Chez nous, a Paris

Saturday was a long day, a travel day. Our four-hour flight from Reykjavik to Paris was smooth and uneventful, and we were met at the airport by a driver arranged through our apartment rental company. We rented a one-bedroom flat in the 5th arrondissement on the Left Bank. We were immediately charmed by it: wide-plank hardwood floors, five floor-to-ceiling windows in the corner living room, 5th (4th in France) story views of the neighborhood. The kitchen is complete with a washer/dryer combo and an oven/microwave combo, so French.

Matt had no trouble getting comfortable in our Paris flat.

We settled right into the flat and decided to stay in for the evening, but we needed food. So I ventured out and inadvertantly stumbled on the rue Mouffetard street market...a narrow cobblestone street lined with every sort of vendor: frommagerie, boulangerie, charcuterie, chocolatier. I came home laden with fresh (still warm) baguettes, brie, camembert, chevre, poulet roti, jambon serrano, fresh eggs, raspberries and figs. It may have been one of the best dinners I've had.

So many cafes, how to choose?

The coolest warmest darkest light place on earth

Being a bitter, jaded 34-year-old, it’s not often (if ever) that I find myself sincerely saying the words, “This is one of the coolest places I have ever been in the world.” I was sitting in the Blue Lagoon, in the cerulean glowing white waters. They were a perfect 37 to 39 degrees celcius. The weather was nasty...cold, gray, driving winds, harsh icy rain. But it made the environment of the lagoon so much better by contrast. The wind swirled the mist around the lagoon and the surrounding lava landscape, visibility was no more than 10 feet in front of your. Matt got a Viking beer from the lagoon bar, and I gave myself a facial with the silica mineral mud from the bottom of the lagoon. I stood under the waterfall, offering “hydraulic massage.” You had to be careful to avoid the steam vents, the sudden blast of near-boiling water could be a bit of a shock. The silica and minerals coated the sides of the lava pool creating a smooth, white layer and natural benches to lounge on.

Upon entering the Blue Lagoon Clinic, we were given blue wristbands with a chip in them. You wore this wristband and used it for everything from locking your locker to buying a beer in the lagoon. The entire spa was clean, modern, and austere. No trappings of Great Wolf Lodge or anything else an American-style spa or water park would try to shove down your throat and force you to be cheerful. My only regret is I wasn’t able to take any photos of us in the lagoon, because the wind and driving salty mists would not have been kind to my camera or lens.

We lounged and floated and circled the lagoon for a couple of hours, and finally had to drag ourselves and our pruny fingers out of the waters and head back to our hotel for dinner. We were spending the night at the Northern Lights Inn, the only hotel near the Blue Lagoon. It also had the advantage of being halfway between Reykjavik and the airport, making an easier early-morning transfer to Keflavik for our flight to Paris. The hotel was great, except for when Matt opened the window in the middle of the night and invited the sulphur smell into our room. 

Most unusual view from a hotel room

But they offered free transfers to and from the lagoon, as well as a free breakfast and ride to the airport in the morning. We ate in the hotel restaurant, looking out over the lava fields at the geothermal power plant and the surrounding mists and fog. It was definitely the most other-wordly place I have ever been, made even more surreal when “White Christmas” cycled through the restaurant muzak. Unforgettable. 

Tolting, finally

Riding a horse in Iceland has long been on my List of Important Things to Do, and today I finally got to do it. For those of you who didn’t grow up as horsey-obsessed girls who studied and memorized every detail of everything horse, Icelandic horses are a small, hardy breed of horse. They are notable for having five gaits instead the usual four horse gaits. The fifth gait is called a tolt, and it incredibly smooth yet fast. It must have been perfect for carrying early Viking settlers and later sheep farmers and herders long distances across the rocky, lava-covered terrain of Iceland. Icelanders are incredibly proud of their horses. And according to me, the best way to see any countryside is on horseback. Hiking, schmiking. Horseback is where it’s at.

The horse farm, Laxnes, picked us up from our hotel in the morning. At the farm, we were outfitted in bright orange rain gear (a la Deadliest Catch), helmets, and boots. 


I seemed to be the only one with any significant horsey experience, and I was assigned to a sweet dark brown mare name Liperta (“twinkle toes.”) Matt got a big gentle bay, Trolli (“giant.”) Finally, it was time to go. Liperta and I fell right into line behind the lead guide, and for the next couple of hours I was completely happy, there was nowhere else I wanted to be. I didn’t even mind the freezing driving rain or the sheets of wind that came out of nowhere. We crossed streams and cantered up hills and took a rest break so guides could smoke and the horses could graze. I tried really really hard to ignore the other tourists, like the squealing Canadian girl (“My horse won’t listen to me! He won’t stop!”) We’re all trying not to listen to you, dear. And the stuck-up English woman who kept crowding me, although Liperta solved that by aiming a swift kick towards her horse. I could have ridden all day but too soon it was time to head back. 

