Birthdays Are Bloodbaths

My mother turned 60 in Iceland . Big birthday aside, the location for the occasion raised the bar of expectation for an already important event. We travelled as a family (minus one sister & two grandchildren) to the great land of our ancestry. Well, not my father's, but he came along for the ride, leaving all Icelander jokes at home. We would embrace the hardfiskur and the lamb, fork over nine bucks (all figures Canadian) for a stinking head of broccoli, and learn that, yes, corn is indeed a pizza topping. This little island, after all, is another world - a crust of lava and ice where nature's power rumbles steadily - and we were togther, our first family trip in a very long time.

So here's the deal: when your mother's 60th approaches, have a freaking plan. And, when you will be spending the occasion in Iceland, the place of your mother's heritage, make The Plan a good one - a Plan you can be sure to execute, flawlessly, without a hint of 'we-will-pull-this-together-when-we-get-there'. Scheduled to land a day before The Day, we thought, why not make it an all Icelandic affair? Artsy gifts would be bought from local shops, dinner would be eaten in Rekjavik, and the day would end with a family walk under the bright night sky. But retrospect gives me this: we had no hard-core Plan. Our Plan, my cyberfriend, was a pipe dream - a dream full of vapid, misty smoke that went puff, puff, poof. Trust this post and do not follow where we went (unless you have a thing for cold winds and driving rain).

Here's the thing. On arrival to Iceland (from Toronto to Boston to Keflavik to Rekjavik), we were very tired and my mother was suffering serious nicotine withdrawl. No patch feeds enough poison for this blogger's mother's habit. Every transfer along the way had a smoke-break factored in, and now that we are all kicked to the curb to smoke, this meant we made more than one shuttle-bus mistake in Boston. The only time I ever saw my mother move faster to get somewhere was when my sister - about 6 at the time - floated face down into the middle of Crystal Lake, Saskatchewan. But we made it to our apartment in Rekjavik, fell into bed and napped for a few hours. It was July in the land of fire and ice, the sun would be up forever, so what did it matter when we slept? We had time.

Ah, but it did matter. Within hours, we had a guest. A distant, long-in-the-tooth family relative whom we had never met, nor did we have any real ties, apart from our claim that we were somehow legit as Icelanders. With the arrival of our guest, The Plan began - most predictably - to unravel. We were invited to a brunch that would mean July 2, the birthday day, no longer belonged to us. We were going to brunch, which seemed just fine - until my mother had a guilt attack. "You girls do not have to come," she insisted. Knowing the routine, we insisted back, "We don't mind, really, we don't. It's your birthday. We'll come." Truly, we didn't mind. And truly, she pushed and pushed and pushed for us to do something else, to escape the shackles of our parents. "I don't want to ruin your vacation," she said. "You're not ruining our vacation," we said. And on it went for the first bright night in Iceland.

So now, on day 2 (that's July 2), The Plan was this: brunch for the grown-ups, and spa day at The Blue Lagoon for the young'uns. They had no interest, mom said of the spa experience, so why not go while they were at brunch? We would rejoin that evening, and a birthday celebration would follow the day after - July 3rd. Agreeing to this new plan was a big mistake, not smart and poorly played. What the fuck were we thinking? My mother wanted us there, wanted to show us off. She wanted to tell family stories, look at pictures and let people know that "the only daughter making babies for me is at home in New York". It would have been our birthday present to her, she said. To read between the lines, to know what she really meant, and to enjoy the company of bonafide Icelanders would have made her day perfect. And ours, most likely.

How could we have been so daft as to think she really meant it when she sent us on the bus to the spa on her big day? How could I have missed the secret code I know so well? You girls do not have to come does not mean "You girls do not have to come." Of course she doesn't mean what she says! The subtext, screaming in our faces was, "You're a pair of thoughtless meanies if you don't come to brunch on my birthday." And obviously, We have no interest in the spa does not mean, "Go ahead, it's OK. Enjoy." Not at all. It was not OK, we should not have gone ahead, and clearly she meant to say, "Enjoy the spa, but it will cost you." We just weren't listening and I can only blame it on the jetlag. Honestly, we were bagged & confused. Two grown children lost in translation is all we were.

This was check mate. We were eternally screwed for every birthday to follow. Game, set and match. My mom awoke more than a little misty-eyed on her big day. An email from my baby-making sister in NY was pointedly relayed to us: she had remembered, planned ahead, sent an online gift, made a big deal. We had nothing (except our sister's lasting sympathies). We could not go to the spa; we had to go to the spa (we were sent & we went). We could not plan a party; we had to plan a party (we offered gifts & dinner a few days later). As The Day stood, we could not hope for anything more than a quick sunset for that cold & blustery July 2nd (Oh, the irony of where we were).

If I learned anything in Iceland, it is this: there is always a cold, driving wind. You cannot escape the wind, you can only learn to dress for it, preferably in a sporty line of clothing from 66 North or a hand-knit Icelandic Wool sweater. Many Icelanders insisted the days were colder than usual that July (average temp. of 4 degrees and much rain), and while we shopped for the right outerwear/underwear, I never found the right pile of layers to thaw my bones. Whatever the weather, I stayed cold and faced the extremes. I drove steep cliffs, climbed bubbling volcanoes, crossed blue glaciers and watched whales on the North Atlantic (well, no whales were seen, but a puffin or two was sighted while all but a few of us lost their lunch)...

...all this with my mother in tow and, all ranting aside, worth repeating. She bought us bag after bag of salty black toffee and we saw the most amazing things. She told us stories and we ventured almost to the tip of the world together. This was the trip of a lifetime - perhaps our last as a family - and I have vowed to return. Do pass the hardfiskur (it's delicious), but hold the butter. There is no other place I know of where you can eat dried fish like potato chips. Gotta love it. Thanks mom, for the time up north. Really. I mean it.

(Exactly one month later, I found myself in South Korea, in perhaps the hottest dampest mustiest weather I have ever felt. There, my bones melted to mush and I truly marvelled at this place we call earth).