I once spent the December-January holiday season in Iceland, where my husband was studying Old Norse. We rented a house on the rocky coast (called Seltjarnarnes) and were given the landlord’s phone number in case the roof blew off.
On New Year’s Eve we had a clear view of all the pyres lit around the coast, done so traditionally to let Icelanders in other parts of the island know you were fine, although miles of snow apart.
I was amazed how this lunar landscape gave way to edgy fashion. We’d sit in the modern café Solon Islandus, beside the opera house, and watch as moonlit blondes in peg-leg flares would stalk about in their three-inch high platform heels. Never mind the cold or the snow—there’d be nary a hat nor mitten in sight, except those on visitors.
Outside shops it was common to see one, two, three well-equipped prams parked: big wheels, Gor-Tex hood and boot coverings, babies happily snuggled inside. Passersby knew their manners; they’d stop to visit with the babies while the mothers shopped inside.
On Laugavegur, the main shopping street of Reykjavik, I’d visit the boutiques as if they were galleries. In the traditional handcraft shop Alafoss I bought a classic Icelandic cardigan; in a more uptown shop, a pair of knee-high lace-up boots.
And in one shop I found the jacket that I still cannot stop thinking about.
It had a retro feel, like something that could have been worn on the slopes of Gstaad in the 1960s. A loden-y gray color, it had an asymmetrical zippered placket, a belt with a sturdy buckle, and a very, very light fleece collar. It cost about three billion kronur (OK, I exaggerate, but it was a lot) and was a little too large for me, no matter how many times I tried it on.
But Reader, how I wanted it. You know that moment when logic recomputes in your head and you can rationalize anything, even, especially, an expensive, slightly too large incredibly chic jacket?
I did not buy it. But I can still conjure it up, some fourteen years later. And although that jacket got away from me, at least our Icelandic roof stayed on.
On New Year’s Eve we had a clear view of all the pyres lit around the coast, done so traditionally to let Icelanders in other parts of the island know you were fine, although miles of snow apart.
I was amazed how this lunar landscape gave way to edgy fashion. We’d sit in the modern café Solon Islandus, beside the opera house, and watch as moonlit blondes in peg-leg flares would stalk about in their three-inch high platform heels. Never mind the cold or the snow—there’d be nary a hat nor mitten in sight, except those on visitors.
Outside shops it was common to see one, two, three well-equipped prams parked: big wheels, Gor-Tex hood and boot coverings, babies happily snuggled inside. Passersby knew their manners; they’d stop to visit with the babies while the mothers shopped inside.
On Laugavegur, the main shopping street of Reykjavik, I’d visit the boutiques as if they were galleries. In the traditional handcraft shop Alafoss I bought a classic Icelandic cardigan; in a more uptown shop, a pair of knee-high lace-up boots.
And in one shop I found the jacket that I still cannot stop thinking about.
It had a retro feel, like something that could have been worn on the slopes of Gstaad in the 1960s. A loden-y gray color, it had an asymmetrical zippered placket, a belt with a sturdy buckle, and a very, very light fleece collar. It cost about three billion kronur (OK, I exaggerate, but it was a lot) and was a little too large for me, no matter how many times I tried it on.
But Reader, how I wanted it. You know that moment when logic recomputes in your head and you can rationalize anything, even, especially, an expensive, slightly too large incredibly chic jacket?
I did not buy it. But I can still conjure it up, some fourteen years later. And although that jacket got away from me, at least our Icelandic roof stayed on.
1 comment:
I love your writing...almost as much as I love Iceland...keep me posted: gibrwalter@modernruins.com
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