We had planned to take a walk in the afternoon to the Perlan, but a nap fit in better to my day. We wandered into the streets of Reykjavik as the night life was just starting up, and it a different city.

Iceland Day 1

Yesterday (and the day before?!) were very a long day(s).  It was made even more surreal by the fact that every time we turned on the TV, from before we left Seattle on Tuesday afternoon until we finally went to bed on Wednesday night, there was a miner in Chile being pulled out of the mine. Lather rinse repeat.

Blurry Iceland morning, on the bus from Keflavik to Reykjavik

The flight here from Seattle was smooth an uneventful, the engines on the 757 even worked (much to Matt's surprise) and we had the exit row, so my legs were happy and stretched out and comfortable. We landed at Keflavik at 0645 then caught the Flybus, Reykjavik Excursion's airport transfer coach bus. The airport is 50 kilometers from Reykjavik so aside from renting a car it's your only option. I had booked our tickets online, and I'm glad I did, because the bus was packed. Just when you think you've escaped Seattle, you land in Reykjavik during Iceland Airwaves music festival and find yourself in a sea of skinny-jeaned flannel-shirted hipsters. Ah well. Let's just say the minibus to the hostel was even more packed and we were not on it.

Our hotel, Hotel Centrum. An example of the corrugated aluminium seen everywhere.

Our room at our hotel, Hotel Reykjavik Centrum, was the first stop on the bus once we hit the city, and we were able to check in early. I love the hotel, it's centrally located right near the square in the "old town" and it's modern and clean and comfortable. I can't say it's quiet since Icelanders enjoy quite a night life, and our room was over the restaurant, but thanks to the wonders of ear plugs I don't even mind. 

After a breakfast buffet we had a brief nap, then walked around the town center to orient ourselves and enjoy our first pyksur, Icelandic hotdog. Icelanders are really fond of their hotdogs, and I know you'll ask why, to which I must respond, "Why not?" 

We did not partake of the ice cream at the same food stand, although I'm sure it was good too, there was something about the name that put me off. I know you nurses get me. 


To our great delight, it turns out that on Wednesdays the museums in Iceland are free! We went to the National Museum on the University of Iceland campus and then to the Culture House. The Culture House had a really great photography exhibit, photos of everyday Icelanders.


Dinner was at the Fish Market, right next door to our hotel. Matt did a shot of the national beverage, Brennevin, which he declared, 'Well, it didn't taste like licorice, which is always bonus." He also tried the minke whale sashimi, which to me was a weird combination of beef and tuna. All in all, it was a whale of a good time. Oh come on, you had to know I'd throw that in there.


We tried really really hard to be champs and stay up till at least 9:00pm to be able to sleep through the night and wake up truly Icelandic-time, but I don't think either of us saw 8:34 pm. And there were still miners coming out of the ground. 

Packing our bags...

I'm dusting off this old travel blog which has sadly been dormant since our last big adventure to the United Kingdom. We've a few local trips and adventures since then, long weekends to Vancouver BC, the Oregon coast, and Victoria BC, which I should have documented and blogged here but you'll have to satisfy your need for vicarious armchair travel here and here and here instead.

Last spring I said, "Let's go to Paris in the fall," and Matt said, "Ok." Then I did a bit of poking about on the interwebs and said, "Hey, if we fly on Icelandair we can add a stopover in Reykjavik for a couple of nights plus break up the long flight that way," and Matt said, "Oh! There were Vikings in Iceland. Ok." I'm paraphrasing of course, that's the gist of it, how idea for this trip was born. We'll fly to Reykjavik, and spend three nights there exploring the city, riding Icelandic horses across lava fields, and relaxing in the Blue Lagoon with a Brennivin. Then we'll go on the Paris, where we have an apartment in le quartier latin waiting for us. It will be our home base for strolling along le Champs Elysee, museum hopping, and sipping le vin rouge in sidewalk cafes for eight nights. Then it's back home to Seattle, to a plethora of home improvement projects and the battle of puppy house-training awaits us.

Scotland's Second-best beverage*

* subject to hotly contested debate of course, but I have to stand by my newest love, Irn Bru.

Before we embarked on our epic whisky adventure around Scotland, or more specifically, Islay, I only knew a couple of things about scotch. One, scotch whisky is spelled WITHOUT an E but Irish whiskey is spelled WITH an E (I am a spelling fanatic and this drove me crazy until I knew the truth). And two, I couldn't really stand the taste of it. Sometimes, even the smell made me gag. Case in point:
Me: *sniffing* Do you think Ted rolled in something outside? Did you take your shoes off?"
Matt: "Uhm, no, why?"
Me: Something's weird...I smell feet...or something...
Matt: Is it this? (proferring his dram of something pale and oily)
Me: Argh! Stinky feet in a glass! How can you drink that?

