Large, reasonably cheap, often excellent menu del dia (= not much choice) lunches, at three or four o’clock.

Groups of five or six young women walking down the street, all with long straight dark hair parted exactly in the middle.

Vale (“bah-ley – literally valid) used ten times and many different ways in one short exchange – Yup, I agree, OK sure, if you insist, so um like, anyway, but in my opinion …

Igualmente used in response to “I hope you have a nice meal / good day / thank you.”

Signs you struggle to read because you yet again started to read the Catalan / Valenciano text by mistake. ¡Bienvenguts!

Men at cafe tables, taking their first cortado at 8 in the morning with a copa of beer or a vaso of red wine.

Tomato puree on toast for breakfast in Spain. Cod liver oil on offer for breakfast in Iceland.

Delicious pastries. Pastries that look delicious but are really only sweet.

Vegetable salads that always have a half pound of tuna. Olive oil and vinegar on every table, but never salt and peper.

Cerveza tostada sin alcohol.

Quick mart foods. Unusual overprocessed junk, but mostly good stuff–pickled asparagus, 5 kinds of olive oil packed tuna, fresh boquerones, fresh produce and decent wine.

Smoking – everywhere. (It turns out that rates of smoking in Spain are lower than in France and at least 20 other countries, but we find this hard to believe.)

Bathrooms that lack an extractor fan. Hot shower? Walls dripping.

Scented everything. Laundry detergent you can smell for miles. Air freshener in every corner. Soaps that linger on your skin for hours.

Electric votive machines in churches. Votive candle vending machines.

The idea, universal among Spanish drivers, that a safe following distance is measured in centimeters.

Google maps. Mostly helpful, but occasionally downright scary. Wish there was a filter for roads to select that are actually driveable and not leftover medieval roads suitable for a single loaded donkey.

Roundabouts. Everywhere.

Unexpected animal crossing signs. A variety of walking men/women/people. Snow?

Gender neutral bathrooms. Everywhere. Each stall has a full door, and possibly its own sink inside.

Icelandic sayings. “The raisin at the end of the hot dog.” (A highlight or pleasant surprise.) “On with the butter.” (Carry on.) “I come from the mountains.” (I have no clue.)

Icelandic humor.

So lucky. We woke to a cloudless sky, and – after doubling down on the prepaid all you can eat hotel breakfast – had time to spend the final morning of the trip walking in warm sunshine. Up over the hill, past the Pearl, and back down to the bay on the other side. A quick stop at the Viking Cow – a major landmark, according to the maps, though we’re unclear why –

but after that it was all fresh air and gawping at the scenery.

And so, after 45 days, a bus to Keflavik airport and an obligatory shrimp smorrebrod and beer. Not quite as good as the one I had 10 years ago in this airport, but still a lovely way to say goodbye to a gorgeous place and a fabulous trip.

Weather more manageable today–still on the cold side, but without the wind it feels almost balmy. After another indulgent breakfast buffet at the hotel, we started our day with a walk to the Hallgrimskirkja.

A man in an appropriately Icelandic sweater was playing the stupendous 5000 pipe organ, so we had to linger there for half an hour.

A short walk took us to the National Museum of Iceland where we took in the excellent exhibit on the history of Iceland. It is beautifully designed and traces the history of Iceland from settlement to today.

Because of several written chronicles, it is known that Iceland was settled around 870 AD, that the world’s first parliament, the Althing, was established there in 930 AD, and that Christianity was adopted around 1000 AD. At the time of the Vikings’ arrival, there were apparently extensive birch forests, but settlement building and pasture making wiped them out almost completely – what remains is probably less than 1% of the historical extent.

Below, among other things, a nearly 1000 year old mitten:

Impressive though this museum is, we (me more than R) were suffering a bit from overload and artifact fatigue. So instead of digging deeply into the museum, or following the plan to take in the reportedly excellent World in Words exhibit on medieval manuscripts, we decided to attempt the lighthouse walk we considered yesterday. Given the distance, we hopped on the city bus to take us to the edge of town. Thankfully a fellow passenger overheard us asking the driver if he was going the right way–the driver shrugged, but the passenger directed us to the bus stop on the other side of the road. Without her timely intervention we would have had a much longer scenic tour of the bus route in the wrong direction.

The walk was gorgeous and took us to a small lighthouse with views out to sea and back along the coastline in both directions. Clouds obscured most of the surrounding mountains and islands, but still, without the blowing wind it felt great to cover about 5 miles. Heated walking paths and bike paths are a pretty nifty invention.

We headed back to our hotel for a little downtime and a light late lunch of crackers and cheese leftovers from yesterday, and to await the verdict on the Northern lights tour. Once again it was cancelled (high winds and clouds), so we consoled ourselves with another trip to the pools and a delicious seafood dinner at Mar. R ate the arctic char–hoping to recreate the magical plate he’d had when we were in Iceland 8 years ago–and I tried wolf fish. It was delicious and unusual and definitely checked my box of something that surprised and delighted.

