Isa’s Noodle Brothel: Part 1

On losing lunch, love and teeth

I hate the thought of vomiting. Some admire my self-imposed 2–3 drink minimum. But I am not driven by virtue or self-control. I am driven by a paralyzing fear of vomiting. No amount of sorrow or celebration can drive me to the caboose of a tequila train or the rear end of a rioja. And I am not the friend who holds your hair as you levitate over a toilet. I am the friend who jumps out of the way and disappears in order to avoid vomiting on your vomit. Avoiding internal exits is one of my top priorities.

This fear asks that I avoid boats and planes whenever possible. When it isn’t, the arsenal is tapped. Acupressure wristbands — two on each wrist, just to be safe. Sea sickness patches — three behind each ear because you just never know. A motion sickness pill and some ginger chews in both pockets. Today, I am on the ferry from Stykkisholmur in the Snaefellsnes Peninsula to Flatey Island.

The boat is full. The cabin is warm. I quickly de-layer to avoid overheating. I manage to snag an indoor seat — a stool really, that spins. This is a design flaw. I picture vomiting from a spinning stool, offering maximum projectile coverage to all my fellow passengers. As this possibility flashes, I pop a ginger chew, stand up, re-layer and venture into the elements.

Iceland is cold. Iceland is rainy. Icelandic “summer” is a figure of speech. Cheap flights lure you with promises of mind-blowing waterfalls, cinematic landscapes and endless daylight. What they fail to mention is that those promises are often hidden behind the veil of fog and rain and $25 hamburgers.

I sway like a drunkard in a slow dance, up one level to the “sun” deck. I spot a cozy, wet, fiberglass bench. And before I decide to snag it, the boat pitches, which immediately forces me to sit down on it. Perfect timing.

The sky draws gently down the brim of my rain hood. As the drops collect, they free-fall from the tip of my nose to my lower lip, which curls in protest. And then, the impossible. As if sifting through an overstuffed sale rack of coats, the sun finds a gap and appears. It is a glorious 90 seconds. I close my eyes in thanksgiving until the heavenly coat rack overcomes her.

I don’t often regret food-motivated decisions, but this ferry ride full of smelly tourists (myself included) causes regret to well up near the back of my throat. I burp. And it isn’t a stand-alone-just-for-fun burp. It is a tremor-before-the-poorly-timed-volcano kind of burp. I take a deep breath to balance out my overly self-conscious heart and mind. I need to get off this boat.

Flatey appears, my terrestrial savior. As the name implies, Flatey Island is flat. Flat and still. I make my way down the stairs to exit the boat, port-side. I breathe and wait while the ferry docks. Other people gather round. An unusually tall woman steps in front of me. She is nordically larger than I am in every way. I am twice her age and she is twice my size. Standing behind her, I feel fine about staring and assessing. Anything to distract me from my impending combustion.

I can see that she picks from the trunk of thrift and punk couture. Her feet are larger than my grandfather’s feet ever dreamed of being. She wears cobalt blue combat boots with mismatched laces. Grey and white striped wool stockings spring from the boots. Second-hand, mid-thigh, grey wool skirt and a brightly colored Icelandic sweater attempt to cover this admirable giantess. Her eyes are lagoon blue and big. Her hair is a maelstrom of blond curls. It is obvious that every morning she wakes up and looks in the mirror, her hair reminds her that she is not in charge. Her fingerless gloved-hands are busy tapping away at the windows of her phone’s universe.

A hatch opens and we all stand at attention. One by one, we make our way down the plank. She is in front of me, still on her phone as if she has made this trip a thousand times. And just as I step off the plank and take a deep inhale, the volcano erupts. I am so surprised that I belt out an awkward laugh. The giantess turns around in horror. The feeling becomes mutual as we both look down. I have just vomited on the heels of her boots.

I cower. “Shit. Shit. Shit. I am so sorry.”

She quickly assesses the damage and to my utter relief smiles and says, “Aww, these boots have seen worse. Trust me. The sheep shit around here is pretty rank and I work in bars.” She reaches in her pocket, grabs a few tissues and offers them to me.

I am overcome by her kindness, and tears roll down my already soaked face. “I’m so sorry,” I say again wiping my mouth, “I can buy you some new boots.”

She shrugs it off with a smile, “Nah! Don’t worry. Are you headed to the hotel?”

