The world of yesterday
is constantly shifting in my mind. Sometimes it feels light years away, and
sometimes I have a feeling I am still living in it. Everything is even more
complicated when it comes to my relationship with Iceland. I can pinpoint the exact
moment in the past when it began, but despite that it seems to have been
timeless. Here is how it all began.
Thirty years ago, when I
was fifteen, I came back home from a long day at school, so hungry that I asked
my mother to bring me dinner on a tray to the living room. I was leaned back on
the couch, with my feet on the coffee table, and while I was eating I causally
glanced at the 7.30 news on TV. At the time I had no interest in such things at
all. However, at a certain point I was intrigued by the mention of Iceland, a
country I had only vaguely heard about in a geography class, a country I knew
nothing else about. Presidents Reagan and Gorbachev were meeting there, by a
white fireplace (as I remember it), but then the camera switched to show some
streets of Reykjavik, its colourful roofs, a mountain in the background that I
would later learn is called Esja. That footage pressed a mysterious button
somewhere deep down in my mind and soul, for all of a sudden I was struck by
what I saw, and I wanted to see and learn more. But in a provincial town in
Yugoslavia back in 1986, before the Internet, where was I to learn more about
Iceland? And how was I to get in touch with somebody from there? The urge was
enormous, I could not help my desire to get in touch with Iceland, I dreamed
about it incessantly, and tried to come up with a few strategies of how to get
closer to it.
I did not know a single
name of an Icelander, I did not know any street address, and there was nowhere
to find such information. No Icelandic embassy in the country. So I decided to
make a random telephone call to Iceland, try to explain who I was and why I was
calling, and ask for their address so that I could write to them. The man who answered
the phone was very kind, and he actually did spell out his full name and
address for me. I put it down like this: "Halljajaur Inn, Kringland, some
numbers, Reykjavik". Full of elation and hope, I wrote a letter in school
English asking them to put me in touch with interested Icelandic pen-friends.
Two or three weeks later the letter returned, of course, because neither the
name nor the address resembled anything or anyone recognizable in Reykjavik. My
disappointment was huge, not just because the letter returned, but also because
I had to cross out telephone as a way to stick out with my plan.
I think a whole year
passed without any news about Iceland. I would find an odd, brief article in
newspapers about Miss World from Iceland, or some geographical facts in my
uncle’s maritime encyclopedias. I treasured it all in my scrap book, but it
wasn’t enough. Then my father went to a business trip to Germany and brought
back a small Braun electric shaver. I was keen on inspecting the razor, as well
as the booklet that came with it. And in that booklet I discovered something
that would turn my life around: it included a list of all the services
worldwide where the shaver could be taken to be fixed while under warranty.
Among them was an address in Reykjavik! The company’s name was Pfaff. As
impatiently as ever, I immediately wrote them a letter. The days that ensued
were too long. Still, several weeks later I did get a response. That moment was
one of the most exciting in my life by that time. The company kindly sent me
their badge, and informed me that they had forwarded my letter to one of the
popular Icelandic teenage magazines. I felt the world was opening up for me,
and I thought I could expect some news very soon. That could have been '87 or
'88. I waited, and waited, but nothing was happening for months. I felt I was
doomed to failure, and started thinking that what I wanted was impossible to
achieve. No new opportunities came into view. I celebrated my 18th birthday in
1989, and went from Montenegro, where I was living, to my native Croatia (at
that time both countries still belonged to Yugoslavia), to spend the summer, as
I always did. Iceland was a gem hidden from my eyes, but incessantly scintillating
within me. Then one day in August my mother telephoned from Montenegro to say that
several letters from abroad had arrived for me. I think she mentioned they were
from Iceland. Not knowing what they were, but ablaze with the rekindled
euphoria, I could not wait for my mum to come to Croatia and bring the letters.
When she finally arrived, there were six of them. All were from different young
people from Iceland, introducing themselves, some with photographs. ‘Vikan’ had
run my add for pen-friends, though with a huge delay. The feelings that those
letters evoked were magical. Still, it did take three years for it to happen. I
responded to all of the letters, and when I returned home in September more
were waiting for me. After a while, I established permanent pen-friendship with
four people: Kristin, Katrin, Unnar, and Frida. With some of them I am in
contact to this day, and one of them, Kristin, I met several times during my
visits to Iceland, and she has become a dear, personal friend.
The adventures that my
love for Iceland has brought to my path are too numerous to cover in one short text.
I just wanted to look back at the beginnings and say that Iceland is one of the
most constant loves of my life, one that can hardly be described. Thirty years have
passed, the world has changed enormously, but some things remain as permanent stars
in the sky.
What a beautiful and touching story. It brought tears to my eyes because of your passion. Such people are rare today…
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