And so to bed on the last night of our trip.

After the Vagina Museum in London, gender equality demanded that in Reykjavik we see the Penis Museum. Sorry, the Icelandic Phallological Museum – we’re all about the science here. Sadly, the museum promises a lot of pleasure but doesn’t stand up. The expensive ticket is a very clever way to seduce money out of gullible tourists like us.

The main jewel(s): around 300 animal appendages in formaldehyde. Whales have a lot to boast about, definitely more than camels, and raccoons more than voles. (Though boasting may be different if you consider size relative to body size, vs absolute size.) Some are straight, some twisty. Some have bones, some don’t. But once you’ve seen three or four you’ve seen them all. Size doesn’t really matter. The museum began with a joke gift of a bull pizzle–used by the museum founder as a pointer in his teaching job–and grew into a collecting interest. Each display card identifies the species and includes a few notes about mating habits, but the museum didn’t measure up to its promise of “enabling individuals to undertake serious study into the field of phallology in an organized scientific fashion.” 10 year old boys and/or Instagram influencers, on the other hand, could probably be convinced they were having an exciting time.

There’s a room devoted to the work of a Californian woman whose artistic mission was to collect plaster casts from famous people, mostly musicians. I think the technical term may be Stiffies. (Jimi Hendrix is here, or anyway the relevant part of him is.)

They also have a plaster cast donated by the man – surprisingly, not called Dick Moby – who supposedly has the most impressive (euphemism alert) “total urethral length” ever recorded in a human. Apparently  he tends to respond to stimulus by fainting. He’s surely not the only one.

That, plus a lot of jokey bad art, a phallic themed cafe, and a gift shop with t-shirts that could be so much better, about sums it up.

This is a museum with a one track mind and not enough lead in its pencil. All in all, a bit of a cock-up. But it was busy and seems to be raising a lot of hard cash.

(Note: we didn’t take any photos in the museum. The one above comes from icelandtravelguide.is)

We have a little less than 72 hours here. Plan was to get off the plane Sunday night and almost immediately embark upon a northern lights tour. Unfortunately, R had a bad reaction to our bottomless bowls of soup–two huge bowls of shrimp in a “broth” made from bernaise sauce left him decidedly queasy. Heimer, owner and guide from Aurora Experts, very kindly said we could try again either Monday or Tuesday, but did not hold out high hopes with the weather. Today definitely didn’t work. We’ll see what tomorrow (our last day) brings.

It’s not particularly cold here–hovering right around freezing–but the wind is whipping along and there’s bits of snow either falling or being redistributed from roof tops. Thus, with dripping noses, weeping eyes, and hunched shoulders we spent the day battling to stay upright as we walked between museums.

We started with the photography museum, located inside a public library. On our way in and up, we admired the seed library and a hand embroidered muslin curtain.

The photography museum featured stunning night time photos of glacier/ice formations. Spent some time wondering if I could magically sneak them into my carryon.

From here we made our way to the Saga Exhibit. Headphones on, we enjoyed the audio tour through the atmospheric life size dioramas of early Icelandic inhabitants.

One interesting factoid: Nearly 70% of the female population of Iceland is of Celtic heritage, while the male population is about 80% Norse. Speculation is that most of the women were originally brought here as slaves or captives.

We left the exhibit with the intention of walking out to a lighthouse viewpoint. About 500 meters later we admitted defeat (see photo above, in which you can’t tell it’s gusting to 35 mph) and trudged our way to the Maritime Museum instead.

On a wall displaying all the (many many many) species of fish in these water, the prize for best name surely goes to this charmer:

A temporary exhibit traced the interesting history of a French expedition to Iceland in the 1830s. The French seem to have thought the Icelanders were noble, but savage, mainly because they lived in squalid conditions and didn’t wash often enough. At the time, leprosy was almost eradicated in Europe but still endemic here. In the best tradition of C. 19th explorers, the visitors created vast leather bound volumes of notes and scientific drawings – by far the best record of what life was like here 200 years ago.

The permanent exhibit showed items related to the fishing industry in Iceland. I appreciated the historical equipment, ranging from very early handcrafted fish hooks to one of the first battery powered fish quality testers pictured below.

From there to a late lunch of very good fish and chips and then to the disappointing Phalological Museum (see the other post).

Since we could not go aurora watching, we headed to a public pool instead. Iceland has a robust swimming pool culture, though I should note that the pools were crowded with tourists (“there’s always a lot of you when the weather’s bad and your tours are canceled” said the surprisingly friendly ticket taker.)