The hotel is the only place a visitor stays. It takes about an hour to stroll the island from end to end so most don’t even stay the night.

I confirm, “Yes, I’m staying here for the night.”

She offers to walk me there. I profusely accept. We walk past storybook houses. Red with white trim, blue with white picket, yellow with brown roof — each house a cut-out of imagined perfection.

Immediately reliving the incident, my face flashes hot and red like a gas burner. Embracing the mortification, I say, “I’m Sunnye, just in case you want to retell this awful story to your friends.”

“I’m Isa, nice to meet you. And I look forward to telling this story.”

I stop walking. “No. Isa as in Isa’s Noodle Brothel?”

She laughs as if she’s had this conversation before, “Yes, I’m afraid that’s me.”

I can’t believe my luck. I tell her of my journey to find all the best noodle houses in the most unlikely places in the world. That this is the reason I am here. I shuffle through details of places I’ve been from Kandy, Sri Lanka to Birmingham, Alabama.

Now she stops walking and looks at me sideways. “You came all this way just to vomit on my shoes and eat my noodles?”

I nod. “Yep.”

“Hmmmm,” she considers, “Well, this is better than you coming all this way to eat my noodles and then vomit on my shoes.”

We laugh awkwardly and amble along the only path into town, which is really just a handful of houses close to the hotel, which is also a house. Arctic terns protest directly overhead as we walk carefully past their new chicks — little balls of gravel-colored fluff that sit confidently in the road. One swoops and combs through my hair with its tiny orange webbed feet. I shriek and duck. I laugh and then feel the warm slop of bird shit on my forearm.

Isa cackles and says, “Welcome to the Digestive Effluent Club!”

We arrive at the Hotel Flatey. If Santa had a B&B, this was it. Isa and I climb the salt-weathered stairs of the old red house with white trim. The creaky wood floors announce my arrival. Isa and the blonde girl at the front desk converse in Icelandic about something. Their tone is non-existent. Their faces — expressionless. From my perspective, it is communication distilled. Exchanging information, nothing more. I am confounded and amazed.

The exchange ceases. Isa turns back to me and says, “You’re room will be ready in a few hours. Just leave your bags here and come downstairs with me. I’ll make you some noodles.”

We step outside and the sun appears. We stop in reverence to receive the blessing. It is a rare gift. No one is inside. Kids chase each other and hop over the boulders at low tide. A woman lounges on her front step, chattering away on her phone. Two men and a boy clean a fish on an old, wooden table in front of their house. Arctic terns plead over their heads for any scraps. It’s a sliver of heaven. The rays ignite the color of the grass from a sad avocado to an electric lime. This summer has had a surplus of clouds, or rather one cloud that covers the entire country like a cheap toupee. Everyone is smiling and laughing. The sun is an overdue tonic.

Isa drinks it all in. She smiles and motions me towards the bowels of the building. We walk around the hotel to a set of stone steps leading down to a set of weathered barn doors. The faded sign above the doorway reads, “PUB.”

She leans hard on the right door and it resentfully gives way. Isa is built to win battles against doors. I am built to lose. The high windows leak sunshine and remind you that this is a cellar. The empty pub has 3 high-top tables with handmade stools and an old bar. There are dusty mirrored shelves of Johnny Walker and his friends. They are sandwiched between two modest refrigerators filled with Einstök white ale, Viking beer and clinically depressed bottles of sauvignon blanc and cabernet.

I follow her as we walk through the bar to the ladies room. She pushes the swinging door in and I hesitate.

I apologize. “Oh, sorry. I was just following you.”

She chuckles and unapologetically declares, “I know. Weird, right? We have to go through the ladies bathroom to get to my noodle shop. This way, I can have a toilet for my customers too. Not ideal, but, yeah.”

Her confidence and resilience is contagious. I follow her in. We close the restroom door in order to have room to open the other door on the adjacent wall. It is covered in a full-length mirror and a custom enamel sign above it that reads: “Isa’s Noodle Brothel: The Best Ramen in Town”.

Her second battle with the door is an easy victory. She walks in and holds the door for me to come enter.

I take a few steps inside. The hinged door slams shut. I look around at the parallel universe I’ve just entered, and my saucer eyes lock on Isa. I swallow hard as I wonder what the hell I’ve just gotten myself into…

Stay tuned for Isa’s Noodle Brothel: Part 2 in the next post