Don't get me wrong, I tried to like it...I tasted and sampled and tried it with water, with ice, in tiny sips, in big gulps, and usually with the same result: wrinkled nose, squinty eyes, suppressed gag, sputtering cough. Oh, I also knew that the whiskies that Matt liked best were from this place called Islay and it had something to do with the peat. But I was pretty sure that peat was like dirt and it wasn't right to be eating or drinking something laced with dirt. Unless you're a silly weenie dog, in which case it's still not right, but I digress. I did learn to discern different tastes of whisky, and I could name certain points of them, like band-aid, bile, motor oil, firey, tar. Apparently those are my words, not sure they're something the distilleries like to advertise.

But when on Islay...whisky is a way of life there, and the main reason we'd crossed Scotland by car and ferry, so of course I wanted to check out the distillery tours although I'd already promised my complimentary drams to Matt. And do you know, that the process of making whisky was pretty darn interesting? It's also pretty complicated and it took a couple of tours before I put it together in my head but now I feel nearly ready to open my own wee distillery. Does anyone know if there are any peat bogs around here?

Since I might just about be the most knowledgeable whisky un-drinker out there, I'm going to try to tell you how they make this stuff:

First, one must malt the barley in water in order to release the sugars. It's then spread out over the floor to encourage germination, and its gently smoked. Here's the primary difference between Islay whiskies and almost all others: The barley is smoked over a peat fire, which lends it the peaty or smoky flavors. For most other whiskies, the barley is heated by blowing hot air above and below it, minus the peat (this is the kind that I like. No dirt for me.) Only a few distilleries malt and smoke their own barley anymore, and on Islay most of the barley is malted at the huge Port Ellen Maltings plant. Each distillery specifies the type and amount of barley, and somehow they specify how "peaty" their malting will be. Peatiness in whisky is measured by ppm phenol, and can range from 3 ppm (Bruichladdich, you are tasty) to 160 ppm (Ardbeg, your wee doggie mascot is so cute but your whisky makes me gag).

The malted barley is then ground through the mill which separates it into three parts: the flour (the inside of the seed), the husk, and the seed. The outcome of the grinding is called the grist. The amount proportion of grist that is husk, seed, and flour is determined by the mill and is slightly different for each distillery.

The grist is then washed. Most distilleries wash it three times: the first wash is around 69 degrees C, this runoff water has the most flavor and peatiness. The second wash is hotter but contains less water, this is done to make sure all the deliciousness is extracted from the grist. The second wash is added to the first water. Then just to make for absolutely certain no tastiness was left in that grist, a third even hotter wash is done. The water from this wash is re-used to be the first water for the next batch.

The washes then go into huge huge barrels and the yeast is added to them...this is plain boring flavorless yeast, not brewers' yeast for beer. The yeast germinates and carbon dioxide is released creating all kinds of warmth and bubbly foam and if you're a sucker they'll let you taste this concoction on your distillery tour. It's just kinda like warm flat
hop-less beer however.

After the yeasts have been bubbling and partying in their barley baths, the whole mixture gets send into still #1. Stills are also specific to each distillery, their shape determines how much and how fast the alcohol is distilled. This process is still a bit murky to me, but as far as I can tell the still is heated up until the alchohol becomes a vapor which rises to the top then falls down the spout of the still where it is condensed by big cooling condensers.



This happens a couple of times because the first alcohol bit is apparently sort of poisony, like methanol or something, it's called the feint. Finally the alcohol spirit that is condensed is juuuust right, or 43% alcohol as required by law in Scotland. And it shouldn't poison you either.

THEN the spirit is put into the cask.
This is usually a used bourbon cask from the US. Each bourbon cask holds 250 liters and costs around 250 pounds. Sometimes sherry casks from France are used, these cost around 700 pounds. The oak and the flavors that are left in the wood are drawn out and are what gives the whisky its color. And THEN you wait...for at least 3 years, usually more...maybe 12, maybe 18. Sometimes the spirit will be moved to another cask for finishing, this can be anything from a rum cask to a wine cask. On Islay, the casks are aged in open-air stone buildings. Apparently the relatively mild and damp climate is perfect for the whisky, and only .6 % is lost to "angel's share" as opposed to the usual 2%.

And THAT is all I know about whisky now. I still don't really like it, but I am finding more kinds that I can tolerate and even appreciate it a bit. Just no peat, thank you very much. It's still just dirt to me.

Home again, home again jiggity jig...

And then...it was all over and we are home again. Home to piles of bills, unwashed laundry, dust bunnies forming organized rebellions, the looming threat of going back to work and all that entails. But of course, all the good things outweigh ickies: like happy happy wiggly weenie dogs, my warm comfortable bed, Pagliacci pizza, my friends and family, etc yaddy yaddah.

Yesterday was one of the longest days of my life...starting at 4am GMT when the click-wheel of Matt's ipod woke me up, to the four-hour wait in Heathrow, to the two-hour wait on the runway, to the 9.5 hour flight...but I actually made it through immigration and customs this time without extra questioning and I didn't have my little tirade and breakdown until AFTER I'd made it through.

I have more bloggy travel updates, I'm going to tell you all that I know now about making whisky and then about our adventures in Edinburgh. But first, laundry, grocery shopping, dog walking, lather rinse repeat.