Sauntering up to Vigdísarhús, I feel confident and nearly invincible. I have my posse, so to speak, a still slightly awkward jumble of friends from school and new acquaintances yet to form a cohesive and comprehensive unit, but far from uncomfortable introductions. We are young, attractive, intelligent, and empowered. We are NOT tourists. We are students, scholars, and adventurers. We are NOT ignorant. We have researched, prepared, and consulted our local REI outlet stores. We are outgoing and excited; filled with hope and premonitions for our semester.
Seconds before we reach the front door, our composure is tested. The automatic door swings open and my hand retreats back to my pocket like nothing ever happened. We mask our surprise and move forward. No one has noticed our unfamiliarity, so it might as well have never happened. Before we know it, we’ve reached “the mud room”. This is no foreign idea to a group of hardened Northerners and this is DEFINITELY not our first pair of boots. Avoiding the gaze of home people, workers, and volunteers alike, I toy with the idea of a softly spoken góðan daginn but dismiss it for a later date. Play it cool Brenton, you DO NOT want to mess up on day one. Lace by lace I take my time, I am not in a rush and there is NO WAY I am going to be the first of our group to stand up and expose themselves, heading into the cafeteria. One shoe slides off, then another, I take my time with the jacket managing not to make eye contact with anyone. No one has made a move, so I decide to take the initiative. What is the worst thing that could happen? Like I said, we are outgoing and excited. We are confident and empowered, but it turns out we are still just American and tourists because as I stride into the cafeteria room, my pace is demoted to a shuffle, my senses digress to uselessness, and my confidence melts away. Before me isn’t just an eco-village, a place to eat, or a large friendly gathering. Here is a community. I am living, breathing, and interacting community that has functioned seamlessly for years. They have a system. They have tradition. Who am I? I am a foreigner. I have accomplished nothing. I have contributed nothing. I am at the bottom of the food chain and I deserve nothing.
Nonetheless, as my breathing slows down and I find my way into the lunch line, my nerves begin to subside. Handed a plate of delicious fried fish and vegetables, I butcher a “takk fyrir” and stumble away from the confused look in the chef’s eyes. As I turn to face the crowd, it is judgment time, and another wave of nausea washes over my body. I look out over a horizon of unfamiliar faces and tables speckled with open seats. Nowhere seems welcome, for cliques are obviously established and seats most likely reserved. I look to my posse for support, but I am met with mutual confusion. All right, time to suck it up; there is no way I am going to retreat to the CELL student table already forming in the deepest darkest corner of the room. I make a beeline to the first table I see. This is it; commitment is key, DO NOT abort mission. I allow a slow, controlled slide into a seat. Senses alert, avoiding spills at all costs. Before you can say Vaðlaheiðarvegavinnuverkfærageymsluskúraútidyralyklakippuhringur, I was acclimated and comfortable. The home people were welcoming and understanding, the workers were helpful and informative, and the volunteers were excited and outgoing.
New experiences are scary and revealing, and in the moment it may seem like the worst thing in the world, but that is what makes life so exciting. Without sorrow we can’t define joy, and without pain we can’t define bliss. Without awkward nervousness, we can never become outgoing and forge deep and meaningful connections. Through awkwardness and attempts at kindness we can build community and strong relationships that teach us to appreciate our surroundings and their constituents. Through community and awareness, we can appreciate nature and the beautiful biosphere we inhabit.
-Brenton