A Café in Iceland
Winter in Iceland is harsh.
The island holds a strange grip on you, whether you’re in the fields, or the towns, or the city; it’s an entity constantly demanding your attention, filling your senses with it’s presence. The landscape is hauntingly beautiful, conceived of volcanic violence and unrest, foreign and unknown to anyone but it’s descendants. The population itself is similarly unfamiliar and captivating. Sons and daughters of vikings the inhabitants of Iceland are fair and proud, born from the same historic violence they add another dimension to the islands dysphoria. An aberrant culture to an aberrant country.
Wandering through such a place wears on you. It requires your mind, body, and soul to stay intent.
In attempt to bolster our energy and captivation, my friends and I would spend time collecting ourselves in Reykjavík’s various cafés and pubs. None better suited our needs than Kaffibrennslan. In the early mornings whether we needed the vitality of coffee for a day of trekking or the inebriation of a beer to stave the boding presence away, we were provided for. And when we had time to rest we would gather each of our stories and simply enjoy one another’s company.
It was a bastion to help us go farther together.