The Cheap Bastard Does Iceland

"There's no way around it," reads Let's Go about a visit to Iceland, "costs are high."

I took that as a challenge.

When I arrived to find that $1 is equal to ISK70 and my bus trip to Reykjavik (the capital and largest city in Iceland) cost ISK1100, my heart sank. My hostel bed already put me nearly over my daily budget max of €50 a day, so I decided to play hardball. No more Mr. Nice Bastard. And here's what I have found:

- All bowls of soup in Iceland come with free refills and nobody cares how much free bread and humus you take along with it.
- Beer is cheaper than Coke, with is cheaper than water. Drink accordingly.
- The water coming out of the cold tap is pure, fresh mountain spring water.
- Icelandic art is amazing, and there is a different museum offering free admission each day.
- The Botanic Garden in Reykjavik are world-class and absorbing.
- The Reykhavik Library has cheap internet access and a fantastic selection of English media.
- There is no charge to go hiking.
- The thermal pools are less than $4 a pop and they don't kick you out.
- The pylsur (hot dog) is more or less the national food. They're relatively cheap (about $3 each which, by Icelandic standards, isn't bad) and come with fresh and fried onions and three types of sauce.
- Coke comes in half-litre cans, which are cheaper than the half-litre bottles.
- You can make yourself a breakfast of Sykr (drinkable cheese), a multigrain bar and a local pastery for less than $5.

However, while Reykjavik is very nice, exceptionally clean and viciously expensive, the real treasures of Iceland are to be found out in the wilderness. Here's where the Cheap Bastard splurges. I took a delightful 10-hour bus trip around the vacinity of Reykjavik (costing upwards of $80, so I think it averages out OK) with a truly multinational crowd: an American working for the BBC, a young British professional couple, a Cambridge professor, a couple from Luxemborg, a Dutch woman (from Rotterdam!) who works for the European Space Agency and her daughters, two Swedes, a Dane and a woman from Japan. With our zany guide Roger, we checked out the geysir, the incredible waterfall at Gullfoss, þingvellir National Park, a lava mine, a volcanic crater, a Viking grass house and a bunch of smaller sights that Roger promised us were "places only I know of." I took over 100 photos, which will be available for display (abridged, of course) whenever.

The moral of this story: soak in the thermal baths, eat lots of Ramen noodles, sleep simply, but DO NOT miss the scenery.

[Side note: this is, I am afraid, the final post from Europe. Unless something astounding happens on the plane tomorrow, I probably will not post again with stories from the road. I'm hoping for a restrospective or a "best of" list when I get back, but I don´t know when that will come. Thank you for reading along with me on this trip! Keeping this blog has been a great joy for me as I've been traipsing along and there have been many nights spent dreaming up ways to put in entries. I hope it has been as much fun for you as it has been for me.]

Rockin' in Rotterdam

Mr. Tassos drove me to the Pafos Airport early. About three houurs before my flight was to depart. With the terror alerts around airline travel to the United States, Tassos wanted to make sure I got there in time. He made a pretty big fuss over my safety on my impending trip back to the US; I think he was somewhat reassured when I told him that I would be flying back from Iceland to Minneapolis on a non-US carrier. Regardless, we parted ways happily, I checked in (the flight attendants were shocked that I was talking about the Amsterdam flight, as I was the first person of the day), passed through security and made my way to the payphones next to the Cyprus Duty Free shop. Now it was time to book a hostel in Amsterdam. Or Utrecht, when I found out Amsterdam was full. Or Den Haag, when I found out that Utrecht was full. Or Edam, when I found out Den Haag was full. Or Haarlem, when I found out that Edam was full. Or Rotterdam, finally, which had room at the StayOkay hostel. I flew my way out of Cyprus, landed in Amsterdam (no problems with lines here, either) and hopped on a train bound for Rotterdam. Another fluke.

It appears I picked the perfect weekend to hit Rotterdam. Heinekin, perhaps the Netherland´s greatest liquid contribution to the world, was sponsoringg the "Heinekin Dance Parade" a day of revelry as 24 semis-turned-stages parade down the streets of the city spewing techno and sprouting hardcore club dancers. Anybody who knows me knows that this is most definitely not my scene.

Always Say Yes.

Down the street I went, Heinekin in hand (of course), battling the fierce rain and bitter cold with the best of them. Beach balls flew down the crowd, pot smoke filled the air (this is Holland, after all!), confetti stuck to my cloths and I became drenched in all sorts of alcoholic concoctions. After about an hour of drunken bumping-and-grinding, I decided that I needed a break, broke away from the crowd and headed for quieter territory.

What I found in Rotterdam is, perhaps, the new Amsterdam.

Amsterdam is a great town. Don't get me wrong, I love the progressiveness and freedom exhibited in this fair Dam on the river Amstel like nobody else. However, Amsterdam has beenbesiegedd by tourists. Lots of them. All indulging in the pot, parties and prostitution with wild abandon. This is great, but now a little too mainstream for the kind of seek-out-the-hidden-gems traveler I've become. While I know I will be back (there is WAY too much of Amsterdam to explore), I was OK with a change this time around.

Rotterdam is big, glossy, new and undiscovered. There are almost no signs in English, despite the fact that every restaurant has translated menus and a bunch of multinational corporations hold annual meetings there. Rotterdam is the main hub for the new immigrant populations and, as I soon discovered, the best and cheapest eats to be had are along Witte de Withstraat, the home of small ethnic eateries that cater solely to a Dutch crowd (althought the employees all speak perfect English). Sri Lankan curries, Middle Eastern platters, bars, cafes, infamous coffeeshops, all that you would expect from Amsterdam (even a canal or two), but walkable (no need even for a bike!), entirely in Dutch and without the crowds (or with them, but then you are the only tourist). The city also has its fair share of museums, a nice observatory tower, some pretty cool "cube houses" and a vibe that says "hey, we're the place to be -- chill out!" It's a livable city, filled with funky artists of all kinds, and an awesome place to camp out for a few days, weeks, months or years.

My favorite Rotterdam memory: I walked into Bazar, a thriving Turkish restaurant on Witte de Withstraat. I turned to the host and, smiling, confirmed that he spoke English. I asked, "Do you have room for one?", to which he replied, "I don't know. We have a convention in town, so I think we´re 100% booked. You should go over to the reception [he pointed to a glassed-in area down the street] and ask them if we have space." I thanked him, headed out the door, scooted up to the counter at the reception and repeated my request for a table. With this, I was marched back to the restaurant, where a very angry receptionist scoldeded the poor host. I tried to mediate, but to no avail. Finally, the two of them turned to me, stared me down and burst into laughter. "What?" I asked, somewhat terrified. "Don't do that again," said the receptionist as she walked out the door. I was seated immediately. I think this whole thing had to do with my use of the word "room," but I'm still not sure.