A Night Through Seyðisfjörður
I cannot see twenty feet ahead. Luckily the road is lined with reflective markers, and at 15 miles per hour I go only from one to the next. The thick fog is conspiring with a snowstorm to make our drive a nightmare, and even in second gear we are barely eking up the mountain switchbacks. We turn off Led Zeppelin, letting the sound of our pounding hearts to take over instead. We have plenty to think about between our dwindling gas supply, the fear of driving off road, or even that our tiny Suzuki Jimny would get blown away with the next gust of wind.
Driving in Iceland is hard enough without the snowstorms. We’d just finished a stretch of pock-marked dirt roads with boulders strewn across them — the signs of recent rock slides; in another place we almost side-swiped an abandoned car: a black car inexplicably parked blocking half the road in the darkness of night.
Finally breaking through the storm, our directions brought us to a supermarket, not quite the hospital-turned-hostel we were expecting. Having successfully stalled in the parking lot twice, I ceded the wheel to Daniel Tsinis and took up the role of navigator in our search for respite.
We were brought to Seyðisfjörður on the recommendations of a travel blogger, positioning the harbour town as the host to the best hostel he’s ever stayed out — lofty praise given his history of publication.
In short order we arrive at the hotel. It was a gorgeous red building warmly lit from the inside and out. Excitedly, we hop out of the car and walk to the door, sounds of laughter inside greeting us. Moments later though, the laughter felt like it was instead targeting us: a sign on the main entrance informs us that the hostel was rented out to an art school for their winter retreat. Fortunately, they had a second location in town — an old dormitory to the bygone herring industry in town. Deterred but not distraught, we jog back to the car, the snow seemingly more biting than it was just minutes prior. “Don’t worry,” Dan says, shrugging as he turned the car on, “we can always come back and do handstands for them and I’m sure they’ll let us in.”
Laughing, we drive to the hostel’s second location.
A few minutes later and only one missed turn later, we arrive at the dormitory-turned-hostel (this organization seems to have a theme). As we park the car in the empty lot, we see dim light emanating from the main entrance — mirroring our moods as the night deepens.
Inside, the hostel is totally silent. Luckily it doesn’t look abandoned! We spot several pairs shoes strewn about near the door, indicating that at minimum there are three guests. As we walk through the corridor towards what we assume is reception, we note that there are keys in all of the doors.A lobby at the end of the hallway indicates that we’ve arrived at reception. Dirty plates in the communal kitchen and a Macbook on one of the sofas reinforces that the hostel is indeed inhabited. Iceland is so safe apparently, that you can leave keys in the doors and laptops in the lobby without any worry of theft. I knock on the door labelled as the host’s quarters, but hear no response. After another few moments of waiting, additional knocks, and additional waiting, we try the door, and finding it unlocked, open it and —
“MEOW!”
A cat appears behind us and charges between our legs, running into the darkness of the host’s quarters. Our initial surprise breaks down to laughter. Shortly after we recognize that if there’s a cat there must be someone feeding him! After a few ‘tsk tsk’s, the cat returns and we close the host’s door.
We peer back down the hallway, and figured it’s winter so it’s empty and hence all the keys. The shoes by the entrance probably belong to the host, we tell ourselves. We check one of the rooms, yet see that there were clothes and toiletries laid out neatly on the bed. We check another, and find the same.
Back in reception we scan the walls and find a phone number to call. Plopping down on the couch, I start dialing as Cat claws his way up first my sweater and then after rebuff, Dan’s. Ignoring Dan’s comedic squirming, I turn my attention to the dial-tone, which turns up a voicemail box. By this time, Cat has started biting at Dan’s chest! Confused but laughing, I try another number — this supposedly a cell phone — and we listen as it rings in the empty host’s quarters.
By this time, Dan discovers that hidden in his chest pocket has been harboring some valerian — a known cat attractant à la catnip — which he had brought to help him sleep on the inbound flight. As the discovery materializes in Dan’s hand, Cat becomes frenetic as Dan and I break into hysterics. Dan rushes off to hide the valerian in his bag with Cat in tow.
Turning my attention to the hallway, I discover room after room of wardrobes and sundries until finally happening upon one empty room of the ten. As a bell chimes 10pm, we decide to cook dinner and settle in, thinking to wait for someone to return from what we presume is a Friday night out.
An hour later we have given up, and are settling into our respective sleeping bags on the bed, and start to doze off. No sooner than my falling asleep am I woken up by the sound of car pulling into the gravel driveway, its headlights slashing across our room as it passes. My heart-rate quickens as I realize that there’s no way the newcomer would not notice our own car interloping in the otherwise empty lot. Even further the newcomer might notice the key to our door mysteriously missing from the neat set of ten. With some quick mental calculus I decide we should stay silent and stay put, hoping that we are not called out for our encroachment. I mime to Dan to stay put, and lay back down.
Some hours later I’m awoken by knocking on our door. I hastily throw on a shirt and open the door, and find myself face to face with an older but certainly still sturdy Icelandic woman. “You can’t be here,” she says, “You need to be out by 8.”
“Okay, thanks!”
