The Literal Personification of Iceland

Earthshine reader —

It's me, Dazé, and I'm not a nationalist.

Having said that, one must not forget their roots. Mine can be traced to a small island up in the North Atlantic called Iceland. They say the name got mixed up with its neighbouring country Greenland — just look at the two on a world map. Care for another unofficial fact based on my perception? Iceland only has two seasons — spring and winter. Want something more official? On June 21, Iceland has 21 hours of daylight; on December 21, it only has three. One more? Iceland is the safest country in the world according to the Global Peace Index.

Alike the paragraph you just read, this letter packs a lot, so get comfortable or save it for your next downtime.

It was June 17, 2024, Iceland's National Day or, if you're brave enough to say it the local way, Þjóðhátíðardagurinn. This holiday is all about parades, speeches, flag-waving, helium balloons, and oversized candy pacifiers. This year happens to be the 80th anniversary; it also happens to be the first time I attend in what feels like 80 years. To keep me company — and serve as my guide — I invited my mum.

Before I proceed, I'd like to open a parenthesis.

For those unaware, Iceland was the property of various Scandinavian kings for close to 700 years until … the people had enough. For those interested in learning more about this, I've prepared a brief overview inside the following toggle.

I hereby close the parenthesis.

Many activities take place on this day all over the country, so a common practice is to skim through the programme and design your own plan. Ours was a simple one and concerned the two main events in the capital area:

1. In the morning, a ceremony of speeches at Austurvöllur (a public square), where Althing (the supreme national parliament) and the statue of Jón Sigurðsson (leader of the Icelandic independence movement) are located.
2. In the early afternoon, a parade from Hallgrímskirkja (Reykjavík's main landmark) to Hljómskálagarður (a park downtown) helmed by the scouts and powered by a trumpet band.

This is Austurvöllur, and that building is Althing. On any other day, you won't find it barricaded or heavily-guarded. In fact, this appears to be the first time it has been done. It turns out June 17 is a great day to protest, and because of the many heated political issues in today's world, the police took extra precautions; not so much for the risk of violence — again, safest country — but for disturbance. The irony? This restricted atmosphere was a disturbance in and of itself, at least for the attendees. For starters, unless you were a special guest or came early, you couldn't see the ceremony. But the visibility — or lack of it — wasn't the only bother; with all those police eyes glaring at you, you felt somewhat uninvited — not very fitting for a day that celebrates independence in the name of Union.

This is not an exaggeration of the point of view of the casual attendee. What's worse, the area you see in the centre is merely the invitation-only zone, reserved for VIPs and the TV crew. The stage, the band, and the statue of Jón Sigurðsson are in the nucleus — left of frame — obscured by the draped black wall as well as some trees … but let's not blame our precious oxygen providers.

Among the special guests, I spotted our former President and his wife, his predecessor and his wife, and the Prime Minister, also likely accompanied by his wife. The ceremony began with a speech from the latter, which was about the time I decided to get myself out of the sea of heads and wander off in search of visual treasure around the square.

The first scene I noticed was a group of ladies of all ages standing in a line and dressed in þjóðbúningur, a fancy traditional Icelandic dress that women in the old days wore on big celebrations like weddings, graduations, and important farm gatherings. For the record, some still wear it today, but its use isn't nearly as timeless as that of, for example, the Japanese kimono.

As I'm framing the ladies and about to press the shutter, a literal mini version of them walks into the frame. I had to take my eye away from the viewfinder and see it for myself. Seconds later, the girl puts her arm out and starts counting the ladies one by one, something which everyone found amusing, myself included.

Once the PM had concluded, the main event unfolded: Fjallkonan or "the lady of the mountain" entered Austurvöllur and took to the stage; she's the literal personification of Iceland. Each year, she delivers a speech addressing the nation; sometimes she praises our actions … other times she asks us to do better. She's usually represented by a celebrity — someone who can deliver a speech — and her identity is kept secret until her appearance. This year, it was actress Ebba Katrín Finnsdóttir, and the speech was composed by Bergur Ebbi Benediktsson.

It should come as no surprise that this viewpoint was the best I could find in the square. Notice her peculiar attire. Fjallkonan is always dressed in skautbúningur, the nicest of the traditional Icelandic dresses; I believe the ranking goes skautbúningur > þjóðbúningur > peysuföt. My favourite part of this photo is the Girl Scout looking up to Mother Nature — just like we all should.

