I have looked forward to our trip to the Blue Lagoon: Iceland’s mega-spa, built into the lava fields alongside a geothermal plant. The volcanic minerals give the water there a sky-blue color, and locals attribute all manner of healing properties to these pools of cerulean liquid.
It couldn’t have come at a better time. I was wired — almost to the point of shaking — by our encounter with the German. Having had a sleepless night, I was tired and cranky. And, as an introvert, I was overstimulated — by the crowd noise, the bright sunlight, the whirl of activity. I needed some down time to get past the jittery, disconnected feeling — some time to write, to be quiet, to withdraw, to process it all.
So we walked one block to the BSI bus terminal and booked a round-trip ticket out to the Blue Lagoon and back.
The location is remote, hidden away in the lava fields outside town. The landscape looks Martian, not Terran, and that otherworldly feeling is amplified even more by Iceland’s brooding clouds and the sky blue color of the ponds outside the facility.
Once there, you wander into the steel, glass, and concrete complex, pick up your towels and swimsuits, and make your way to the gender-appropriate changing rooms. By the way: if you are wondering how to identify Americans in a European locker room, my experience is that the Americans are the ones clutching their towels in strategic positions, while the Europeans are the ones wandering about with all their bits dangling and flopping and jiggling around on open display. They just don’t care about nudity here — yours or their own — and I’m convinced that’s a healthier way of life.
With suits on, we walked out into the blinding sunshine and descended the steps into the water. The lagoon itself is massive; even with a good crowd, it’s possible to have huge spaces all to yourself. (Unless you’re at the popular swim-up bar, where the crowd is elbow to elbow, waiting for beer, frozen drinks, and ice cream.) The steaming water was the perfect temperature — at first. This is a lagoon, after all, and the water is swirling in all directions. What feels warm at first may quickly and without warning give way to chilliness … and then change quickly to fiercely, splendidly hot. This encourages you to move around — scuttling away from the cool currents, lingering in the warmer bits.
The water is a bright, rich turquoise — opaque, not clear. It’s like swimming in liquid sky. This encourages some people to do things they might not do in clear water. We spotted a few German youths (Germans! Again!) parting with their swimsuits and amusing themselves by waddling around invisibly naked in the crowd. And at the far end of the lagoon — well away from other bathers — we spotted at least one couple who were, apparently, trying to commemorate the occasion of their visit by conceiving a child there.
But lest my American readers think Clyde and I booked ourselves into some den of debauchery, let me assure you: the vast majority of people here aren’t represented by the goings on in the paragraph above. Instead, they are happy, healthy, bouncing around in the warm water, and generally enjoying the bizarre beauty of it all. “I am in Iceland. I’m standing in a volcanic plain, steeped in geothermal water, beneath a bright and sunny sky in the middle of a fantastic autumn day.” That thought alone will generally cure what ails you.
The warm water (and beer) encourage people to mingle, and we did meet one splendid couple from Minnesota, who had elected to leave the USA and spend a year couch surfing across Europe before settling in for childrearing and mortgage-paying. Oh — and there were the playful (clothed) German gay couples ahead of us in line for drinks, who got a kick out of my jokes and reminded me that not all Germans in Reykjavik are on bikes, attempting to swindle fellow travelers out of a buck or two. Oh — and there was the employee who made J.’s night by asking, unprompted, if she would prefer a hot cheese sandwich, fresh from the grill, instead of a prepackaged ham and cheese sandwich from the cooler. (The new sandwich was the envy of everyone at our table.)
Back in the men’s locker room (where I did — yes, I *did* — allow my bits to swing about in the open air), I noticed a door I’d missed before — a portal to the “Massage Waiting Room.” There, for a few extra bucks, you can file in without an appointment and get the last of your cares rubbed away by golden-haired descendants of the Vikings. Next time, next time.
As we drove away at 9:30 pm, the sky was ablaze with the perfect Icelandic sunset: brilliant purple, deep rose, flaming orange, white wisps of cloud. Despite the German, the bicycle, and the bleeding woman, this was still a perfect day.
Add comment