Ode to Alda

The New Farmhouse (2010)

Far from any city, on the side of a narrow inlet full of pale blue water, sheltered by giant mountains, rests Suðureyri—a cozy fishing village. Right outside of the village, further inland, on a stretch of rocky land coated in bright green summer grass and hay, is the Gleðilegt family farm. This is home, on the small island of Iceland, located in the Atlantic Ocean, an untouched landscape with dramatic features. It is a rare, warm and sunny Icelandic summer with minimal rain; everyone in the small fishing village of Suðureyri is in a great mood.

June 21st, the longest day of the year, Alda and her husband Sigmundur are finishing dinner in the new farmhouse when they receive a phone call. Alda picks up; it’s a neighbor calling to inform them that their lost sheep and her two babies were found in the mountain valley behind their house. Alda is pleased, but Sigmundur is thrilled; the sheep are Sigmundur’s prized possessions. Sigmundur jumps up with enthusiasm and goes to grab a jacket and equipment needed for herding. Alda laughs to herself watching her husband’s excitement and begins to gather the dishes around the table for washing.

Alda enjoys giving her husband a hard time about his love for his sheep in front of friends and family. Lightheartedly, she will joke, “When I ask Sigmundur about our children’s birthdays, he never seems to know them. ‘Dear, when is Ari’s birthday?’ ‘Ohh, I don’t know,’ is his response. But then he sees one of his favorite sheep, and he says, ‘Ahh, that was the one that was born first last summer, May 10th’.” Sigmundur is constantly thinking of ways to expand the sheep herd, currently at 72 sheep, but to Alda’s content there is no additional space in their barn.

The kitchen is the heart of the farmhouse. In the kitchen, sitting under a red dome pendant light, is an old wooden kitchen table that has been passed down for generations and is often full of family members laughing and catching up with each other. Next to the table are modern cabinetry and appliances. The kitchen is full of comforting trinkets: a few small paintings, a family heirloom plate, traditional fishskin slippers, a nautical barometer, and a bright red clock. Above the table is a local calendar with everyone in the villages’ birthdays and phone numbers, which Alda coordinates and prints for village residents. Although it looks dark outside from the kitchen windows, she knows it is an illusion from the mountain—that on the other side of the incline, directly behind their house, it is still warm and sunny and will be for the rest of the night.

Living on a farm with a greenhouse, chickens, bees (when the weather cooperates), horses, sheep, as well as helping to run a family fish farm, Alda is always prepared to work. However, this evening wasn’t going to feel like work—the weather made it too enjoyable. Going to find the sheep was a perfect excuse to climb around the mountain and enjoy some additional summer sun. Alda slides on her boots using the red shoehorn and grabs a light jacket, meeting up with Sigmundur, who is ready in the barn. They set off into the sun, toward their sheep. Although they don’t hold hands while walking, there is solidarity and unity in their movements; they are happy and moving as one.

To get to the sheep, Sigmundur and Alda walk into the village and around the mountain to approach the valley from behind. This way the sheep would not run further away, but instead toward their barn. By the time Sigmundur and Alda reach the sheep, it is late in the night, past 12, yet the sun is still shining brightly. Chasing the sheep back home, the couple is happy and lighthearted. Before they know it, it’s 3:00 in the morning, and they are dizzy with happiness herding their sheep. They laugh about everything as they slowly make their way back home, through the bright valley, in the late midnight sun.

The Fish (2012)

Alda awakes to darkness and peaceful silence on a cold, damp April morning. Suðureyri is still in the clutches of winter. Crawling out of bed, Alda grabs a warm robe and slippers and heads straight to the coffee machine. Although she had promised herself to stop drinking so much coffee, her morning cup is not one she was willing to sacrifice. As the water begins to boil, Alda gets food for the dog, Ylfa, who is waiting patiently in the mudroom area, adjacent to the kitchen. There is no divider between the kitchen and the mudroom, but Ylfa clearly understands where the line is, and what side she belongs on, a well-trained sheepdog.

