The Golden Circle

Iceland Day 1

However many minutes of crank-back sleep we could get on the Easyjet flight and its immovable seats was enough as soon as we stepped off the plane. Maybe it was my confusion between Celsius and Fahrenheit, but I imagined a warmer wind when stepping out into the airport parking lot. The Icelandic wind was knife sharp and my scarf poorly worn.

Once we got into the warm SUV and started driving on those clean smooth roads, the excitement started bubbling. The sun was just rising a lazy 10 o’clock and the flatness of the asphalt beneath our wheels was matched with the flatness of the plains, the pools, the snow, everything except for a few mild mountains covered in winter-browned grass. The whole landscape looked as if it had been ironed down, which is not far from the truth since ice used to be the blanket on this once underwater island.

We stopped near a timid lake to watch the colors rise. It’s a different sky here. A bigger, bolder, more complicated sky. I couldn’t remember the last time I saw a sunrise, being the opposite of a morning person, and I thanked the tilt of the earth for the streaks of gold and pink and bruised fire smearing the above. So happy so happy so happy rang through my head as we headed to the first stop of the famed Golden Circle of Icelandic bests.

Thingvellir National Park

It wasn’t until we neared Thingvellir that the ground began to unflatten and take hard-edged shapes. Here lies the continental drift between the Eurasian and North American tectonic plates. You wouldn’t think it at first from the peaceful pieces of snow encircled by a river and the dwarf pine trees dotting the Alpingi – an ancient place of assembly to decide and enforce Icelandic law since 930 A.D. Walking through the stacks of basalt columns that enclose the drift, it is easy to imagine how this gap between continents moves farther apart or closer, its little moods setting off earthquakes.

Crunching through the snow, we saw some scuba divers just finishing a dive into the fissure and we wished we had the time to join them. Our only taste of the clear water were a few coins thrown into the gap, adding to the years of wish-carrying coins that gave the brown rocks sparkling scales. We walked past the fissure to reach a small waterfall that still roared quite a bit. The white frothy water and blue snow interrupted by rigid rocks made it unlike any other waterfall I had seen, though little did I know seeing the Gullfoss later would smash this one right out of the water.

The Geysir

When we drove to the geysers which must be of a lower altitude, the snow quickly began to fade, revealing more and more of the brown hair-tufts of grass. You could smell the rotten-egg perfume of sulfur right away. There the grass regained some of its green in the fumes and constant mud. Before heading to the steaming pools, we first stopped in welcome center where an exhibit had some geological and historical tidbits. We learned that we were about to see the very first known “Geysir,” which is so famous it doesn’t need a last name like Prince, Cher and other legends. In fact the word itself comes from the Icelandic verb “to gush.” Its days of frequent outbursts and maximum height (170m) have passed. For awhile it was blocked because of tourists throwing rocks into the throat to try and trigger it. Ah tourists, wanting to order up natural wonders at the click of a button. I found though that the extreme, stark beauties of Iceland was nice reminder to enjoy nature by flowing with it, not package its pieces.

First we looked at the smaller geysers, some with blue water steaming, others where you could see down the throat that goes into the center of the earth. Here too, visitors had strewn their wish-coins. The Strokkur erupts the most frequently so we waited by that one instead of the main Geysir. Soon enough, the gray water started turning blue, swelling as if there were a pair of lungs underneath, and it formed a bubble that grew and grew until the explosion of foamy white water with the ooohs, aaahs and camera clicks.

Gullfoss

I was expecting a waterfall but not a WATERFALL. The Gullfoss is a massive roar of water filling what looks like the aftermath of earth itself cracking open. A powdered sugar sprinkling of snow on top and this is the loudest most delicious waterfall I’ve ever seen. Walking on the many ledges separated by two ropes, gazing at different layers of the falls, it was hard not to fear we were too close, a wrong step while clicking away pictures could mean a literal fall. We met a nice woman though who froze her fingers trying to snap the perfect picture of us while she balanced her own tripod under the armpit. That was our first inkling that Iceland is heaven for photographers.

