
exandre Dumas’s trio. Things are
bound to get riotous when you
have—sharing the lesser work-
spaces of a small editorial office—
a born-and-raised Viennese city
girl (Yasmin), a wannabe redneck
from North Carolina (Johnny) and
a hockey jock-cum-fashionista
from the ‘burbs of Montreal (Fred).
To spare our other officemates our
incessant and oftentimes very stu-
pid banter, we came up with the
idea of exploring local ways of life
in small towns on Iceland’s south-
ern coast. We only had 60 or so
hours, so to make the most of it
we borrowed a camper van from
the nice folks at Happy Campers.
The Authors
And Their Idea
Continues Over
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