We got really, really wet in Iceland. Not because of the weather -- in fact, apart from some drizzle on the first and last days, we were lucky enough to enjoy what locals swore was the best summer in 35 years. Nope, we got wet on purpose.
Hot pools are a way of life here. There’s one in practically every neighbourhood or tiny town, open all year round, and cheap as anything thanks to the endless supply of geothermal hot water. Like pubs in England or cafés in France, they’re where you go to unwind after a hard day and catch up with friends. A place to debrief in more ways than one.
There are even hot pools for horses.
If bathing is the national religion, we were instant converts. (But modesty and steam meant we couldn't easily take photos, so you'll have to make do with links and hand-drawn reminiscences.)
Our baptismal font, if you will, was the huge Laugardalslaug complex next to the Family Fun Park.
The boys and I were on a roll that day. The fun park closes at six but the pools are open till late, and there were hours of daylight ahead of us. We trekked what felt like several miles to the pool -- does all that sunlight mess up your sense of distance, like white-out in the winter? -- where I stuffed them with muffins from the snack bar in lieu of dinner. Then we headed straight for the changing rooms, to experience the pre-swim rigmarole.
First you leave your shoes on the shelf outside the changing room. (At one pool we visited, the signs recommended in several languages that you put "any expensive shoes" in your locker. Of course the French translation merely said "vos chaussures," because clearly all shoes worn by Frenchwomen are haute couture.) Then it's time to strip off and scrub down. The pool water is barely chlorinated, if at all, so it's obligatory to wash before you swim. Luckily there are helpful and hilarious signs instructing you about what and how and where to wash.
We obediently showered and shampooed amid a steaming communal lather of naked women and children. Well, mostly naked. A pair of very glamorous Russian-speaking dames managed to wash almost all of the prescribed places without removing their fancy bikinis, disturbing their elaborate blonde coiffures, or smudging the tiniest smidgen of their full and impressive make-up. Such finesse was beyond me. I went for the drowned rat look, with my hands full of two small boys who had helped themselves to the soap dispenser until they were as slippery as eels. (I did notice later that there were small plastic baths for the tiny babies, as well as bumbos for the next size up and plastic highchairs for the most recalcitrant toddlers).
I'd heard that lackadaisical tourists have been marched back to the showers to complete the job by the fierce old ladies who monitor these things. To avoid the walk of shame, we showered for what felt like hours before finally deeming ourselves clean enough to wriggle into our swimsuits.
Toby was outraged! He thought the showers were the whole deal. So he bellowed his lungs out when I dragged him out from under the water to squeeze his damp little bum into his togs. He would quite happily have spent all night standing under the hot shower, rinsing his tummy and chirping “Mama!” every time a new pair of boobs swung into view.
But when we went through the door to the swimming pools, and he saw the big heated pool full of pool toys, and the little bubbling hotpots, and the giant waterslide, and the little waterslide, and the steam wafting up into the cool evening air, he very nearly exploded with delight. In fact he crowed like a rooster. For the next hour, the three of us paddled and slid and swam and soaked and bubbled, eavesdropping on the conversations all around us, nursing in the hot pool, and soaking up a cultural phenomenon. Big brother went down the tall waterslide a dozen times or more, and Toby bobbed around in the big pool like a cork, wearing a pair of water-wings supplied for free.
It was such a triumphant way to end my first full day of solo kid-wrangling in this unfamiliar city: with exhausted, squeaky-clean children who slumped against me on the bus and then fell into bed without a murmur of protest.
Later in the week, in the even better-appointed changing rooms at Arbaejarlaug on the outskirts of the city (pictured at top), I’d see mothers going one better. They toweled their children off, let them play naked on the monkey-bars in the adjacent courtyard, and then, in a stroke of genius, funneled them straight into their pajamas. And so to bed!