Kerid

Already the air was gray when we got to the Kerid. In December the sun sets by 5pm and we were just on the cusp of darkness, but we had to go see this volcanic crater. The Kerid looked like a round black mirror at the bottom of a bowl. The snow glowed, threaded by black rocks and spidery branches. Looking more closely as we took the top path around the crater, I could see that the volcanic rocks had flecks of red too. Back near the entrance, we found a path that wound inside the crater and took us down to the lake. The darkness had become almost touchable though, and my steps had little to do with sight. They were mostly based on faith. The water was black cold. There was a lovely dark serenity that wrapped around you – only interrupted when M pretended to throw me in when taking a picture, and the other tourists taking the picture called us “so American.” It was hard to detach ourselves from the beautiful silences of Kerid, but we made our way back to the car to drive along the Southern coast to Vik for a solid night’s sleep.

Travel tips

For my complete 5-day Iceland itinerary, click here. · Where: The Golden Circle consists of Thingvellir, Geysir, Gulfoss and other sights, is very much doable in one day and gives you a nice sampling of Iceland. Clockwise or counter, it’s up to you. · When: If you start with Thingvellir it’s a 45min drive from Reykjavik airport. · How to get around: There are bus tours but driving is surprisingly easy. Roads are in great condition, rental cars come equipped with snow tires in winter so no need to rent a four-wheel drive unless you’re planning on going off-road. · Bring: Warm, windproof, waterproof clothes and boots (especially in winter!) and be sure to have a GPS when driving.

Links: https://www.google.com/maps/d/viewer?mid=zjZiRt3a4qk8.kLoX9bm801eQ&ie=UTF8&oe=UTF8&msa=0 http://www.roughguides.com/destinations/europe/iceland/ http://jdombstravels.com/the-golden-circle-iceland/ http://www.dive.is/diving-snorkeling-tours/snorkeling-day-tours/silfra-snorkeling-day-tour/

New Poems in Maudlin House

BIG thanks to Maudlin House for including four of my poems in their monthly writing plus art peanut-butter-jelly goodness:

• "Unpublished Diaries of the Philae" on the comet lander
• "Airplane Song"
• "Top-Roping"
• "Blind Underline"

http://maudlinhouse.net/four-poems-by-yun-wei/

Castle Climb in the Fog

Fort l’Ecluse, France

The weatherman had promised unusual sun but all we got was a fog that deepened and thickened throughout the day. We still drove to Fort l’Ecluse as planned though, a trunk full of ski helmets, harnesses and the springy lanyards which are supposed to keep us firmly attached to the mountain. Close to the quaint French village of Collonges, Fort L'Ecluse was built in the 19th century by the Duke of Savoy to command the Rhone. The lower fort consists of a narrow tower staircase embedded into the mountain and leads to the larger, upper fort which overlooks the river. The parking lot was empty except for one man with two dogs and a pet sheep. From the car, it was only a few minutes hike to the start of the Via Ferrata. 

Via Ferrata is italian for “iron road” and it means what it says. Mainly found in Europe, they are constructed paths of steel steps, rings, ladders and ropes for an easy ascent to heights that normally would only be attempted by superhuman climbers. Made easy for the body but not the mind. Most people have the stamina and strength to do it: psychological limits are tougher to overcome. All your senses will bombard you with panic and flare guns. “Don’t do this!” your eyes will scream as you stare at the thousand-meter drop, the slanted rocks, unable to calculate how much farther you have to go, and how far you would fall. You have to have faith in the metal clips connected to steel rope connected to anchors drilled into rock, which together keep you from dropping from the mountain.

At first the climb was straightforward: the steel rungs made a neat vertical line up the cliff. The steel was cold and wet, which made my step a little more hesitant and my hands aching for waterproof gloves. A little further and the fog had swallowed us whole. Other than the immediate rocks and tufts of trees, we couldn’t see anything beyond the mist. We knew there were the castle walls and secret staircase, we knew there was a river somewhere and hundreds of meters of elevation, but we saw nothing but gray. It was a dewy and comforting blanket, which dampened my fears since I couldn’t perceive the depth of falling should a hand or rope fail.