Before feeding the sheep and the chickens, Alda takes a minute to enjoy her coffee. Outside, the wind is whistling a soothing melody. Looking out the living room window to the right, the headlights on a truck can be seen in the distance as it wraps its way down a non-visible road on the mountain that leads to town. Getting closer, the truck crosses over the water on a long bridge and then follows the road in front of Alda’s farmhouse and continues on its way to town. That’s how traveling in the Westfjords works: up a mountain, down a mountain, over a bridge, repeat. Alda recognizes the truck, it’s her nephew, Eirík, heading to his boat for fishing preparation. “The weather must be predicted to be good today,” Alda thinks to herself.

Alda also thinks about how thankful she is for the small community she lives in and the connectedness of the town. Three of her four children still live in the area, the youngest at home and her two boys on their own in the village. Her mom, dad, as well as two of her siblings and their families, live in the village as well. Although the village is quite isolated from the rest of Iceland and the rest of the world, she has never felt isolated or lonely. Thinking back to her first trip out of the country to New York City, she imagines it would be much easier to feel lonely there. In the Westfjords, no one can disappear; there is a togetherness that keeps the citizens bonded. In New York, she would feel lost among all those nameless people.

Coffee finished, Alda gets dressed for the day. She starts by putting on a warm base layer—merino wool tights and half-zip top, as well as some thick, insulated socks. She puts a sweater on top for good measure, but is hopeful she will only need it for the morning. Before leaving the house, she kisses her daughter goodbye, who is still sound asleep, and places her 66° North coveralls on and a waterproof jacket, as well as a hat, gloves, and boots. Although it isn’t raining out today, she knows the ground will still be muddy. She is thankful for 66° North—a local company who, despite making it big with the tourists as of late, is still dedicated to providing good gear for the local fishers and volunteer rescue squad.

Alda feeds the sheep and the chickens and pets the nose of one of the horses as she walks down the driveway and heads into town. The sky is still dark, but the water on her left escorting her into town glitters from the remaining light of the moon. The air is brisk on her face, and her cheeks quickly feel numb. On her right, she can hear water from the mountain trickling downward. The water gains strength, building to a creek. She passes it where the town’s first hydroelectric pump that her dad, Viktor, installed to give Suðureyri its first electricity. To her left, she hears slight, rolling waves in the fjord water—the sound of her name—as Alda means wave.

Not too far after, Alda walks past two large concrete circular tanks straddling the town road and the inlet water. Each container is approximately 30 meters wide, 10 meters tall, and holds thousands of arctic char and salmon in advanced stages of growth. Viktor also built the fish tanks in the 1950s to provide the town a stable food source throughout the year; for the first time in the town’s history they weren’t reliant on cooperative weather for food. Soon, Alda’s sons will be down at the tanks checking on the fish; weighing them, feeding them morning food pellets, and slaughtering the fully mature fish for consumption.

Walking for a few minutes more, Alda reaches the village, which consists of 142 homes on her right that gently embrace the mountain and ascend to the mountain base. On her left, adjacent to the inlet of fjord ocean water, are a few shops and factories, including the family’s fish processing plant, Vikmiðju, Alda’s final destination. As she walks into the plant, she grins as she is greeted with a warm smile by her sister-in-law, who she will be working with for the day—smoking and packaging salmon. Although the building isn’t warm, it feels incredible being shielded from the wind and being wrapped up in the familiar smells of decades of hard work and childhood.

The Avalanche (2001)

Alda was used to falling asleep in a snowstorm, but she had an uneasy feeling about the intensity of the storm that was currently battering Suðureyri. The village recently acknowledged the passing of the new year, but there wasn’t much celebrating. The winter had already been so severe that roads were impassable, and temperatures were so cold that it was dangerous to be outside for long. Instead, Alda enjoyed being at home with Sigmundur and their four kids—their oldest 15 years and their youngest at 10 months. They played games, read, knitted, and tended to their animals.

