Work Work Work (Not the Rihanna song)

        After work today I stopped to chat with Valgeir and Gunna for a few minutes. I had just spent the last fifteen minutes trying to explain the Emigration Center to a handful of elderly tourists from Holland, who had wandered in just after closing time. “I thought they might eat you alive,” Valgeir smiles at me as I walk up into the loft in Frændgarður. He had been upstairs with Gunna, listening to the whole exchange, and had not come down to rescue me, so I figured he either trusted my ability to survive conversational cannibals, or perhaps found my clumsy explanation too entertaining to interrupt. Maybe a bit of both.

Frændgarður is getting a new coat of paint this week

View from the North Dakota exhibit house

        I've worked seven days in a row now, and my enthusiasm has not flagged. Each day I go trip-trapping over the bridge to Frændgarður, which is the headquarters of the Emigration Center. The main floor of this building houses the genealogy database and library, as well as a currently empty exhibition space. The brilliant photo exhibit of Icelandic immigrants, called Silent Flashes, that normally occupies this room is currently holding court in Harpa, the concert hall in Reykjavik. Upstairs in Frændgarður, Valgeir and Gunna have a series of desks and work spaces tucked smartly away in all the corners, and of course, shelf after shelf of books. At the very top of the stairs is a cozy living room space. It is here that we often start the work day. 

        “Goðan daginn,” one of us begins, setting off a round of return “goðan daginn” greetings followed by “hvað segir þu?” Or “hvernig gengur?” (How are you?). We are always “allt gott,” or “bara fínt” as we start the day. I love the camaraderie of this place. The feeling that though you are not always working side by side with someone throughout the day, you are working as part of a team. Erica and I, along with one young girl from town named Emilía, take turns working in the three different buildings at the Center.  If both Erica and Emilía are working, I am happy to go to the genealogy library in Frændgarður while they man the desks in the museum exhibit buildings. There, I can help do research for the genealogy requests Valgeir gets via email or help walk-ins with ancestry questions. If one of the other girls is gone, I've most often been in the main exhibit building, which also houses the gift shop. People stop in to browse and buy souvenirs, and some want to buy tickets to see the exhibits. Here I attempt to use my rudimentary Icelandic skills whenever possible, but many of the people that come in are from places other than Iceland, and English is usually our common tongue. There are hours where it is dead quiet and I pull out my book or computer and read or write. Today I nearly finished a Sudoku puzzle. For the most part, I've found the quieter moments to be relaxing rather than boring. And soon enough, a carload of German or Canadian or American or Japanese tourists come stomping across the wooden deck and up the concrete stairs of the museum building, and once again I have plenty to do.

Gift shop- you can often find me camped out here behind
the desk

Emigration Center and Flag Factory combo

Lopapeysa, anyone?

Flags for sale

       On Monday, my second day of work, I was tasked with helping a woman find some information on her immigrant ancestors. “I didn’t even know this was here until we went into see the exhibits and the girl at the desk said to come and talk to you!” She is so excited she is almost vibrating. She sits across the desk from me as I struggle to type the correct names and dates into the complex database that I had just begun to learn. I am worried I will disappoint her, be unable to find anything, or that I will miss something important. I am on my own when she comes in, and I tell her I will try my best, and that reinforcements (Valgeir) will be arriving soon.

        “My great-grandfather left in 1890,” she tells me, showing me the documents she had brought with. We look over names and she tells me how she is related to each and what she knows of where they ended up when they left Iceland. “I´m the first one of my family to make it back to Iceland since they left.” Her eyes (and mine) fill with tears, as she tells me that a few days ago they traveled through the area where her ancestors had lived before moving to the United States so many years ago. “It’s a powerful thing,” I tell her, “to see where you come from.”

        I’m not generally an overly emotional person. I’ve got pretty solid control over the old tear ducts the majority of the time. But on this particular subject, family history, I feel ALL the feelings. One of the many highlights of my Snorri trip was a visit to what is left of the farm where my great-grandfather, Kjartan Sveinsson and his parents lived and worked before emigrating to Canada in 1878.  I remember standing there, on the ruins of what was once a turf house, and feeling completely overwhelmed. This place was part of who I was. My ancestors had worked that land and taken in that view and lived for generations in the very spot where I was standing. And because it was a hard, hard life, they had to make the difficult decision to leave that place, and hope they could have a better life somewhere else. And because of that decision, (and many more afterward) here I am today, back in Iceland, hopefully helping someone else connect to their own family story. Uffda. I need a tissue.