Somewhere in the middle, the climb became more difficult with wider steps, scrambling up rock edges, calling on upper body strength I didn’t have. One section has you stepping on nails over sheer nothing to get from one chunk of mountain to the other and a sharp overhang that needs a broad swing of the arm to get back to vertical. In the fractured seconds I allowed myself to look down, I was amazed at how one toe on a tiny steel nail was the only thing between me and the ravine. Friends laughed at me when I raced up the tough spots, not giving myself any time to think, to build fear, and then crumbled to a whiny girl at some muddy slopes on the easy walk to the bridge.

Before arriving at the bridge, we first had to cross a wooden beam without handrails, which had me muttering, I don’t like this at all, why the hell did I want to do this, never again, I like the idea of adventure, less the actual doing... Then the monkey bridge came into view. The word “bridge” is used liberally here as it is nothing more than two steel wires, one for hands and one for feet, stretched across to the fort. The incessant wobbling and acute feeling of being naked in the air was unsettling at first, but soon I found it an easy slide over.

While the fog was close and personal during the climb, opened up at the fort, it was a billowing mass, rolling over the crumbling turrets, pouring through the narrow windows, lining the wet grassy paths. The stone walls, already softened by history, were now blotted and dimmed to a fantasy. Did we accidentally climb into another world? Chocolate and dried mangos revived my cold fingertips, made a damp fire in my chest, while we walked between the gray walls with flecks of white, stepping on weeds and grass hardened by autumn, passing under the tragedy of vines and blackened moss.

 

Of course M and T had to find a way inside the iron-locked fort and with some scrambling up a hill and squeezing through a window, they managed. Inside, they said, the fog was filling and filling the vast loneliness of the castle. There was an entrance to the long staircase down the mountain but they knew the exit would be locked. Instead, we took the hiking path down, a conventional loveliness of fall leaves and dewy spider webs, leaving the ghosts behind us with every muddy step.

Travel Tips

·       Where: Fort L’Ecluse is a 30min drive from Geneva, makes for an easy day trip. See map. ·       Duration: Ascent is about 1hr 30min, hike down another 30min ·       Bring: Helmet (climbing or ski), harness, lanyard, climbing gloves (especially if it’s cold), sneakers or hiking boots not climbing shoes ·       Links: http://www.cc-pays-de-gex.fr/fortlecluse/Via-ferrata.html http://www.viaferrata-fr.net/via-ferrata-129-La-via-ferrata-du-Fort-l'Ecluse-L%E9az-Ain.html

The Midnight Garden

Bronze shoulders flecked with light. The hotel ablaze with golden, square-paned windows. At midnight, the Musee Rodin was a land of waterless fountains, shadows feigning humans and darkness as crisp as clipped hedges. The sculptures looked as if they would be tempted to move if only the clock struck right.

Our feet ached from the seemingly endless night of museums, but when we walked into Rodin’s midnight garden, I felt suddenly awakened as if under a spell. This hotel, where Rodin worked in towards the end of his life, now had creaking bones and peeling paint but the sculptures inside writhed with life. There was the bronze of a man holding his hair back, so lifelike that envious artists took Rodin to court, accusing him of using a cast. There were the multiple renditions of Balzac and his great belly, its importance only rivaled by his ego. The many contorted female bodies, one flashing her innermost part. The beautiful cascade of marble hair from the sleeping woman was one I could relate to.

The true masterpieces were outside, framed by the impeccable garden and covered in artificial light. The Gates of Hell seemed far more sinister at this hour. From afar the twisting, tortured bodies looked almost like dead leaves, ruled over by the Three Shades and their joined fists. Their sinewy muscles looked tenser, more desperately strained as if they would burst into agonized movement any moment. On the other side of the garden, the Thinker was pondering more wisely as ever. The green metallic skin seemed to course with all his thoughts. We walked down the path behind the hotel where the dark trees were barely distinguishable from the dirt path. I imagined how brightly green the grass would be and how the fountains would laugh under the sun. Through a lit patch of leaves, we could see a golden dome of a monumental building, rebelling against all the surrounding black.

