Restless Viking

1 week ago

Today we met the artist, Ernst Backman, who created the Saga Museum. He'd been hunched over a cup of coffee near the gift shop, listening to observers. When I asked a question, he popped out of his seat and joined our conversation with the host, his grandson.

This visual and audio sharing of the stories of Iceland's ancient history, through powerful scenes of realistic, silicon figures. ... See MoreSee Less

Restless Viking

1 week ago

The Burger Truth (Iceland vs. America)
(Apologies, We thought we were done, but there are too many observations to let slide.)

In America, ordering a burger is like playing twenty questions. How would you like it cooked? What kind of bun? Do you want it “stacked, smashed, loaded, double-downed, or plant-based with a beet glaze?” By the time the food shows up, half the plate is props and the burger is buried somewhere under an edible hat.

In Iceland, none of that. They don’t ask how you want it cooked. They don’t try to hide it under slaw, aioli, or “chef’s signature reduction.” They just make a burger. Straightforward. Unpretentious. And here’s the kicker—it’s perfect.

The fries? Iceland nails those too. Crisp edge, soft inside—the kind of fry your American uncle insists no one makes anymore. In the U.S., you’re lucky if they’re not limp and pale, or worse, undercooked in the name of “rustic authenticity.” Occasionally you’ll get the opposite—overcooked, but at least crunchy. Otherwise, restaurants spend more time naming the fry (“shoestring,” “waffle,” “spiral artisan”) than teaching anyone how to cook the damn things.

And then there’s Poppins. She doesn’t just eat a burger—she runs a full-scale excavation. Bun comes off, lettuce gets quarantined, onion is handled like hazardous material, and the patty undergoes a structural integrity test. Watching her is so intricate that OSHA could show up at the table and start handing out violations. We’re talking barricades, hardhats, safety goggles, and a guy with a clipboard signing off on her progress. Fries aren’t a side dish in this operation—they’re scaffolding.

In Iceland, the plate just arrives. Quickly. Hot. Right. And when you’re done? No tipping dance. You pay for the food, not the theater.

Sometimes the simplest things really are the best. ... See MoreSee Less

Restless Viking

1 week ago

We came to Iceland with a checklist—history, sagas, glaciers, hot dogs. We figured we’d miss a thing or two, because that’s what usually happens. But somehow, we didn’t. We did it all. Every oddball, windswept, lava-crusted thing we said we were going to do—we actually did.

Now, Poppins is carrying around this thing called “joy” (a suspiciously warm and fuzzy emotion she claims is perfectly normal). I took a nap, which might be the most Viking act of all. And tonight? We’re closing it out with an Icelandic hot dog in one hand and tickets to How to Be Icelandic in 60 Minutes in the other.

Of course, along the way we collected footage. A lot of footage. The kind of footage that makes an editor stare at the hard drive like it’s an angry glacier waiting to calve. Intimidating? Absolutely. Worth it? No question.

It feels like the right ending. A little laughter, a little mustard, and the reminder that you don’t conquer Iceland—you just let it rough you up a little, then thank it for the privilege.

So here we are, a couple of Midwesterners with soggy boots, full hearts, and enough B-roll to sink a fishing trawler—officially Icelandic enough to survive the winter… at least for 69 minutes. ... See MoreSee Less

Restless Viking

1 week ago

Some folks pay good money for a show. Us? We’ve got front-row seats on Laugavegur Street, Reykjavík’s unofficial catwalk of humanity.

You see it all here. Backpackers who think they’re auditioning for a North Face ad. Locals layered in outfits that look like they were chosen in the dark. Tourists spinning their phones and poking at map apps like they’re trying to unlock a cheat code. One guy even clutches a personalized license plate like it’s the Holy Grail of souvenirs. And every so often, a passerby struts through with so much confidence you start questioning your own life choices.

We’re not chasing waterfalls or dodging volcanic steam today. We’re doing something far more demanding: wasting time. And after 8 or 9 straight days of Iceland on “fast-forward,” let me tell you—it feels like a luxury.

So here we sit: me with a latte, Poppins (of course) with her wine. Two explorers temporarily grounded, leaning back and passing judgment on strangers we’ll never meet again. Our server, speaking with the formality of a professional maître d’, clearly understands what we’re up to—people-watching as blood sport—and carries an air of quiet amusement about it all. A curtain at our side keeps our little tribunal hidden, sparing the passersby from realizing they’ve just been weighed, measured, and found… entertaining.

It’s not heroic. It’s not adventurous. But it’s gloriously idle. And in Reykjavík, even laziness feels like an expedition. ... See MoreSee Less