It didn’t take long and we were able to match the correct names and dates in several books and in the database. We found short biographies about a few of her Icelandic ancestors and she even learned that her great-grandfather had been a great saddle maker in the south of Iceland. Valgeir arrived and pulled another book from the library, and Voilà, even more information. This woman was shocked, and obviously incredibly, overwhelmingly touched. As she was leaving, we started to shake hands, but that didn’t feel like enough after such a momentous occasion.

“Can I give you a hug?” I ask her, half laughing, and half crying.

“Yes, oh good!” She pulls me in for a warm hug and thanks me profusely. “A handshake didn’t seem quite right after that,” she agrees.

She leaves and I sit grinning like a fool for a few moments, my hands folded over my heart as if I have to it from leaping out of my body. What an incredible mission this place has, and how lucky I am to be a part of it.

Names of my immigrant ancestors in one of the Center´s books

For the vast majority of people living in Canada and the United States, their family history in North America is short. Nearly everyone came from somewhere else, and if they didn’t, their parents did, or their grandparents, or their great-grandparents and so on. The few hundred years of history that we have to look at in North America is piddly compared to most other countries. I spoke with a man from England this week who was completely flabbergasted by the Emigration Center (in a good way) and the topic of how people claim their heritage. We had an eye-opening talk about how for many people in the world, whose families have lived in the same country or region, or even town for a zillion years (not a scientifically or historically accurate estimate), an interest in heritage at this level is bizarre. He said that as far as he knew his family had been in Britain since basically the dawn of time. “I visited America a few years back,” the man tells me. “My wife and I ate at little Polish restaurant and I spoke to one of the workers there and he told me he was Polish. I asked if he spoke any Polish and he said he didn’t! Turns out he had never been to Poland, and didn’t know the language! His parents had never even been there! But he still claimed he was Polish!”

I spoke with the British man about the similar experience I have had with my Icelandic heritage and all the other people I know at home in the States and in Canada who sound just like the Polish man from his story. As we continue to discuss the topic I say, “When you have such a relatively short history, you have to pull from a little farther back. At home, when people want to know where your family is from, they don’t necessarily mean Wisconsin or Iowa. Sure, I’m American; I was born in North Dakota. But when I talk about my heritage I can say I’m Icelandic, and Lithuanian, and Norwegian.”

For anyone at all interested in history, I think that it is impossible not to wonder about the people that came before us. We can try to imagine what things were like in those long ago times; what people ate, what they wore, and how they spoke. We can consume romanticized historical fiction novels and watch glamorous movies about Medieval times or the Roaring 20’s and claim, “We were born in the wrong era!” When examining family history, on a much more personal level, we have the opportunity to not only try to discover what our ancestors were like, but how we are like them. Bill Holm has the perfect ending quote for my lengthy entry this evening (morning actually, it’s like 2:30am here- whoops). Take it away, Bill.

“Who were these people? Am I like them? What did I inherit? Not money, in the case of Iceland, but bodies, even disease and infirmities, noses, flat feet, weak eyes, height, musical or literary talent, and of course, habits of mind, those windows forever coloring our perceptions.” -Windows of Brimnes, page 83

An Introduction to Hofsós and My Literary Idol

So far, in my mind, Hofsós is like the Southern California of Iceland: gorgeous, sunny, and (relatively) warm day after day. I have all summer for it to prove me wrong, and I doubt it will take that long, but on day four here, it hasn’t let me down yet. Erica and I arrived here Saturday afternoon via a combination of car and bus. Both of us were running on less than an ideal amount of sleep, after having celebrated the National Day holiday the night before with great exuberance.  I blame the disconcerting and ever present sunlight, and the 2016 Snorris with their contagious excitement…not that I need much of a push to be excited about anything here.

