Number of stories: 744
Iceland is for writers
by Laura Vasilion - Jun 03, 2010
For a writer, there is no better place to be than Iceland. I learned that five years ago, when I began work on a novel set in WWII Iceland. My father, who was a Navy Photomate stationed in Iceland during the war, was the original inspiration for the book. But the first time I travelled to Iceland with my husband to do research, the vast beauty of this Arctic island grabbed me by the heart.
It is fair to say she has taken center stage.
Our tour guide was a friend named Ragnar, an Icelandic WWII historian who I met on the internet. Ragnar took us to the places my father had been. With him, we stood on the shore of a windswept bay surrounded by thousand foot cliffs. Here, Ragnar said, North Atlantic convoys found safety from the mouths of Nazi U-boats. From there, he took us to the deserted airfield where looming PBY aircraft landed during the war. We went to the cemetery where American casualties of war lay until they
were returned home. We walked the streets of the camp my father called, Camp Kwitcherbelliakin, now just a patch of dirt and grass along the water. But through Ragnar’s eyes I found the ruts in the mud where the camp’s Quonset huts once stood.
But our trip was much more than a history lesson. With Ragnar, we drank Brennevin and ate
marinated shark and other Icelandic meats. We listened to skateboarders roll through the streets of Reykjavik until after three in the morning. The concierge explained that teenagers are given these freedoms during the summer because of the darkness they must endure during the winter. In a place where nature dictates life, it made sense.
One day, a friend of Ragnar’s took us with him to feed his horses. They swarmed us like anxious children, nudging us with their noses, allowing us to pet their coarse manes. Icelandic law will not allow Icelandic horses to be bred with other breeds. If an Icelandic horse leaves the island it can never return. These strict laws have maintained a purity in the line which goes back a thousand years or more. To me, it was another example of the lovely symmetry that exists here.
Two years after the first trip, I returned to Iceland again. I came alone to attend a conference honoring veterans of the Arctic convoys of WWII. Seven embassies were represented. Organizers with the University of Iceland had created a montage of my father’s photographs which hung with other displays in the university’s exhibit. This time, my love for Iceland deepened even more.
After dinner one night, I walked the streets of Reykjavik alone with a camera. Through the strange glow of midnight in July, I snapped the charming doors of Icelandic homes and shops. The next day, I continued shooting the buzz of life in Reykjavik. I also found a wide range of Icelandic graffiti which I found thoughtful and poetic. One, still haunts me. It was painted in black letters on a parking stub and said simply, “Father We Miss U.”
So much has already been said about the stunning physical beauty of Iceland. It is all true and all incapable of capturing what I felt when I was actually there. In the blink of an eye, the wind changes, the colors shift. I can hear the ground groaning, breathing, sighing. It is a profound connection to the natural world I have never felt anywhere else in the world.
I know I will be back.
It is fair to say she has taken center stage.
Our tour guide was a friend named Ragnar, an Icelandic WWII historian who I met on the internet. Ragnar took us to the places my father had been. With him, we stood on the shore of a windswept bay surrounded by thousand foot cliffs. Here, Ragnar said, North Atlantic convoys found safety from the mouths of Nazi U-boats. From there, he took us to the deserted airfield where looming PBY aircraft landed during the war. We went to the cemetery where American casualties of war lay until they
were returned home. We walked the streets of the camp my father called, Camp Kwitcherbelliakin, now just a patch of dirt and grass along the water. But through Ragnar’s eyes I found the ruts in the mud where the camp’s Quonset huts once stood.
But our trip was much more than a history lesson. With Ragnar, we drank Brennevin and ate
marinated shark and other Icelandic meats. We listened to skateboarders roll through the streets of Reykjavik until after three in the morning. The concierge explained that teenagers are given these freedoms during the summer because of the darkness they must endure during the winter. In a place where nature dictates life, it made sense.
One day, a friend of Ragnar’s took us with him to feed his horses. They swarmed us like anxious children, nudging us with their noses, allowing us to pet their coarse manes. Icelandic law will not allow Icelandic horses to be bred with other breeds. If an Icelandic horse leaves the island it can never return. These strict laws have maintained a purity in the line which goes back a thousand years or more. To me, it was another example of the lovely symmetry that exists here.
Two years after the first trip, I returned to Iceland again. I came alone to attend a conference honoring veterans of the Arctic convoys of WWII. Seven embassies were represented. Organizers with the University of Iceland had created a montage of my father’s photographs which hung with other displays in the university’s exhibit. This time, my love for Iceland deepened even more.
After dinner one night, I walked the streets of Reykjavik alone with a camera. Through the strange glow of midnight in July, I snapped the charming doors of Icelandic homes and shops. The next day, I continued shooting the buzz of life in Reykjavik. I also found a wide range of Icelandic graffiti which I found thoughtful and poetic. One, still haunts me. It was painted in black letters on a parking stub and said simply, “Father We Miss U.”
So much has already been said about the stunning physical beauty of Iceland. It is all true and all incapable of capturing what I felt when I was actually there. In the blink of an eye, the wind changes, the colors shift. I can hear the ground groaning, breathing, sighing. It is a profound connection to the natural world I have never felt anywhere else in the world.
I know I will be back.
