The time has come: exams are over, papers are turned in, Christmas shopping is complete, the sun is rising at 11:06 and setting at 3:34, and I’m flying out tomorrow! It’s a ridiculous commonplace, but I can’t believe a whole semester has already gone by. I still can’t even order a hotdog in Icelandic if I want them to leave off the onions!
Reykjavík is lovely at Christmastime—though not as impressively decorated as I’d expected given that everybody kept telling me how “they do Christmas right in this town.” But then, they did have a complete economic meltdown last year, so perhaps we shouldn’t be surprised to see one or two fewer strings of lights on the shops these days. I did think, though, that the city Christmas tree, an annual gift from Norway since the 50s, was amusingly little. I’d been expecting something like the titan they put up in Times Square, but it turns out it’s only about two stories high and rather on the scraggly side. Of course, last year the poor tree got burned during the protests over the economic crisis (the kreppa, as they call it), so perhaps the Norwegians were asked to supply a little less fuel this year in case the same thing happened again. This morning, though, I did see a group of school children standing around the tree, holding hands and singing, and they looked so very much like the Hoos down in Hooville I really wish I’d had my camera!
Iceland has some intriguing Christmas traditions that they seem to be rather proud of. First off one should mention the unique (some would say ghastly) concoctions they came up with a thousand years ago in their turf kitchens—or imported from Norway. One of those is kæst skata—fermented stingray. Traditionally it’s eaten two days before Christmas, during Þorláksmessa—the Feast of St. Thorlak, patron saint of Iceland. But my Icelandic instructor confided that she doesn’t particularly like it herself. They also sell great big jars of pickled herring with cranberries (jólasíld—actually quite good!), a special brew of Christmas beer, and brennivín—liquor flavored with caraway, which apparently you either really like or really don’t. There are other, more palatable traditions like lamb stew and laufabrauð (“leaf bread”—a thin, intricately decorated pastry), but somehow I don’t actually see those around that often….
Though they don’t get the whole time off (I think Icelanders have been found to work the longest hours of any European nation), the Christmas holiday is not just the 25th of December. Oh no, you start the festivities with Þorláksmessa on the 23rd, continue partying on Christmas Eve (Aðfangadagur), then you have Christmas Day itself (Jóladagur), followed by “The Second Day of Christmas”—Annar í Jólum! And if you keep to the tradition of the Yule Lads, you can manage to stretch Christmas out for 26 days!
The Yule Lads (Jólasveinar) are something in between Halloween goblins and Santa Claus. Lately they’ve been much incorporated into the Santa-and-elves tradition (for over a hundred years, for example, they’ve been leaving oranges in children’s shoes the way nineteenth-century Santa did), but they are still said to be the sons of the mountain ogress Grýla. (Some report she lives on Esja, in fact!) Grýla herself eats badly-behaved children—coal in the stockings is for sissies—and her cat, the Jólaköturinn, likewise eats the poor kids who don’t have new clothes for Christmas! In fact, I’ve heard from multiple printed sources (that makes it true, right?) that in the 18th century the parliament actually passed a law forbidding parents from threatening their badly-behaved children with a visit from Grýla and her sons!
Now, however, the Jólasveinar are much more mischievous than frightening. With names like Þvörusleikir (Stick-Licker), Skyrgámur (Skyr-Gobbler), and Bjúgnakrækir (Sausage-Grabber), they’re supposed to come down from the mountains one per night the 13 nights before Christmas. While in town, they’re always looking for something to eat—or steal first and eat later, preferably. But they leave gifts now too, and I doubt anybody misses the scrapings leftover on the bowls these days. After Christmas, they head back to the mountains, one each night. It’s not Santa Claus, but it’s a pretty nifty tradition anyway.
So much for Christmas in Reykjavík. Tomorrow I’m flying out to New York City to spend a few days with my sister at Sarah Lawrence (where even the squirrels wear black) before heading home to Virginia for the holidays. If you know me, you know what a family girl I am, and I’m beside myself with anticipation! I hear the firework display during a Reykjavík New Year is unbeatable, but I’ll trade it for a quiet holiday at home.
I’ll report back, of course, either after my New York adventure, or after my return to Reykjavík for the spring semester! Until then, bestu óskir um gleðileg jól og gott og farsælt komandi ár með þokk fyrir það liðna! (Best wishes for a merry Christmas, and a good and happy New Year, with thanks for the year past!)
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