This is what Hallgrímskirkja looks like at 5am (when all the responsible people are sleeping).

The river running through town

Upon our arrival, we were left to settle into our adorable little house and rest for a while. The house we are staying in is called Siða, and is one of the old homes in the harbor area of this tiny village. With some creative use of the space we both have our own bedrooms, which is nice. With living and working together all summer, Erica and I will want to have our own space from time to time. The view from the house is spectacular, though that can be said of almost any place in Hofsós (anywhere in Iceland, truly).  Our walk to work in the morning takes all of three minutes, and I find myself wondering if I’ve somehow managed to write myself into a fairytale. We stroll across a picturesque old bridge which spans a rushing, wildflower-lined river, and past colorful, quaint little homes, while the fishing boats bob cheerfully along the piers. This place is magical.

The harbor

I had been to Hofsos once before this, in 2011 for Snorri, as is tradition at the end of the program. My memories of our time here in 2011 consists of a tour of the Emigration Center, watching my friends playing cards in the guesthouse, and a whole lot of time attempting to skip rocks on the beach, much to the detriment of my elbow. I remember the town being quiet, aside from us Snorris, who were running amuck for two days on the basalt columns that line the beaches here. There is a steady stream of tourists now. There may have been when I was here before too- I was just too lost in my own Snorri dream and generally unaware of anything outside of our group. People arriving in tour busses and rental cars pass regularly by the house and come to check out the Emigration Center and gift shop. It’s tranquil, but not undiscovered.

I’ve been anticipating coming back here for several months now; since my acceptance letter arrived for the internship. In preparation, I reread several of my favorite Bill Holm books, Eccentric Islands, and of course, The Windows of Brimnes. Bill Holm was a Minnesotan of Icelandic ancestry, who died in 2009 at the much too young age of 65. He was born and raised in Southwestern Minnesota, in and around the Minneota area. The son of farmers, and the grandson of Icelandic immigrants, Bill aspired (and succeeded) to be a poet and author from an early age. Bill was enamored with Iceland, (especially Hofsós) and explored his Icelandic roots and his passion for this part of his heritage in many of his written works. Though I did not have the good fortune of meeting Bill, I have heard him described by both those close to him and those somewhat acquainted with him in a wide variety of complementary ways. He was “a character,” “larger than life,” “a great friend with a big heart,” and “a literary giant.” At nearly six and a half feet tall, and not delicate, his physical form was said to match his expansive personality.

I like to think that Bill Holm and I would have gotten along well, though our heights and ages would have been in sharp contrast. His writing speaks to both my inner curmudgeon (some might say my outer curmudgeon) and the pride I have in my Icelandic heritage in a unique combination that gives me great glee. Each time I pick up one of his novels or essays I mourn the fact that I missed my opportunity to meet this fascinating man. Here in Hofsós this sentiment is especially present. Bill’s summerhouse, Brimnes, still owned by his wife, is directly across the road from Siða, viewable from the kitchen, the sunny front porch, my bedroom window. Valgeir, my boss for the summer, was a close friend of Bill’s. Yesterday I shared with him my admiration for Bill’s writing, and Valgeir spoke of him with great warmth and nostalgia, obviously still missing his friend. Valgeir was a present character in several of Bill’s books, and Bill no doubt thought incredibly highly of him. He is introduced in Eccentric Islands this way:

“Valgeir Þorvaldsson, a farmer´s son from north of town, couldn’t bear to see Hofsós die. While working as a carpenter for the Skagafjorður Folk Museum’s project to restore the old Danish pack house, he fell in love with history and the physical refurbishing of old buildings. Endowed only with a dreamy impractical imagination, his great skill as a carpenter and refurbisher, and what money he could raise from anyone crazy enough to invest in his schemes, he spearheaded the restoration of the old cooperative store, to transform it into an elegant museum of the western emigration with a genealogy center and library.” –Eccentric Islands, page 206

Valgeir didn’t stop there. He continued to renovate and inspire renovations of various buildings in the town: a restaurant, guesthouses, and additional museum buildings. He has even bought a flag factory, which is now housed in a wing of one of the museum buildings. This factory makes incredible Icelandic flags of all shapes and sizes, just a few feet from where I am working this summer.

