Jokulsarlon and the German Invasion

I awoke on July 21, 2012 in Skaftafell National Park with the anticipation of adventure.  A journey full of new experiences.  On this day, I got all that and a bit more.  Now there were many a variable that morning which would have deterred a lesser adventure seeker, including coin size blisters on my heels from the previous day's trek and the forecast of rain and wind;  however, I try not to be a fair weather adventurer.  No, I was bound and determined to step out onto Iceland's Route 1 (aka Ring Road) and hitchhike to Jokulsarlon (Iceberg Lake).  This natural wonder is described as a sublime spot to see large bergs of ice floating along a small lake.  These wonders have recently broken away from Vatnajokull, the largest glacier in Europe.  Plus this day would also serve for my first ever hitchhiking experience.  Woohoo, there is promise for adventure in the air, whether surreal or catastrophic.

I pack up my rucksack with water, lunch and my trusty Arcteryx Gore-Tex jacket and begin walking.  As I bound down the road, I am bursting with the anticipation of the day's journey.  However, my 'bounding' is quickly interrupted by the first of many stops to adjust my boots to compensate for the disheartening pain screaming from my heels.   I eventually find a tolerable fit and settle into a rhythm, for that's the only real way to combat wicked blisters, the systematic rhythm of the trudge onward.  Besides, I'll be picked up by a kind motorist soon, as I am assured by many a traveler.

It does happen!  Two hours later!  After many a shrugged shoulders from driver's seats and conversations with local sheep along the side of the road, a massive van pulls over at my beckoning.  I hurry along with my gimpy gate to join the party wagon.  Inside I find a family bearing from Barcelona, Spain, who are embarked on a 21-day tour of Iceland.  I tell them my destination as the husband cleans off the front seat.  I jump in and am on my way!  It is not a moment too soon, either, for the torrential rain and driving wind arrive shortly after my rescuing from the lonely road.

The husband is a burly man of few words, but he navigates the fortress on wheels through the inclement weather with speed and precision.  Speed is the appropriate word as I feared many a time for my life, as a gail of wind would slam into us rocking the the van along the wet road.  His wife, a fellow school teacher, sat in the back with their two daughters.  She wore a kind smile and carried a friendly persona with a tall, athletic frame leading me to believe she was accustomed to chasing children around the school yard.  She served as spokeswoman for the group as she was the only one who had a command of English, and we conversed about life and travels as we roared along Ring Road.  The two girls, ages 6 and 3, looked upon me with curious smiles, and I noted the overall happy energy flowing from the family.  Who says that travel and adventure have to stop with kids?

We endure a pleasant drive together and soon arrive at the destination of my excursion, Jokulsarlon.  I step out of the van into the driving rain and wind to have a look, and they join me for a quick peek, themselves, but quickly return to the warmth and comfort of the van.  I thank them for the ride and wish them well upon their journey and turn my focus to a trek around the lake.  It is a truly amazing sight to behold.  Bear in mind that my view is quite limited due to the continually worsening weather, but the sight of castles of ice floating aimlessly around the lake demands a sense of awe.  Since my walking rhythm was appreciatively broken by my hitchhiking success, my blisterous heels have reached new levels of discomfort and saturation.

I eventually conclude that my trek is an optimistic and stupid idea and turn back to the welcome center, the only shelter in sight.   After a miserable walk, I arrive and cram inside like a sardine in a can with a hoard of others bearing from every stretch of the globe, who all have the same needs: warmth and dryness.  The later seemed a bit ironic at the moment, because all the dripping tourists have now brought the lake inside.

After a warm cup of soup, a tasty beer and pleasant conversation with cutie from Hong Kong, I decided that, while my journey might offer an amusing story, it was truly a bad idea and made ready to endure the venture back.  I wasn't bursting with excitement about abandoning my warm environment to the elements outside,  but little could be done.

I embarked into misery and limped out onto the road.  However, this time mercy was upon me, and I was picked up on the other side of the bridge leading to the visitor's center.  The small coupe pulled over, and I was rescued by a bright-eyed, sixty-something German couple who tapped into the mercy of their hearts and felt pity on such a sad looking soul.  I can only imagine that I embedded the epitome of a pitiful soul as I huddled and limped across that bridge spanning the mouth of the lake.  I slid into the back seat and exploded with gratitude to my rescuers.

The trip back to Skaftafell was quick as we navigated the usual conversation about our travels, homes and general ideas about life.  I enjoyed their company immensely and was more than happy to lead them out for a view of the glacier upon our arrival at my destination.  We continued conversing as we walked (or gimped in my case), venturing into topics such as society and even love.  They were appreciative of my brief guided tour, and I was even more appreciative of the ride.  We wished each other well and parted in the manor that is most common of the brief meeting of travelers.  I had enjoyed encountering another pair of kind and unique souls, but all I could think about was returning to my peaceful campsite and drying out.  I could only imagine that my heels now looked like a bloody mess.

I hobbled over to my campsite expecting to be greeted by the smooth dialect of the French group that sat just adjacent to my spot but arrived to quite a different atmosphere.  It was as if Hitler himself had lead a massive group of Nazi soldiers into the area, and they took to their invasion with military precision.  I stood bewildered as the sound of clanging hammers and the erection of tents filled the air.  They hadn't just set camp in the area; my little, orange tent was now engulfed in a sea of army green as they erected their camp around and, in some cases, on top my humble spot.  However, I did note that with the arrival of such a German force, there was a noticeable absence of French.  I guess history does repeat itself.

