Comedian, writer and former mayor of Reykjavík JÓN GNARR, writes a weekly column for the weekend issue of Fréttablaðið, Iceland's most read newspaper and we publish an English version here at Iceland Insider.
I am, like so many others, raised believing that I was incredibly lucky to have been born in Iceland and not somewhere else. I have been taught from early childhood that Iceland is simply the best country in the world to live in, that everything here is variably good while everything his variably bad in other countries. I have sung glorious poems about my country, about how beautiful it is and fantastic in every way.
The Icelandic lamb is the best meat in the whole world, the Icelandic water is considerably better than all other water, and Icelanders are usually better informed about most things than people in other countries. Everything good in other countries is always a little bit better here. Iceland is a beautiful and generous mother. Esja is by far the most beautiful mountain in the world and Gullfoss is the most beautiful waterfall in the world. T
he most beautiful of all, however, are the spring evenings in Reykjavík. And don’t forget the summers. Nowhere in the world are they as magical as here. And the glaciers cast a majestic aura over every Icelander’s existence. We invented the hot dog, the cruller and the cocktail sauce, and without this holy trinity the world would be a rather frugal place. And we mustn’t forget the volcanoes and the geothermal areas and Geysir itself, which people usually confuse with the geyser Strokkur. But that doesn’t matter. And neither does the weather. You don’t complain about it to anyone, and you just smile into the drizzle.
Miserable land
The national poet Matthías Jochumsson, who, like Halldór Laxness, has a name that does not conform to the Icelandic naming law and should have been rejected by the naming committee a long time ago, wrote a poem about Iceland that has been very inconspicuous. It is called “Miserable Land” and is one of his more pithy poems.
The poem is truly a libelous verse about Iceland, and the poem concludes that this place is uninhabitable for all living beings, except ravens, who indeed found this “raven-found country”. This poem has not been popular, you rarely hear it, and I don’t remember it being in the school curriculum. In some malicious way it is amusing that he wrote it shortly after he moved to the town of Akureyri, because according to all the special editions about Akureyri that I have ever seen, you would think that this is the most beautiful town in Iceland. But this was during the time when about 20% of the population fled their motherland because of hardship, poverty and general misery.
Not particularly nice
I have to admit that I don’t find Iceland particularly nice. I loathe the weather here. I think the Icelandic summer is greatly overrated, and usually it is more in theory than in practice.
I don’t find Esja an extraordinary mountain. As a matter of fact, I think most mountains in Iceland look like Esja. I think Gullfoss is OK, but not at all any more interesting than other waterfalls. Perhaps it’s my limitation, but I don’t get any special euphoria when looking at Icelandic landscape. It usually fills me with anxiety, and I feel like an old song by Bubbi Morthens about long, dark winters where the wind penetrates everything, even your soul and fills you with emptiness and despair. I think this country has done its best to try and kill us slowly, or at least drive us away. We live in a windy and cold minefield.
If Iceland is a mother, she is a drunken and vagarious old hag. You never know what she will do. She is usually unfriendly and bad-tempered and she splutters when she talks, and she can suddenly become completely mad. Often, she is hung-over and then she is rather brusque. She is not particularly supportive, and she can kill you, just with her gaze. But when she has passed out on the couch, her little children stand and admire how beautifully the light from the Luxor lamb glistens on her hair. And the hot dogs and the crullers she bought at the supermarket become gourmet food she prepared specifically for us. And her drunken, swollen face becomes that of a pretty princess.
We love her as she is. Unconditionally. Because, she may not be the best mother in the world, but she is our mother.
Comedian, writer and former mayor of Reykjavík JÓN GNARR, writes a weekly column for the weekend issue of Fréttablaðið, Iceland's most read newspaper and we publish an English version here at Iceland Insider.
I am, like so many others, raised believing that I was incredibly lucky to have been born in Iceland and not somewhere else. I have been taught from early childhood that Iceland is simply the best country in the world to live in, that everything here is variably good while everything his variably bad in other countries. I have sung glorious poems about my country, about how beautiful it is and fantastic in every way.
The Icelandic lamb is the best meat in the whole world, the Icelandic water is considerably better than all other water, and Icelanders are usually better informed about most things than people in other countries. Everything good in other countries is always a little bit better here. Iceland is a beautiful and generous mother. Esja is by far the most beautiful mountain in the world and Gullfoss is the most beautiful waterfall in the world. T
he most beautiful of all, however, are the spring evenings in Reykjavík. And don’t forget the summers. Nowhere in the world are they as magical as here. And the glaciers cast a majestic aura over every Icelander’s existence. We invented the hot dog, the cruller and the cocktail sauce, and without this holy trinity the world would be a rather frugal place. And we mustn’t forget the volcanoes and the geothermal areas and Geysir itself, which people usually confuse with the geyser Strokkur. But that doesn’t matter. And neither does the weather. You don’t complain about it to anyone, and you just smile into the drizzle.
Miserable land
The national poet Matthías Jochumsson, who, like Halldór Laxness, has a name that does not conform to the Icelandic naming law and should have been rejected by the naming committee a long time ago, wrote a poem about Iceland that has been very inconspicuous. It is called “Miserable Land” and is one of his more pithy poems.
The poem is truly a libelous verse about Iceland, and the poem concludes that this place is uninhabitable for all living beings, except ravens, who indeed found this “raven-found country”. This poem has not been popular, you rarely hear it, and I don’t remember it being in the school curriculum. In some malicious way it is amusing that he wrote it shortly after he moved to the town of Akureyri, because according to all the special editions about Akureyri that I have ever seen, you would think that this is the most beautiful town in Iceland. But this was during the time when about 20% of the population fled their motherland because of hardship, poverty and general misery.
Not particularly nice
I have to admit that I don’t find Iceland particularly nice. I loathe the weather here. I think the Icelandic summer is greatly overrated, and usually it is more in theory than in practice.
I don’t find Esja an extraordinary mountain. As a matter of fact, I think most mountains in Iceland look like Esja. I think Gullfoss is OK, but not at all any more interesting than other waterfalls. Perhaps it’s my limitation, but I don’t get any special euphoria when looking at Icelandic landscape. It usually fills me with anxiety, and I feel like an old song by Bubbi Morthens about long, dark winters where the wind penetrates everything, even your soul and fills you with emptiness and despair. I think this country has done its best to try and kill us slowly, or at least drive us away. We live in a windy and cold minefield.
If Iceland is a mother, she is a drunken and vagarious old hag. You never know what she will do. She is usually unfriendly and bad-tempered and she splutters when she talks, and she can suddenly become completely mad. Often, she is hung-over and then she is rather brusque. She is not particularly supportive, and she can kill you, just with her gaze. But when she has passed out on the couch, her little children stand and admire how beautifully the light from the Luxor lamb glistens on her hair. And the hot dogs and the crullers she bought at the supermarket become gourmet food she prepared specifically for us. And her drunken, swollen face becomes that of a pretty princess.
We love her as she is. Unconditionally. Because, she may not be the best mother in the world, but she is our mother.