The gift shop/lobby in one of the museum buildings at the
Emigration Center

It is impossible for me not to think of Bill Holm here in this place that he wrote of with something akin to worship. My connection to him may be all in my head, but I long to say to him, “Me too! I understand! Aren’t we lucky to have experienced such a place?” I plan to invoke the name and memory of Bill often in my blog this summer. I cannot begin to imagine someone who could better describe the look and feel of this place, so I'm not going to try to reinvent the wheel.

I will end this entry with one final story, but I will let my pictures, and Bill Holm, tell most of it. Yesterday was the longest day of the year. Erica and I started a walk a little before midnight and made our way north along the shoreline, towards the mouth of the fjord. Destination: The best midnight sun view possible. Outcome: I think we found it. 

1AM on the Solstice

“Your place on this planet, if you are a human of some sort, is where (among other things) the light feels right to you. The light in Skagafjorður feels right to me, and, with remarkable consistency, to other travelers intrepid enough to arrive here.” -The Windows of Brimnes, page 22.

I'm on a Boat? And Other First Week Adventures

It's been a busy first few days here. My attempt to be brief is going to be a complete failure. For those of you who read this entire posting, bless you. I won't blame those of you who either need to stop for a water break halfway through or just ditch out early, claiming you have an early meeting the next morning or something. Either way, let's get started.

My plans to sleep on the plane once again fell completely flat. I made every effort, but it just didn't happen. I didn't watch a single movie or TV show on the flight, partly because I didn't want to embarrass myself trying to flip up the screen/tray table arm on my exit row seat, but also because I am a responsible adult that had every intention of getting some sleep. But mostly the first one. I didn't sleep for a single second anyway. I think for a few moments I may have entered some sort of dehydration induced zen state, but then someone opened the very nearby bathroom door and the light flashed in my eyes like a thousand suns, squashing even that slight moment of peace.

Greenland, you're looking lovely this morning

The flight was actually fairly eventful. As we were flying over Greenland, a woman staggered down the aisle toward the bathrooms and basically landed in my seat mate's lap. She was completely disoriented and came awfully close to passing out. The stewardesses sat her down in the empty seat in my row and gave her oxygen and some juice (not at the same time). She tried to ask her if she was diabetic or if she had been ill recently, while others hovered around with airsickness bags at the ready. At first this woman wasn't even able to respond or make any sort of sense. There was a nurse somewhere among the passengers and she came up to assist. It took over half an hour, but they somehow perked her up and she was able to return to her seat on her own. So that, plus regular bouts of turbulence kept me fairly awake for the entire flight. I did finish an entire Mindy Kaling book called "Why Not Me?" that was very entertaining, so I did accomplish something.

I took the Flybus from the airport into the bus station in Reykjavik. I managed to get my bags to the bus without making a complete fool of myself. Halldor, the current President of the Snorri Foundation picked me up and drove me to my host family's house in 108 Reykjavik. I met one of the daughters and she gave me the tour and a key and said to make myself at home. I laid down for awhile but couldn't really fall asleep. I managed to take about a 45 minute nap. The best surprise upon arriving at my accommodations was Hilmar the dog. He is a total delight. He napped and lounged with me and supervised my unpacking process. His managerial style is not terribly efficient, as he requires that his employees take regular breaks for belly rubs.

Hilmar, the welcoming committee

Cozy Hilmar

After unpacking and unsuccessfully attempting to nap for awhile, I walked to Kringlan (the mall) to meet Erica. Erica is the Canadian Snorri Alumni Intern. We've exchanged a few emails since being chosen for this experience, but had never met before this. She needed to pick up a few things at the mall, and though I didn't need anything in particular, (hello, heavy luggage fee) I wanted to meet her and needed something to do to keep me awake until closer to a normal bedtime. We shopped for several hours and got to know each other a little bit. The walk to and from the mall was about twice as far as I'd thought, but it was a very nice day by Icelandic standards, and moving around felt great. 

