Reykjavík Grapevine - 01.08.2014, Blaðsíða 50

in the water, we fall in it, it's no danger, but I
wouldn't drink it,” Ómar stated, chuckling.

Meeting The Potato
Kingpin of Þykkvibær
When we pulled into nearby Þykkvibær,
the first things we saw were its old farm
houses, fronted by black and white pho-
tographic signs detailing the way things
used to be in the village. While looking at
one of these photos, we noticed a farmer
doing, well, farmer stuff, and decided to
ambush him—and luckily, the overpow-
ering clicking of our camera didn’t stop
Birkir Ármannsson from talking to us. We
couldn’t have been more lucky, as Birkir
gave us a tour of his farm, showing us his
potato warehouses (the town is famous for
its potatoes), his sheep and even his dad’s
sheep.
“Twenty years ago, this was the big-
gest farm village in Iceland, with 40 farm-
ers,” Birkir said. “We had a bank, a post
office and a market then, and now there’s
nothing.” His tone was half lament, half
cold, hard truth telling. The only building
that isn’t a farm is the church in the village
centre.
The decrease in the number of farmers
was caused partly by the fact that with the
help of machinery, local farms are getting
bigger and more efficient. As it happened,
the middle-aged yet somehow timeless-
looking Birkir turned out to be quite the
potato kingpin himself. He recently bought
another farm lot, and last year his father
purchased a bigger potato house as well.
“We don't have workers,” he said. “We’re
four people with much to do. I’m busy a
lot.” With all those potatoes, 100 horses
and 30 sheep, we figured we would be
pretty busy too, so we left this man of the
land to get back to his important work and
continued our journey along the south
coast.
By the time we reached Vík, the largest
settlement in the southeast, it was pitch
black and we were thirsty. We hit closed
doors at Halldórskaffi and almost suffered
a similar fate in our second attempt, at
Suður-Vík, the second bar. The barkeep
there told us they were done for the night,
despite the fact that at least 15 others were
sitting around tables drinking and shout-
ing. On our way out, a man sitting near
the door suddenly held us back. “I’m the
owner here, and I say you can stay, if you’re
drinking,” he intoned. Apparently our eight
foreign rosy cheeks looked like they de-
served a brief sojourn. And perhaps he
also thought we had too many krónur in
our pockets. It felt like a typical Icelandic
combination of hospitality and insider cor-
ruption, but it didn’t concern us much,
because the bar was the most happen-
ing place we had yet been to on our trip.
It had the atmosphere of a mountain ski
cabin and was full to the brim of silly shits
spilling beer on themselves while crushing
cans and dancing around despite the fact
that no music was playing.
Our Final Destination
The silliness continued on our way out,
when we bumped into two construction
workers in their late twenties who were
in town to help repair a bridge and who
proceeded to trash talk Vík mercilessly.
“Vík is a shit hole,” one said. “Nothing at
all to do.” We wondered what they would
suggest for a good Saturday night. “Hella
is the happening place,” the other offered.
“That's where you go for a good drink or
a good fight.” It didn’t correspond to what
we had experienced in either Vík or Hella,
but hell, we figured, to each their own
small town fun.
That night’s sleep was short. We were
parked between Vík’s iconic church at the
top of the hill and the pub farther down it.
We endured another night of frozen toes
and bellowing snores.
The next morning we headed to—sur-
prise surprise—the local gas station and
grill for food and more interviews, since
you’re always guaranteed to find both on
location. Our victim this time was Þorgeir
Guðnason, a confident 17-year-old stu-
dent who showed lots of love for the small
town, even when bluntly pressed to admit
that he lives in a remote area. “No, it's just
perfect,” Þorgeir coolly replied. “I love it.
Here you can relax and chill. In Reykjavík
there’s always panic.”
Þorgeir also professed to enjoy his
schooling in Vík, and said he remains in
touch with his old schoolmates. “We were
eight boys in my class, no girls,” he said.
He promptly earned a pitiful look from
us, followed by a curious question about
the dating situation in the village and if
there were any cute girls around. “Some
of them are cute, but most of them, well,
we're related,” Þorgeir declared. “Dating is
much better in Reykjavík.” We tried more
hot dogs, these served by Þorgeir’s twin-
brother. They were, by far, the best we had
on the trip and bread marked the end of
our journey, as we had to head back to
lively Reykjavík.
As we drove the same route in re-
verse, we saw everything we had passed
through before with new eyes.
Everyone we interviewed had patiently
explained to us, directly or indirectly, that
isolation is something that comes from
within. It was pleasantly surprising to learn
how they wouldn't trade the calmness of
their lives for the fast pace of the city.
While we remain adamant that we
couldn’t live in places that small, we still
agreed that what we had viewed as de-
serted, lonely little villages before, now ap-
peared as something else, something that
we perhaps couldn’t fully comprehend, but
that we could at least respect.
Gourmet Experience
- Steaks and Style at Argentina Steakhouse
Barónsstíg 11 - 101 Reykjavík
Tel: 551 9555
argentina.is
50 The Reykjavík GrapevineIssue 11 — 2014TRAVEL
Snæfríður Sól and Sighvatur Bjarki
Styrmir Ingi Hauksson
Ómar Ásgeirsson
Þorgeir Guðnason
Þorvaldur Óskar Gunnarsson
Ágúst Óli Leifsson