As I navigated through the trip-wires (guy lines) toward my tent, I attempted to greet my captors.  However, I barely received more that a grunt and, in most cases, a look in the other direction.  It was quite the shock to see the other spectrum of this European culture after such a pleasant encounter with my hitchhiking saviors.  The guide, an Icelandic chap who studied in Germany, ran his outfit like a fascist dictator barking orders to everyone in the party.  I attempted to engage him in small talk, but his every response was brash and brief, varying greatly from every other Icelander I had encountered.  He seemed to have found his home, and I felt unwelcome.

With this, I decided to finish drying out and retreat to my tent.  Again, it wasn't a moment too soon, for the highly forecast storm soon arrived and the monsoon was dropped upon us.  As I sat eating dinner and reading my copy of Edward Abby's Desert Solitaire, I felt like a captor in a WWII prison camp, for the only sounds I could hear outside of the shell of my tent were rain and the boisterous chatter of the German dialect since their community tent was less than 1 meter from my vestibule.    I truly felt cursed that this raging storm was set to last for the next 36 hours, and there was no escaping my current predicament.

Since I was quite tired with all of the day's "adventure", I decided to turn in early.  Another adventure concluded.  Besides, it was no use trying to venture out, for I could hear the prison guards keeping a tight watch on the camp.

Uncomfortable: A Story of Air Travel

On July 14, 2012, I arrived eagerly at Tokyo Narita Airport bouncing with excitement and anticipation.  I was finally setting out on my long awaited trip to Iceland.  Three weeks of blind adventure and reuniting with old friends.  I also had the chance to share some long-awaited time with family on both ends of this journey.  As I waited for my flight from Tokyo to Denver, I sat harnessing my energy for the epic adventure ahead of me.  

I was almost saddened to hear my boarding call for I was so engrossed in the Sumo match playing on the television at the gate.  Only in Japan is Sumo broadcasted to the multitudes for sporting pleasure.  Each day offers an opportunity for some minor cultural experience!


Preparing for my flight to LAX, I wedged myself into my window seat .  I plunged into another movie marathon due to a lack of ability for airtime sleep.  Was it exploding excitement or just the unfortunate wirings of my body's resistance to flight time slumber?  I would like to think the former, but the later seems to be the most likely case.

I was fortunate enough to endure the entirety of this trip in a fog of human gas.  I have experienced this in two to three hour bursts of pungentness, but this was a first to be engulfed in this phenomenon over the duration of an eleven hour flight.  

Arriving in Las Angeles, I was sweating and feeling the strong desire to shower (and puke).  This was my first time to visit LAX, and I was greeted with everything I had expected to see: confusion, chaos and an abundance of bleach and silicone.  I was back in the U.S.!  After customs and more confusion, I set off on a hike to the bus that would be carrying me to my gate.  The bus left on schedule, and I was off.  However, we crossed many a runway, and I half expected the bus to take off for my flight to Denver.  But finally, I arrived at my gate: The Gate that Time Forgot. 
I have always heard of the lengthy L.A. commutes, but I never expected it to be included in the air travel package.

Following this, I could not have been more thrilled to have my three hour layover extended with the delay of my departure.  But I did board my jet with the excitement of seeing family after a long absence.  

Now, you have probably been expecting that this story is about my discomfort along my journey from Tokyo to Denver.  However, that is not the focus of the tale.  I have now brought you to the subject of uncomfortable.  

I sat back with full intention of escaping into a book (Edward Abby's Desert Solitaire) when the unexpected in-flight entertainment began.  Across from me sat a pleasant Japanese, sixty something man, who upheld all of the polite dignity of Japanese culture.  Next to him, sat the twenty something, drunk American girl who proceeded to break every cultural taboo in that same culture.  

He politely asked her where she was from, and she replied rather loudly (for that was the only volume she came), "I'm all L.A. baby!".  I honestly think that everyone on board had already guessed that.  I felt so proud to have such colorful ambassadors for my native country.

There was no chance that I would employ the use of my head phones for utter fear of missing what she might say next.  The entire flight (including flight crew and cockpit personnel) enjoyed the in-flight entertainment, minus, perhaps the horrified gentleman cowering in the prison next to her.  

It was like a train wreck, for I could not look away as the ambassador to L.A. socially raped this poor gentleman, while ordering another Jack and Coke, and another, and another.  This was repeated as she hugged, kissed, stroked, poked and prodded a man who only hoped for a quiet flight.  I was quite impressed with how well he held his composure for the duration of this assault.  

Alas, we arrived in Denver, a place in the U.S. that I due truly connect.  I tip my hat to the exhausted man who is trapped in his seat by his now passed out  girlfriend.  I never left the airport in L.A. but felt that I had received a full L.A. experience.  Many other travelers extended their condolences to the unfortunate subject of social calamity as they filed past.  I believe we all shared the guilt of having received such pleasure from our observation of his misfortune.  We must all remember that it can happen to any of us.  

I was greeted by my brother and escorted to the baggage claim in the usual hurry-up fashion of the Curry men.  After retrieving my bags, I extended a genuine 'job well done' to the now arriving star of the plane.  He had managed to survive, and, surprisingly, his girlfriend was no where to be seen.  

In conclusion, I tip my hat the the polite composure of the Japanese culture and the attempted invasion of the Las Angeles youth, for I observed the cross-cultural struggle with utter delight.  I only hope that karma does not bite me in the ass making me the victim of the next unexpected in-flight entertainment rendering me, Uncomfortable!