It had rained that day and unseen mud clung to my boots. We didn’t know it then but it would rain everyday in Paris. We laid down a museum map on a wet bench and I found his shoulder to rest on, warmer than weathered bronze.

Night of the Museums Geneva

It was a cool and fresh sort of night, and an inaugural one for Geneva's Night of the Museums. My friend and I went to buy our tickets at the Musee de la Reformation Internationale, devoted to Calvin and other Protestant reformers. It has a gilded courtyard complete with a pretty fountain. The Night of the Museum's ticket consisted of a white rubbery ring with “Nuit de Musees Geneve” engraved on it. What a lovely idea but the rubber turned out to be quite uncomfortable. Inside the museum an adorable, white-haired man was giving a printing press demonstration. His friend, a professional ink roller, assisted him by showing us a metal block of an assembled page. I had always thought that printing blocks were built letter by letter but I realize now that using assembled words would be much more efficient, assuming that the words one needs are all there! The presenter was so sweetly eager with his talk, spouting off the number of printing presses there were in Geneva throughout history. I admit that we were a little impatient and were just waiting for him to launch the presses. Finally, his assistant rolled the ink and folded the wooden slabs, cranked the handle and voila an engraved scene from olden Geneva was imprinted on the white paper.

We went on to the Cathedral Saint-Pierre’s archaeological site, a church basement like none other: a massive sprawling thing representing centuries of stone foundations. At least three cathedrals were built on top of each other before the currently standing one, evident in the markedly different layers of stone. Some layers were made of large blocks, others of little river rocks. When it was unearthed in the 1970’s, they had found tombstones as well but the bones were removed much to my disappointment. (My fascination with catacombs surely comes from Edgar Allen Poe's The Cask of Amontillado)

In the Parc des Bastions, the poppies and tulips were in full bloom, flaunting their bright orange, pink and yellow petals. Just as we arrived at the steps of the main library, a majestic building in the middle of the park, two women who worked there locked up the doors and told us it was closed. Even on a night of museums, the library was closing at 7pm. Looking at the hours posted on the door, we laughed. The library closes at 6pm every day, during lunch hours and on Sundays! Clearly no employed resident can be making use of the library. How I miss the New York and Palatine ones. Brimming full of books, CD’s, movies, and open at all hours of the day! The Parc des Bastions was truly beautiful though, and so was La Treille. The view looked like another city with the trees in thick foliage and dotted with spring blooms.

The Musee D’Histoire des Sciences turned out to be my favorite museum yet. But to get there we had to walk through a pitch-black path along the lake and park, where sketchy-looking men were hanging out with boomboxes and something to smoke. It was an alarming walk but we were relieved to hear the salsa music once we got closer to the museum. A full salsa party was in swing at the steps of the museum, with drinks, shaking hips and seducing shoulders. The museum itself seemed another world compared to the hot-blooded dancing just outside. There were fascinating trinkets from the early stages of Western science: old telescopes, a humidity measuring device that used hair as its main component, trompe l’oeil toys that demonstrated perspective, the frilly clothes and basic nail shoes that a famous Swiss scientist wore while scaling to the top of Mont-Blanc.

The Jardin Botanique was further up the park. The lights promised were faint dots along the path. A Rimbaud exhibit in the greenhouse was closed and from we could tell, mostly consisted of words like “soif” painted in red paint on the glass. The labyrinth was not made of actual plants as I had imagined. Instead, there were white linen walls hung up on wooden sticks. The “walls” were quite easy to see though and even more easily walked through with a parting of the hand. We soon ran into two drunk guys holding beers in the maze so we walked through many more walls for a quick exit. Sitting on the midnight bus home, I thought of the night fondly and of a small city that makes big cultural efforts.