It’s morning—at least I think it is: I’ve woken up. It’s still dark outside, and I know from my arrival yesterday that darkness runs well past 9AM. I’m already getting the hang of this place.
Wrong. It’s just after midnight local time. Morning isn’t for hours—eight at least. The only thing I have the hang of is continued confusion, a conundrum of confounding chronology. Crap. I’m really awake. Alert, ready for the day awake. It’s my first and only full day in Iceland, and I want to make the most of it!
One of the reasons I was convinced it was morning was waking up with morning style hunger. There’s a small grocery store that’s open all the time not far from where I am, so I get all bundled up in my warm things and head out into… a tropical storm.
The everywhere wind and always mist is back, but the air temperature feels like it’s gone up considerably. I feel overdressed as I fight the temptation to undo my coat. It’s so warm out, comparatively at least, and that’s a plus, because I can feel myself getting soaked at the same time. This climate makes no sense. Why is it warmer at night?
Back at my room with a bag full of snacks and goodies I do some online research for places I might want to go once morning actually arrives. And after a quick blog post—at this point I still think I’ll be making regular posts while travelling—I convince myself I’m probably tired and it would be best to go back to bed.
It’s morning—and this time I know it is: light abounds in my tiny house. A continental breakfast awaits in the dinning area slash business centre, conveniently located mere steps away in the corner of the room. Past me was kind enough to leave all the fixin’s for a good morning meal out on display so I wouldn’t have to head out or even wake up hungry.
So it wasn’t a dream…
Over breakfast I discover my plan of having no plan isn’t entirely compatible with how tourism works in Iceland nor my location in Reykjavík. While there’s a lot in the city accessible throughout the day and on foot, what I really want to see is no where near the city and is seemingly dependent on booking transportation at least a day in advance. Mild anxiety creeps. I’m leaving tomorrow morning. I again feel claustrophobic, like the day before at the photo gallery. The city feels too small, feels like I’ve seen it all, and the tiny house—as much as I love it— isn’t helping with the feeling of my travel opportunities disappearing into the surrounding walls and buildings.
I decide a thoughtful shower will help. A small, thoughtful shower in what is apparently the smallest bathroom in Iceland. How small is small?
Small enough that the roll of toilet paper needs to be removed so it doesn’t get wet while the shower is being used.
Small enough that a sign is involved.
Small enough that I need the fisheye lens to fit the entire room in a picture, and small enough that bathroom feels like too big of a concept and even too big of a word to describe it. There’s too many letters. What’s pictured below is clearly no bigger than a bthrm.
I always feel better after a rinse off, regardless of the venue size, and I decide a full photo tour of the tiny house is in order.
The floor plan is open concept, so the front door opens directly into the concept of a living & dinning space slash business centre and sleeping space. As is becoming common in smaller urban home design, the traditional dividing of spaces into rooms with specific functions has been abandoned. Instead, the needs of the moment dictate how space and furniture are interpreted and used. Am I sitting on a bed or lying on a gigantic ottoman? Is that stool a chair or a nightstand? It all depends on if I’m in my clothes or pyjamas.
The main living and sleeping space looks out to a view of the courtyard, the neighbouring balconies, and the hint of a blue sky.
The great hall follows immediately after the sleeping space and opens directly to the kitchen along with access to the second floor loft space. The window overlooking the courtyard fills the hall with natural light during the day. In the evening an elegant chandelier provides ample opulence in lieu of any meaningful illumination, but such is the price of luxury.
The entire kitchen fits into single unit—a literal kitchen cabinet—and includes a small cooktop and delightfully surprising secret fridge with more than enough room for my half a lemon and someone else’s mini butter brick.
Tucked under the stairs to the loft space is a toaster, an electric kettle, and a microwave which—as is tradition in smaller kitchens—is taking up most of the available counter space, or in this case, fully stocked pantry dresser. There was an assortment of useful dry goods and I didn’t use any of them because I wasn’t clear on usage rights and some of them had been previously opened. The entire unfamiliar food in an unfamiliar place handled by unfamiliar hands thing wasn’t particularly appetizing, though I think that was more a reflection of my Toronto training when it comes to found food stuffs in publicly accessible places than an assessment of the character of the previous guests or the owners of the guest house.
The view from the second floor loft looks over the combined living and sleeping spaces with the great hall in the immediate foreground. The loft space itself was incredibly uninteresting, containing what looked like the wooden frames for two twin beds stacked on top of the other with the mattresses no where to be found despite an exhaustive search. There was also very little usable light from a photographic standpoint. The pictures I tried to take were blurry, dark, and grey—like I was trying to image a storm cellar in an attic.
And finally—much like the bathroom contained within—the entirety of the tiny house was too tiny to fully capture unless I switched to the fisheye lens.
Having firmly established all the walls of my tiny house were exactly where they’ve always been, I return to my feelings of claustrophobia, of being contained. Though I have had a wonderful time exploring the city and my tiny house is incredibly warm and comfortable, I didn’t come to Iceland to visit galleries or remain indoors. I came to see the natural beauty of an island I’ve only ever seen in photographs and in movies. I can’t do that from where I am.
I’ve only been in Reykjavík for little more than 24 hours, and I’m booked in the tiny house for the remainder of my time in Iceland, but I know now it’s time to leave the house and the city behind. My plan of no plan until a plan takes shape is working again.
I pack up my things and rent a car. I’m heading to the mountains.