With the speeches over, my mother and I left Austurvöllur and headed up Laugavegur (one of Reykjavík's oldest streets) towards my brother's apartment for a perfectly timed rest before the next event.

Here you can see me poorly reflected in a dirty shop window. More importantly, you can see how challenging it was to witness the ceremony from practically any angle. If this repeats next year, I'll opt for the sofa + 4K option …

Passing through Laugavegur, my mother pointed out this building (no. 17) and told me she rented the top apartment in 1980. In those times, she says, you had to pay 10 months of rent upfront (!!!), something she couldn't have done without the support of my grandfather — she was 17 at the time.

But that's not the only thing my mum had to say about this place. On the bottom floor was a cosmetic store, while the second was none other than Vigdís Finnbogadóttir's electoral office. Vigdís was Iceland's — and the world's — first democratically-elected female president, and served 16 years in office. (Presidents in Iceland are symbolic figures; political functions fall on the PM.)

A glance into Kaffibrennslan, a coffee shop in Laugavegur. What caught my attention was the line of flags and the matching colours of the vintage-styled sign reflected in the window. I also like how the woman's head anchors the image.

With incomplete certainty, I believe this was the place where I met a writing colleague for a writing session back in 2017 or 2018. I remember it because it was the first time I wrote in public. I didn't enjoy it … Why? *Cracks knuckles*

1. I felt uneasy bringing my pro computer to a tiny, cramped place with trays of hot liquids hovering all around.
2. The table was tiny. I couldn't fully open my laptop because it would clash with my friend's, forcing me to lean back like a grumpy school kid.
3. Surrounding by drifting eyeballs, I felt exposed — for myself and my crappy material — which made me lose focus. This meant I barely worked.
4. The coffee was pricy and its taste … unmemorable. (This opinion is likely biased given the circumstances. I don't mean to discredit this place.)

Meanwhile, on the other end, my veteran author buddy from North America, with hundreds if not thousands of fancy Starbucks writing sessions under his belt, wrote non-stop, fully immersed, and, man, did he glorify his latte …

Nowadays, in case you were wondering, I don't mind writing in public. In fact, I've come to understand the many benefits of working away from home, especially in regards to productivity. That being said, I chose my places.

Laugavegur has many eye-catchers, and this mural is one of them. Apparently, it's well-known for its three-way explanation of how to tie a tie, and yet I had never seen it — no wonder I struggle with ties … Apart from the educational aspect, its main purpose is promotional and serves Verslun Guðsteins Eyjólfssonar, one of Iceland's oldest menswear shop — no affiliation.

As a curious side note, last month, I read that the mural was painted over, which caused a big fright. It turns out, they were just renewing the paint, so the vintage tie tutorial will remain. I have a feeling it isn't the first time they do this, and yet each time people's hearts sink. I take this as a win for art.

As I contemplated the mural, my mum charmed me with yet another interesting fact: In the old days, there weren't any stores that sold clothes for both ladies and gentlemen; instead, they specialised. If you're a boomer like her, you likely didn't flinch. As a millennial, I find this concept more bewildering than tying a tie.

Further along, I spotted this place called Forsetinn, which translates to "the president". I can't speak for myself, but my mum said she had been there several times and rates it with a thumbs up.

What caught my eye was the thematic synchronisation of the name, the cameo of the Icelandic flag, and the reflection of myself, a descendant of the nation.

Before veering off Laugavegur, my mother was kind enough to hop into a local bakery and pick up a freshly-baked loaf of sourdough — a favourite of mine — and a karamellusnúður or caramel doughnut.

Upon arrival at my brother's place, we brewed some black tea and enjoyed the bread with some tuna salad. Oh, and the doughnut … big success.

With our energy levels replenished, we headed back outside for the second and last part of our plan: the parade from Hallgrímskirkja — that's the oddly shaped building in the background.

… Upon close inspection, I've come to realise that this popular urban landmark looks like the point of a pencil. If only its skywriting was more positive, we wouldn't have so many gloomy skies throughout the year.

We arrived to discover that the parade had already begun descending Skólavörðustígur (another tourist hotspot street in Reykjavík), but the pool of people joining in was far from dry. I considered entering then and there, but I figured it would be more interesting to follow it from the front, so I agreed to reunite with my mother in Hljómskálagarður park and took off.

