How to Avoid a Taxi in Reykjavik

by Ruth Sturm (United States of America)

A leap into the unknown Iceland

I didn’t know how to call a taxi. That was the first problem. My husband and I were nearing the end of a week-long trip to Reykjavik, Iceland. Reykjavik in the summer was a study in opposites. The sky was gray and chilly but never truly dark. The terrifyingly pointy Hallgrímskirkja cathedral was shiny and imposing, but the rest of the city was covered in vibrant rainbow murals. I loved it all. But Chris and I were running out of activities. We had eaten from the crispy Fish & Chips wagon and snorkeled through the crystal-clear waters of the Silfra Fissure. We even made friends with a hilarious man who ran a crowded pipe store and categorically refused to stock anything puffin related. (This is an impressive feat in puffin-obsessed Reykjavik.) So after all of that...what else was there to do? I did have one idea. Before we arrived, I had read about a lighthouse on an island nearby. Exploring it seemed like a fantastic way to spend one of our last days. However this brings us back to our first problem. The island was obviously outside of the city proper, and I didn’t know how to call a taxi. Even as an experienced traveler, I have a fairly pervasive anxiety about sticking out among locals. What if I messed up and offended an unforgiving Icelandic cabby? There was only one option: we were going to walk. We had seen signs for the lighthouse the day before, and it seemed close enough for an adventure. Reykjavik is an extremely walkable city. There are a plethora of paved paths and signs directing you in five different languages. The walk that led out to our destination, the Grótta Island lighthouse, ran beside a shore of black, volcanic rocks dotted by seagulls. The first 30 minutes were wonderful. The brisk June air put pink in our cheeks while we kept a steady eye out for puffins. Oddly we didn’t seem to be getting very close to the lighthouse, but was certain the path would curve soon. Next thing I knew, we were one hour into our walk and starting to lose feeling in our fingers. And still the lighthouse was no closer. Finally, we realized the truth. As a U.S native, it was difficult for me to comprehend just how clear the air in Iceland was. But the air quality is truly spectacular. Our sense of distance was ruined, and the lighthouse was much further away than we had anticipated. Tired, cold and cranky, we paused to discuss our likely demise. Chris thought he had spotted an ice cream poster hanging in a store window up the hill, and he voted that we go in search of cocoa. I argued against, because I am stupid. “We’ve already walked for an hour and a half!” I said to Chris. “We can’t give up now!” I meant what I was saying, but that wasn’t the true problem. The problem was I didn’t know how to call a taxi. We were in a small town outside of the city, looking up at an unmarked building that was only possibly a cafe, with no way of knowing what reception was waiting inside. It was, for me, a leap into the unknown. Eventually, swayed by the possibility of hot beverages, we traveled up the hill. We entered the storefront and found a warm, cozy cafe. The barista and I traded a few Icelandic words and within minutes, Chris and I found ourselves ensconced in a velvet couch overlooking the harbor. I peeked around to see how our entrance had gone over. Here’s the truth: we got some weird looks. The visitors and employees were clearly not used to tourists taking up space. But after a few minutes, interest died down. And I suddenly realized, maybe for the first time in all my years of traveling: no one cared about what I was doing at all. I smiled and leaned back against my husband, gazing out over the dark choppy seas of the Reykjavik harbor. We never made it to the lighthouse. But that was a delicious cup of cocoa.