After making our way through the locker rooms (“full shower, no suit on until you’re clean”), we scampered across the cold outdoor pool deck to squeeze into the mid-heat pool. Ahhh. Once sufficiently warmed we made our way further along the deck and up a flight of stairs to the rooftop pool. Hotter, and double ahh. From there a brief dip in the hottest pool, also roof top, but that was much too hot for us. Back downstairs to the “cool” pool and then we took our limp noodle selves home to bed.

No photos as cameras and phones are strictly prohibited.

All you can eat soup in giant bread bowls. A nice antidote to the cold and snow outside.

It’s been a long wet winter by all accounts. Suddenly the tulips are out and everyone in London is having a beer at a pub by the river–we passed them by while on a long walk on the Thames tow path.

And in the evening Clarissa and I went to the tiny Orange Theatre for a revival of the excellent play about Van Gough, Vincent in Brixton. We were in the front row; during some scenes I could have touched the actors.

From the play: “I call myself Mr. Vincent because nobody in this country can pronounce my name. Say fen, then the Scottish word for a lake except with a G. Or don’t, because you won’t get it right. Fengogggh.”

An excellent day of exploration that rather typifies our experience of the city – so much to see, in so many layers, that you keep getting distracted and don’t do what you intended to do.

Clarissa was working so K and I got on the Tube in the direction of four museums, carefully curated from a much longer list. Got off at Blackfriars (Dominicans whose monastery was here; see portly figure below) –

with the intention of getting to Museum #1 via a historic walking tour of the neighborhood around St. Paul’s. But the map route we were following, perhaps 5 miles, had detailed info on 53 historic points of interest along the way. In an area I thought I was pretty familiar with, we kept stumbling on fascinating nooks and crannies I’d never seen before.

Apothecaries Hall. Playhouse Yard and Ireland Yard – haunts of Burbage and Shakespeare. Chunks of monastery wall from 1200-ish. Several small gardens – the sites of churches that were not rebuilt after the Great Fire of 1666. Wardrobe Place,  a small courtyard that was literally the King’s wardrobe under Edward III, c. 1330, and which Shakespeare came to once to collect cloth for a costume. Chunks of Roman Wall (c. 150) with chunks of medieval wall balanced on top.

Suddenly seeing people on the street dressed in academic / church / vaguely Renaissance regalia – plus the sudden sounding of large bells – alerted us to the fact that an annual service for the ancient guilds (Worshipful Company of Wax Chandlers, that kind of thing) was letting out of St. Paul’s a couple of narrow streets away. Quite a show.

And so to a long list of other interesting sights, and a pause in a Victorian pub opposite the site of the dreaded Newgate Prison:

Fortified with a pint and a pie, and still only at about stop #20/53, we visited the church where Capt John Smith of Virginia / Pocahontas fame is buried, then St Bart’s hospital / Smithfield Market (presided over by the city’s only statue of Henry VIII, plus one of London’s only surviving Elizabethan buildings, from which Elizabeth I reputedly watched traitors being burned at the stake), Saint Giles Cripplegate (where Milton, Cromwell, etc. etc. are buried), and Bunhill Fields cemetery – originally and appropriately Bone Hill – which has been a graveyard for a thousand years and contains the graves of William Blake, Daniel Defoe, Thomas Bayes, and (they estimate) at least 120,000 other people.

K here. A bit pressed for time, and possibly a bit history saturated, we stopped following the guided walk and headed to Novelty Automation, a collection of homemade satirical arcade games.

We played the Amazon Fulfilment Center game (drive your mini cart around to retrieve products within the alloted time, winner gets a zero hours contract) and tried a Divorce (crank your handle harder than your opponent until the partners split, tearing the house down the middle) and laughed ourselves silly following the adventures of the bed bugs in the “Airbednbug”  animatron.

R enjoyed the Auto Frisk

Then it was closing time, and dusk, and we sprinted from there across Primrose Hill to enjoy a delicious dinner prepared by John and Isabella. So good to catch up with them!

Traditional pork pies in The Viaduct Tavern opposite Old Newgate Prison. Enjoying a historic walk through old London.

Another beautiful day. Weather in London every bit as nice as in Spain. I wore a suit (read on). Basked in sunshine in Trafalgar Square before going into the National Gallery to see an excellent small exhibition on the New Age of Science painter Joseph Wright of Derby (1734-97).

I didn’t take a single picture in the exhibit both because I was too busy looking and because, appropriately to the canvases, the lighting was very low, almost like candlelight. These are purloined from Wikipedia:

An amazing talent, the images so personal and dynamic. Interesting stuff on “tenebrism” and his debt to Caravaggio. Also on display were an air pump and an orrery of exactly the right date; they looked as if they’d been picked directly from the paintings.

As the blurbs rightly said, Wright is obsessed with hidden sources of illumination and his paintings are all about looking at looking – we’re catching people in the act of noticing, questioning, discovering.

Afterwards Clarissa took us to a lovely and indulgent lunch five minutes away at her club, the Athenaeum, which has a strict dress code, hence the suit.