In Iceland: The Blue Lagoon!

The Blue Lagoon welcomed us to its doors much as Iceland had welcomed us onto her soil a few hours before: with wind and rain.

Despite the mild weather we had left behind in downtown Reykjavik, barely half an hour later we found ourselves running for cover when the Flybus dropped us off at the mouth of the long path to the spa’s entryway. I laughed nearly the whole way up the black, lava-lined sidewalk, my umbrella not over my head, but in front of my face to block the stinging rain that was blowing directly into our faces. Tony had given up shelter and strode determinedly by my side, the very image of "whatever, it's rain" manliness. I got a quick peek at a pool of blue, steaming water to my left before diving inside the safety of the building. We joined the rest of the dripping queue waiting to pay for admission and took in our surroundings. To our right, an inviting-looking gift shop edged in gray stone displayed presumably pricey spa items, and straight ahead, delicious smells were wafting out of the on-site restaurant.

The Blue Lagoon's pools look just like this, except full of swimmers!

There are many naturally-occurring hot springs in Iceland (many of which you can just drive up to and jump into), but The Blue Lagoon is the only one that offers guests the full resort experience, complete with overnight stays or massage and other spa services, in addition to the basic warm swim. National Geographic has declared The Blue Lagoon one of the 25 Wonders of the World. From the website: 'In its description of Blue Lagoon National Geographic says "the steaming turquoise pools of Iceland's Blue Lagoon, trapped in volcanic rock represent an otherworldly vision." National Geographic says that Blue Lagoon is a geothermal gift of nature.' Tony had been there the previous year, but was eager that I should experience the lagoon for myself.

We each paid for the basic package: hot springs admission, and a towel, which came to about $50 US; admission is good for the entire day. Other packages include fluffy robes and slippers, spa supplies such as pumice stones, spa service packages, and access to a warmed, post-pool lounge. At the lagoon each guest is given a waterproof wristband that acts as the key for their locker, as well as allows them to charge food, drink, or spa purchases. Mine nearly slipped off about a hundred times, but in theory, they are adjustable. At the set of stairs that led up to the women's locker areas, I said goodbye to Tony, who said we would meet at the back door, where we could enter the water. 

I ascended the stairs and turned the corner into the women’s area, where I suddenly and unexpectedly encountered a wall of pasty, slack flesh; the locker room was absolutely crammed with naked women. Naked, old women. The only young people in the room were the female assistants (mercifully clothed), trying in vain to ignore the language barrier and the nudity, in order to help these jabbering, jiggling guests work their lockers. I tried to edge into the room, looking for a free locker, but the crowd wouldn’t budge. Feeling meek, I turned and walked back out and across the hall, where I thought there would be a second changing room. That was full too. I peered back around into the first area, where some of the women seems to have shuffled into the shower area. Another American girl who looked to be about my own age had squeezed into a corner and found an open locker there. She and I shared a quick, "this is awkward" look before she began to undress.

I looked around for a private dressing area but didn't see one, so after locating a locker, I though "fuggit," and quickly stripped, pulling on my bathing suit and wrapping myself in my towel. After some difficulty I managed to squeeze the backpack, umbrella, and all of my clothes and shower gear into the locker, and with some assistance, secured it. Then it was on to the shower room, where all guests are required to bathe before entering the pools. I kept my suit on, though most of the women there did not. Each stall is filled with a special conditioner which guests are urged to apply thoroughly to their hair, which prevents it from being dried out and damaged by the salty water.

Downstairs I found a shivering Tony already waiting for me. "Lots of naked people?" he asked; I guess I still looked shocked. "Yeah...it's like that here," he said. "Sorry I didn't mention that."

We found a corner where we could leave our towels, said a quick prayer that no one would steal them, counted to three, then pushed open the door and dashed across the wet boards. I think I made an audible "woo!" sound as my bare flesh encountered the less than fifty-degree temperature and bitter wind, and we splashed clumsily and desperately down the wooden steps into the pool.

The silty bottom caressed our feet as we sank in gratefully up to our shoulders, where we were largely out of the reach of the wind. The water we were paddling in was fluorescent, almost neon blue, but so silty that we couldn't see to our hips, let alone our feet. We doggie-paddled to the center of the pool and took in our surroundings; the wooden and glass spa buildings were straight ahead, as was a waterfall where brave swimmers were taking turns subjecting their shoulders to the pounding natural massage. To our left, a small wooden structure which Tony said was the bar perched just over the pool like a water skimmer in the creeks back at home. Behind us were walls of lumpy-looking, jet-black volcanic rock, and the occasional guard dressed in a snowsuit, patrolling the perimeter for children in need of water wings, and that kind of thing. To our right, people were scooping white clay out of wooden boxes and applying it to their faces. Many of them were laughing at one another's masks.

Tony led me over to the clay station, where I dipped my hands into a ladle full of the thick, soft substance, and smeared it over my face, from forehead to chin.He decided not to risk getting the stuff caught in his beard, and so went without. After about 10 minutes I washed it off, amazed to already feel my face feel tight, clean, and softer than a baby's butt. After that it was over to the waterfall, which pounded down on us with surprising force, but which effectively loosened our muscles, tight from all of the previous day's travel.

"Well," sputtered Tony, his now-soaked beard giving him a very Viking-esque appearance as we emerged from the waterfall's spray; "want a beer?"

 We swam over to the bar and joined the queue. Apparently the little shack perched above the water sold not just beer, cocktails and smoothies, but spa accessories as well, and several people swam away with pumice stones or "volcano scrub" to pamper themselves further. Tony and I settled on two cans of Gull beer, which we paid for with a swipe of our wristbands. We carefully carried the cups to a corner of the pool, where we perched on a ledge there, and toasted to our adventure. "To The Blue Lagoon!" We frequently giggled in between sips, just amused by the novelty of it all, and gripped our plastic cups carefully, not wanting to earn the infamous reputation of the tourist that forever ruined the springs' PH balance.

The lava-lined path to the spa's entrance.

We would have loved to stay all day, but we had a plane to catch! And so we dragged ourselves out of the water after nearly an hour of soaking; our fingers and tows had been effectively reduced to raisins. We separated again for locker room time, which was hectic; I managed to find a shower stall with a door, and so bathed privately but quickly. The spray from the shower took up the whole stall, soaking my bag of toiletries and actually knocking out one of my pearl stud earrings, which I luckily located on the shower floor before it was swept down the train. Ladies, sake my advice: remove ALL of your jewelry before going into the pool! I was so overwhelmed by the mass nudity that I didn't think about it until I was out there. I had also neglected to put up my hair, and so had to wash and condition the ends, which had dragged into the briny water, very thoroughly. By the time I was ready to get dressed, most of the Germanic elderly women had already passed through, and I was able to pull on my clothes without fear of a moon landing.

Downstairs, I dropped my wet towel into one laundry bag, my wristband into another, and met Tony on the other side of the turnstile. And so it was that, our hair still dripping slightly, we walked hand-in-hand down between the lava formations to the road, where we would begin the next stage of our journey to The Netherlands.

In a few minutes our bus drove around yet another traffic circle, and all traces of the lagoon were gone; even the steam had been borne away with the wind.