Alda was prepared for the winter. Their vehicles were in good shape, and the tires had nails in them in case they needed to brave the roads. She had plenty of frozen milk as well as other emergency supplies for all of the humans and animals under her roofs. But she was still uneasy. This storm felt different. She knew there was nothing to do and that worrying would get her nowhere, but she couldn’t help herself. Sigmundur kissed her before falling asleep and reassured her, “We’ve prepared the best we can, now get some rest.”

Alda couldn’t sleep though; she was tossing and turning in fear as the wind began to howl. The house was colder than usual, but she kept taking the duvet off her as she was sweating. The howling eventually turned into large cracking noises and a crescendo of rumbling. Closing her eyes, it sounded like an airplane moving down a runway before takeoff. A loud, hollow, building rumbling. There were avalanches nearby, and she kept praying that none would hit their home.

Iceland was no stranger to severe, devastating weather. Just 10 months earlier, while Alda was in labor with their fourth kid, the notorious Hekla volcano erupted, again. Coincidently, the same thing happened when she was pregnant with her first daughter. The Hekla volcano has long been called the inngangur helvítis, or entrance to hell, and is known for frequent, often devastating eruptions. Although Alda does not consider herself to be superstitious, she does not deny the tales of souls flying around the volcano during its eruption and the possibility of witches gathering near the entrance to meet the devil. However, she much prefers Hekla’s connection to the story in the Journey to the Center of the Earth, where the volcano is an entrance to an untouched paradise in the center of the planet. A prehistoric Eden full of every type of fauna and flora that is only connected to the other side of the entrance, volcano Etna in the Mediterranean Sea.

Fortunately, the most recent Hekla eruption did not last long, and for the first time in history, scientists gave a 30-minute warning of its eruption, which allowed farmers to evacuate and tourists to get their cameras ready. The last long-lasting Hekla eruption was in 1947, about five years before Alda was born, so she knew how bad Hekla could be. As a young child, she grew up listening to stories about the year-long eruption with a blast cloud reaching high into the stratosphere and subsequent consequences of her destruction. Amazed by the power of land, death, and life, she named her first baby Hekla and the fourth baby Etna—the entrances to the center of the earth—in honor of the nature evolving around them as they were brought to the earth.

Tonight, was the longest night of Alda’s life; she felt utterly helpless with everything she loved so close. She knew too well the power of the land could destroy them all so easily. Eventually, sometime in the early morning, the wind and snow began to slow down. Alda tiptoed out of bed, so as not to wake Sigmundur and looked out the back window. The snow was high, but she could still see out. They were OK. She then crept to the front of the house to check on the barn and stables. There too, the snow was high, but all structures were intact and a small lamppost to help guide the way was lit—they even kept power. An incredible relief washed over Alda. She could feel the muscles in her body unclench and a tremendous amount of exhaustion wash over her.

The next day they had a remarkable four hours of full sun—a feat for Icelandic winter. While the sun was out, the fjord was gorgeous. The mountains and ground were coated in white, the sky was clear, and the water a reflective glittering baby blue. The valley was fully lit from the sun it hadn’t seen in weeks, like the valley was waking up from a deep sleep. Alda decided to walk into town to see how the rest of the villagers were doing, and while doing so, thought to herself how incredible that something so scary and disastrous could lead to such a beautiful and picturesque moment.

The town looked as relieved as Alda felt, but news shortly came that not everyone was as lucky. Twenty consecutive avalanches pummeled the town next to them. The volunteer rescue squad, wearing their sponsored 66° North gear, was working on finding houses and their residents. Alda later learned 20 people died that night. Alda’s heart broke. She’d likely know the people who died, and even if she didn’t, they were still a part of her. When you live on an island as small as Iceland, the entire community are your friends and family.