I walked home to meet the rest of my host family around 5pm. Soffía and her husband Sigurjón are my hosts for this week, and the week that I come back to Reykjavik at the end of the internship in August as well. Soffía made a delicious Mexican fiesta of a dinner, and then afterwards my friend Erin Jones biked over from her apartment and we took a nice, long walk in the brisk, bright, evening sunshine. I had absolutely no trouble falling asleep; sunshine, barking neighborhood dogs, and all. My eyelids slammed shut around 9:30pm and I didn't register anything after that for a full 10 hours. 

Evening walk route

After having gotten a full night's sleep, I was ready to take on the world, or at least Iceland. I had nothing particular on my agenda for the day (Tuesday). It was sunny and WARM and absolutely lovely outside. I used Harpa as a temporary office for the morning, the view far superior to my usual office view of Interstate 94. Esja looked like a watercolor painting, and the water in the harbor below me was only a few shades darker blue than the clear sky. It was a picture perfect day here in Reykjavik. 

My self-appointed, temporary office in Harpa

I moved from inside Harpa to the harbor wall rocks outside, sitting for awhile to do some more writing and communicating with friends back home (who were just waking up) through various messaging apps on my phone. I watched the tour boats coming and going from the old harbor for a long while, the idea growing in my mind that I should go on a tour on one of those boats myself. I had an entire afternoon free. Why not? I wandered down to the pier, where a plethora of different tour operators have brightly colored booths, all offering "the best" in whale or puffin watching options. I had not dressed well for a lengthy, cold, splashy tour, or any boat tour for that matter. I was in rolled skinny jeans, cute ankle boots and a very light weight jacket. I had a feeling I would look like a fool out on one of these boats with all of the other tourists who walk around Reykjavik dressed up as if they are about to go glacier hiking. 

I chose a more modest "Reykjavik by Boat" tour versus a wild whale watching tour. For a lovely hour and a half I sailed aboard the Lundi (Puffin) around the bay, seeing Reykjavik from a different perspective. The (very cute) guide pointed out interesting buildings and spots in the landscape: Esja, Hallgrimskirkja, Viðey. Each place has a story, a long history; many that I had never heard before and a few that I had. Esja is said to be the home of Grýla, the wicked old troll mother who eats naughty children.  See that wide valley to the left? That is where Halldor Laxness, the Nobel Prize winning author, lived. It's so clear today you can see Snæfellsjökull, the glacier, which is a 2 hour drive away.

My tour boat

Harpa from the water

Viking (tourist) boat out in the old harbor

Boat selfie

Puffin colony from afar

I soaked this all in as the sun and wind poured over my face, the only part of me exposed to the elements. Despite my thick, daily layer of morning sunscreen, I could actually feel my face getting pinker. My viking name back in the day would have been Mallory the Pasty, and much like a vampire I would have thrived (thriven?) in the winter darkness here. The wind was a few levels above brisk and I was incredibly grateful for the obnoxiously orange wind/rain jackets that were offered at the beginning of the ride. Thanks to the jacket I was relatively warm and dry despite having been unprepared, clothing-wise, for this adventure. 

The big soccer match of Iceland vs. Portugal was Tuesday night, so I met up with Erin and we watched the game at Bjarni Fel, a bar downtown. The excitement was a palpable thing. I swear the air itself was quivering. I'm not exactly shy about my lack of sports enthusiasm. If I ever were to get a tattoo it might actually be something about my general dislike of sports. It's just not my thing. But in this situation, it was impossible not to be caught up in the enthusiasm. I found myself riveted to the screen; gasping and cheering and making a fool of myself just like everyone else in the bar, and probably every other bar in the country too.

We get excited about things, right? It is what we humans do. You get enough people together that want the same thing or have the same interest or passion and the excitement builds with each soul that joins the party. Stories are shared, events are planned. People laugh, and engage, and build relationships around these commonalities. Sports, a shared heritage, a love for potato dumplings? These things bring us together. And if the world needs one thing right now it is more being brought together. 