Navigating the crowd took some effort, but eventually, I caught up with the parade. The first in line, excluding two escorting police motorcycles, are the scouts, who bear the flags and even dance, something you'll likely never see me do.

After taking this photo, my eyes drifted to a familiar face standing on the opposite side of the street and holding out her smartphone. Mum?! It turns out that she had decided to do the same … But how she got there before me and my remarkable swiftness will forever remain a mystery.

At the heart of the parade is Lúðrasveit verkalýðsins, literally "the trumpet band of the working class". Why is it called that way? I asked myself the same question. It turns out the band was founded in 1953 in order to "promote musicality among the working class, play at outdoor meetings, in-demand marches and at other gatherings of the people".

Fun fact: My father used to be part of this band in 1973. When I told him I would be attending the parade, he gifted me with two golden anecdotes from his clarinet days. One time, he missed the bus and had to run down Laugavegur only to catch the band when it had … stopped playing. On another occasion, the band was turning a street, and he was so concentrated on his instrument that he … forgot to pivot; he didn't realise it until a veteran bandmate grasped him by the shoulder.

As the parade turned into Lækjargata, these layered beings appeared out of nowhere along with that pile-of-seaweed-on-stools thing. I wish I could tell you what they are, but your guess is as good as mine. I also have no clue what that man with the yellow hat is supposed to be, but he kept swinging his net against the figures as if trying to catch them like some Nordic version of a Ghostbuster.

The tip of the parade marching by the south part of a large pond in downtown Reykjavík known as Tjörnin. In the wintertime, you can find people skating on it.

What I like about this photo is how simply yet fluently it captures all three components of the parade: the scouts, the goer, and the trumpet band.

As planned, the parade converged in Hljómskálagarður. On this day, it was equipped with a stage, inflatable jumping castles, food and beverage stalls, and resourceful family activities such as this wheelbarrow race for youngsters.

To my surprise, it didn't take me long to reunite with my mother. I spotted her in front of the stage, where the trumpet band was performing their closing song.

Rounding the park, it became clear to me that I should have dressed more in tune with the festivity as most had gone the extra mile by showing up in the three national colours or attaching a pin of the flag in their hats. The most extravagant attire, however, was the one of this gentleman, and he knew it — look at that grin!

Members of the Lúðrasveit have a well-deserved break; the brown van on the right had been modified to be a coffee stall. Meanwhile, the layered creatures roamed around, startling people left, right, and centre — and they weren't alone …

I stumbled upon this troll observing the action from the sidelines, except it's not a troll, at least not according to my mum. She insists this is either a jarðálfur ("earth elf") or a blómálfur ("flower elf"). I beg your pardon, but do you mean to tell me that this three-metre-tall entity with the gaze of a great white shark has "flower" in its name?! If I were a kid, I'd want nothing to do with elves moving forward in life.

I was about to put my camera away when I spotted this rogue balloon climbing the heavens, and it reminded me of the earliest memory I have of June 17. The year was 1999 and I was four years old. My parents had allowed us brothers to choose a balloon; mine was a green smiling frog head. When we got home, I took it into the garden and ran around with it. The problem? I didn't yet understand helium and was surprised to see my priced frog head take to the sky once I got tired of holding it. Believe it or not, this event marked my first depression in life. To soothe my feelings, my mum showed me the bright side by presenting me with the epic travels this balloon was about to embark on. For the next year or so, every time I'd be reminded of the balloon, I would ask my mother where it was now, and she would continue the story. At first, it was drifting over the mountains of Mosfellsbær, my hometown; the next time, it was flying past a family of polar bears sleeping on an iceberg; the last thing I remember was that it had landed in my aunt's garden in Canada. The power of stories …

Having walked more than 10,000 steps and starting to see the world in a blue, white, and red filter, we decided it was time to call it a day.

As I exited the park, I found myself deep in thought. On the one end, I felt a great admiration for the resilience of people like Jón Sigurðsson. On the other, I sensed immense gratitude for having been born in a self-governing country which, to this day, remains ruled by its people. Last but not least, I walk away with a lake of precious memories with my mum … and a new-found apprehension for elves.

Until next time,
D