The Apple and the Orange (2014)

Fredrik, Alda’s youngest son, is the lighthearted jokester in the family with an entrepreneurial spirit. He is smart, hardworking, and always cheerful. Even in the most trying of circumstances on the farm and at the fish factory, his work ethic combines with his smile to bring everyone up around him. Now 21, Fredrik is interested in money. He is already a part-owner in the family fish farm and recently purchased his first apartment and became the first in Suðureyri to rent out a room on Airbnb. Fredrik knows that deep-sea fishing is a very profitable additional hobby, and men who fish the Icelandic coast and tend to the fleet are considered heroes in town, so he convinces his cousin Eirík to get him a spot on his boat.

Eirík has the heart, athleticism, and the stomach of a deep-sea fisherman and has been at it for a long time. But Alda’s oldest son, Ari, is very different. He is deep, sensitive, and always has his head in a book. Ari is also susceptible to motion sickness and has never tried deep-sea fishing, as even a short car ride can make him nauseous. “I wonder if Fredrik is more like Eirík or Ari on the water,” Alda ponders the entire week Fredrik is out at sea. She hopes that Fredrik excels like Eirík, but in case he was more like Ari, Alda prepares miracle soup for his return. With a large family and lots of close friends, it is nearly impossible to cook a meal that everyone likes. However, much to her pleasure, Alda once found the trick in a home magazine! A tomato-based soup she refers to as miracle soup for its miraculous ability to please everyone.

But when the white wooden fishing boat Haffari docks at the pier at the end of the week, Alda’s heart breaks. Fredrik, who is never without a mischievous smile, looks a shell of himself. She is scared he is close to death—he had to have lost half his body weight. Fredrik is too weak to give much of a greeting, but his sullen expression shows his relief to be on land and to see his mom. Alda gives him a massive hug with tears in her eyes and helps him into the car.

“I did the best I could,” says Eirík, “he was sick from the moment we got into the deep waters. He couldn’t keep food down, but I made sure he stayed hydrated.” Alda then hugs Eirík with equal passion, knowing Fredrik may not be alive now if it wasn’t for his cousin’s care. Ari, eagerly awaiting their arrival, masks his reaction to Fredrik’s appearance with humor by welcoming Fredrik to the non-deep-sea fisherman side of the family.

Alda and her eight brothers and sisters grew up on a steady diet of salted fish and potatoes. Thanks to their dad and the fish farming he introduced to Suðureyri, they had fish throughout the winter—a tremendous accomplishment appreciated by all in town. Once a year though, for Christmas, Alda and her siblings looked forward to a special treat—an apple. Oh! How sweet it tasted. Her mouth watered just thinking about her Christmas apple. Years later, Alda found out that her favored, youngest sister, Emilý—had been gifted an orange every year. To this day, she is still envious thinking about the oranges she could have had over the years if she had only known to call her parents out on the inequality!

But food is a fickle thing these days. Alda’s children now have the luxury of being picky eaters. Roads created between the Westfjords and the capital Reykjavik, as well as the overall increase in prosperity, means that fruits and vegetables are easily accessible at local stores year-round. Alda also contributes with her greenhouse, complete with garden beds made from plastic fish tubs from the factory. The restaurant in the village now has a variety of food; it sells local fish, of course, but it also offers lamb, hamburgers, pizza, and salads. While eating there, Alda enjoys trying all of the different food, knowing that if she is missing fish, she can usually grab a little from Sigmundur’s dish, as he typically chooses a more traditional option.

For now, Alda was happy that she had made miracle soup, as all kids are now safely around the dining room table eating. Even Fredrik, who still isn’t feeling entirely well, is eating a fair amount—color slowly coming back to his face. Watching her kids eat, Alda continues to reflect on how life has changed. Although she didn’t love eating salted fish every day growing up, she never thought about complaining, as it was fish or nothing (a fact that Sigmundur is often quick to point out to their kids). Instead, she would daydream about her Christmas apple. Now, her youngest daughter Etna refers to salted fish as “oye fish”—a term she picked up in earnest when Fredrik would shout “oye fish!” out of disappointment every time he came home from school to realize that they would have salted fish for dinner.