On Wednesday I got dressed up and took the bus into downtown. I met with the American Embassy briefly and discussed my summer project with them. It turns out that this blog will pretty much take care of my required contributions to their social media pages for the summer. Easy enough. After that quick meeting I attended a round table discussion with the 2016 Snorris at the Canadian Embassy, followed by a nice reception. I was especially impressed with the round table discussion. I guess this is a new event that was started just last year. Stewart Wheeler, the Canadian Ambassador had a wonderfully warm and real discussion with the Snorris about the concerns they may have regarding being in Iceland for 6 weeks. Culture shock, fear of living with strangers for 3 weeks, being away from home for the first time (for some of them), and other worries were all discussed and hopefully some of the fears were eased. Stewart was so engaged in asking each Snorri where they were staying in Iceland during the family portion of the program, where they were from, etc. It was really nice to get to be a part of this event. Stewart is finishing up his time here in Iceland and returning to Canada next week, so the reception that followed was a sort of goodbye to him and welcome for the new Snorris. I got to meet both Stewart, and the American Ambassador, Robert Barber. It was a really nice event. 

Asta Sol (Snorri Program coordinator), Stewart Wheeler (Canadian Ambassador), Erica Drake (Canadian Snorri Alum Intern), Mallory Swanson (me), Robert Barber (US Ambassador)

Erin Jones and I met up and took the bus to Kopavogur to my cousin Selma's apartment. She made a delicious meal of fish tacos (and guac!) and then took us on a mini roadtrip around some of the suburbs and surrounding areas. I got to see some new neighborhoods and really lovely places. Selma is wonderful.

Driving around with Selma, Erin, and Askja

Today I'm having lunch with my friend Gummi. He worked at Icelandic Camp in Gimli with me for a few years, and I'm excited to see him in just a few minutes. As long as the weather holds, I'm going to go hike Esja with the Snorris at 5:30. I'll be sure to keep an eye out for Grýla.

I'm not going to promise that my next post won't be as long as this one. I'll keep you guessing.

Snorri Alumni Internship 2016

I'm not claiming to know a ton about life, but I do know this much; a bum wheel on a suitcase and a hefty overweight baggage fee is enough to put a scowl on the face of even the most enthusiastic traveler. Exhibit A: Mallory Swanson, MSP Airport, right this very minute.

Before I even made it to the check-in counter I was sweating and swearing, my two enormous suitcases dragging and scrapping behind me as if they had peg legs instead of wheels. Good thing I've got the distance in Terminal 2 from security to the bar down to a science. A table in the back and a cold beverage, please. I've got blogging to do.

Post baggage fee fiasco. Deep breathing and a cold drink. Re-centered. 

I'm about to leave on one of my more exciting adventures; an entire summer in Iceland, where I will get to work at the Emigration Center in Hofsos, among other things. I was lucky enough to be chosen to participate in the Snorri Alumni Internship program this year. This program began only last summer, and was developed by the Snorri Program and the United States and Canadian Embassies. As the American intern, I will be working with the US Embassy (makes sense) on a project over the course of the summer. Though I'm currently short on the details, I'll be meeting with the Embassy on Wednesday and getting the skinny on how this whole thing will work. I believe it will be related to social media posting (blogging, perhaps??). For a little more information about my internship, here's the website http://www.snorri.is/snorri-alumni-internship.html

Though I'm still sitting in the airport, this trip is already a dream come true. Since returning from my Snorri trip in 2011, I've been wishing and hoping for a chance to return to Iceland for an extended trip. Truth be told, I've been feeling more than a little stuck in a rut lately and have been longing for something outside of my ordinary routine. I've just been so antsy, and need to do something a little outside the box for awhile. I'm hoping this experience gives me that fix. I'm already dreading leaving at the end of the summer, which might not be a good sign. This might be a good test run to see how I like living elsewhere. Don't panic, Mom. I'm just looking at my options.

I've just been told that my plane is now running a full hour late, which is more than fine with me. Ups my odds of being able to sleep on the plane, and gives me time for an extra leisurely dinner.  Soon enough I'll be there; hiking, and horseback riding and soaking in the seemingly infinite daylight. Oh adventure, how I've missed you.


*On an added note, I don't think I've ever used semicolons so many times in one sitting in my entire life. Did I use it correctly, grammar friends? Fingers crossed that I didn't tick anyone off with improper usage.