Buying a House in Iceland: Part 1

After almost three months of midnight sun, I have a strange yearning for nighttime and for stars. I want to sip hot tea out of a giant (American sized) mug and wear thick lopapeysa and read mostly-happy books while lounging under a cozy blanket on the couch. The days are already getting shorter.

I want to putter around the house, getting ready for bed, only to hear M call from beside the window, “Look outside!” and see streaks of green and purple dancing across the sky–the Northern Lights, flaming bright, just for us.

We have been searching for a place to call our own, and wouldn’t you know it–glorious Iceland, a country that just appears to be overflowing with land, land, land–has an eeny meeny housing market. Especially in our neck of the woods.

Any new listings that fit our budget and wishlist are quickly visited. We hold fast to optimism and hope, try to see the new view through rose colored glasses, only to be hit with a semi-truck of a huge dealbreaker.

It’s a bummer.

I wonder if the universe is trying to tell us something. Should we move to the North of Iceland, far away from family and friends (and Thai food)? Should we move to the States, and try to shift our dreams to Tennessee terrain? Should we try to move to France so that M can learn more about his beloved la Bresse chickens?

I know I should be grateful that we have a roof over our heads. But it is difficult to find gratitude when you live in a tiny summerhouse filled with another person’s belongings. Especially when that person’s idea of decoration is a beloved collection of miniature clown/troll/baby dolls.

Sometimes it feels like we will never own a house and will be nomadic renters forever. I crave stability. I crave STUFF. I dream of buying a vase that is Yves Klein blue and filling it with wildflowers. I dream about buying framed art prints and hanging them on white walls. I keep a list on my computer:

  1. the duel russian ilya repin

  2. calder

  3. eugene atget

  4. les coquelicots argenteuil

  5. hellboy

  6. Eugène Galien-Laloue

But one has to stay strong. So I stuff the miniature dolls into the extra wardrobe (Icelandic houses don’t have closets), eat a piece of fresh sourdough bread with creamy Icelandic butter and watch the sunset. The clouds turn purple and the light goes reddish orange and the golden sun drips behind the horizon line.

No one can own a sunset.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s