Watching Ari eat, she also giggles to herself out of anxious, intense love for him. He recently watched a documentary on climate change and worked himself into a great depression. He couldn’t leave his couch for months; even going outside meant looking at the picturesque shores of the fjord that wouldn’t be there for much longer. Alda, like the rest of Iceland, is also worried about climate change, but Ari’s worrying helped dissipate hers; as if his concern took care of the worry for both of them. But she still feels guilty that he carries that load. “What a heavy feeling and an awfully complicated issue,” Alda thinks to herself.

Once Ari could finally act, he decided to go vegan and move out of his 900 square foot apartment to the 90 square foot storage space in the basement of his building. Ninety square feet was more than enough space for one human life. Ari then spent weeks turning his storage space into the ultimate small pad complete with a lofted folding bed, small window, sink, a single electric burner, a pot for cooking, and some food. Under the bed was a small couch for sitting, and underneath the couch, he stored clothing, outdoor and travel gear, and a compostable toilet.

Ari was sure that his new, small space was all he needed and felt guilty for ever taking up more space than that. The decision to simplify his life allowed him to feel more at peace with the world around him. He knew that it was possible to live off less, and he hoped to make an example of this to his friends, family and any visitors of his town. Fredrik was so impressed that he decided to do the same thing and move into his storage space. Only Fredrik was more motivated by his entrepreneurial spirit, as he could now rent out his entire apartment on Airbnb, which would generate much more money than his single guest room. Unlike Fredrik, Ari quit his job at the family fish farm, which he now jokingly, but with a serious undertone, calls a “fishy concentration camp” and works, for much less pay, as a waiter at the village restaurant, that now, thanks to Ari, includes a vegan pizza option.

The Old Farmhouse (2018)

Next to the new farmhouse, in which Alda and her family live, is the old one. Unlike the new farmhouse, which is built of timber (a luxury resource in Iceland) and full of modern comforts, the old farmhouse has a timber and concrete core, with corrugated steel exterior walls and roof—an inexpensive import in the 1800s that is strong, lightweight, and very insulated. The steel mutely reflects the colors around it, so on a sunny day, the front of the house looks light blue from the fjord water. Inside the old farmhouse are four small rooms, with small doorframes, so that an average person now must duck a little to pass through. There is also a small living room connecting the four rooms, complete with an oven to heat the house.

The old farmhouse isn’t much, but Alda’s kids, and now her grandkids, enjoy playing in it and for finding privacy from one another. The only game the old farmhouse isn’t good for is hide and seek, as the floors creak so loudly inside the house that it is always apparent where everyone is located. During the day, the living room has an incredible ability to grasp and pull in any sun that was out for the day, saturating the room with warmth. At night, it provides the perfect angle to see the aurora borealis, northern lights over the new farmhouse and fjord.

While the new farmhouse is undergoing a bathroom repair, Fredrik, with his entrepreneurial spirit, suggests some renovation on the old farmhouse as well. “Mom, think about how much money could make with four bedrooms in an old farmhouse on Airbnb! Tourists will love the traditional Icelandic experience.” Although Alda isn’t sure that anyone would enjoy staying in the rickety, old house, she enjoys meeting the tourists who stay in Fredrik’s Airbnb. As there isn’t much to do in the area, Fredrik usually brings visitors by their family farm to meet the family, sheep, and horses—which is always a huge hit for the foreigners.

Alda runs the idea past Sigmundur, who is more hesitant. He too likes the tourist his son brings by. He enjoys sharing his heritage with people around the world. He also appreciates when the tourists buy smoked fish from Vikmiðju to bring back home with them, and when they participate in réttir, the annual fall sheep roundup. However, more tourists also means more issues, including traffic, which present a danger to his flock. The news recently reported that two to three sheep are struck by cars and killed every day—mostly by tourists driving too quickly.

Alda calculates the amount of money needed to break even from tourist visits from a renovation and quickly learns that renovating would be to her advantage. Since the collapse of the Icelandic economy in 2008, there had been a national effort to increase country revenue by welcoming and encouraging tourism. Although the effects were not yet felt in many rural areas, including the Westfjords, the news reported that tourists were now outnumbering Icelanders nearly six-to-one in any given year. With the dramatic rise of tourists in Iceland, more and more of them are turning to remote locations to escape other tourists and the Westfjords fits the bill. Looking at the numbers, she instantly understands the economic draw. Sigmundur is still hesitant, but he sees the excitement of his family and agrees to support their efforts.

Therefore, in addition to some well-needed renovations within the bedrooms and living room of the old farmhouse, they also build an extension to the house so that it includes a small modern kitchen and a bathroom with a running toilet, contemporary shower, and washing machine for weary travelers. With help from Fredrik, Alda takes pictures of the renovated farmhouse and receives the needed approvals from Airbnb. By the early summer, Alda is ready to rent the farmhouse to tourists. She decides to test the waters for two months and then focus on catching up on work at the farm and the fish factory that fall and winter. The first guests—two sisters from the United States—arrive in July and Alda feels an intense pleasure, proudly showing off her farm, village, and family. She enjoys the company of her visitors—hearing their stories and thoughts. There is an instant friendship and comfort in one another’s presence.

The sisters are kind and polite. They are visiting for the older sister, Sophia’s work; she is studying tourism in Iceland. Alda is particularly drawn to the younger sister, though, Emma—a graduate student who is a great listener. Through her stories, Alda can tell that Emma is a hard worker who cares deeply about the planet. Alda can’t help but notice that she and Emma have similar worldviews and even dressed similarly. During the day, the sisters visit Fredrik and work at the fish farm. Sophia observes and helped pick up trash that washes up onto the beaches, but Emma is hands-on with the fish, helping Fredrik. Emma does everything that week, from cleaning one of the large fish tanks to slaughtering the fish.

In the afternoons, Alda has coffee, tea, and snacks prepared for her sons and the visitors’ customary afternoon coffee break. Although Alda feels slightly guilty about the sisters doing work on their vacation, she can tell they love being immersed in their life—a trend which continued for guests to come. The sisters love hearing about daily life on the farms and get absorbed in the family stories about miracle soup, the apple and the orange, avalanches, and how Alda’s dad built the town economy and electricity. Much to her son’s chagrin, and to the sisters’ delight, Alda even admits to Sophia and Emma that within pictures in the new and old farmhouse, Alda could see the Huldufólk, or “hidden people.” “Mom! No one believes in those anymore,” said Fredrik, clearly embarrassed. Alda just shrugs with an amused, wise look on her face.

The sisters had spent a lot of previous time in Iceland, so Alda is warmed when they say that their visit with her family in the Westfjords is by far their favorite experience. It is authentic and personable. The Airbnb review reflects that Alda was the best host in all of their world travels—a trend that, just like the waves, continues for the rest of the summer. In the first two months of hosting, Alda hosts guests from 15 different countries, including guests from around Iceland, and they all have raving reviews about staying on an authentic farm. “Great hospitality in a special location,” “The old farm is as picturesque as it gets,” and “Heart bursts from getting to hold the lambs.”

At the end of her first two months, Alda feels invigorated. The sun is setting at her kitchen table where she sat with so many of her guests that summer, and her heart is full. She is reading her guestbook and crunching her numbers from her Airbnb profits as the sun sets. She made more money in two months with just a few travelers than they had all year from their sheep. And the work is so much easier. She wasn’t knee-high in sheep blood and crap, she was folding laundry and making new friends.

Alda and her sons know it is time to reduce their herd of sheep; to keep just enough to call their farm a working farm, but few enough to allow for more time to focus on the tourists. But no one is brave enough to bring this up to Sigmundur. Yet, he knows the change is imminent—as Alda and the sons are increasingly focusing more of their time and decisions on the tourists than on farm matters. Alda attempts to coax Sigmundur with compliments to make him feel better, “Ah did you see this review, dear? They said watching their daughter play with your lambs was the highlight of their holiday.” But Sigmundur quickly corrects her, “Our lambs,” he says, with his shoulders back and a note of determination in his voice.