Braving the Brennivin
Braving the Brennivin
Schnapps in Ísafjörður
Sitting at the only bar in Ísafjörður, my two friends and I played cards while waiting for a local singer named Jónsi to perform. It was the finale of a weeklong Icelandic road trip. Even after long days of treacherous hikes through the mountains, we weren’t tired because midnight in the West Fjords looks like 6 pm in the continental United States. After a couple of Brennivin shots, we continued the game with Einstok and Viking beers.
Brennivin (translated as “burning wine”) is Iceland’s traditional schnapps, brewed from fermented grain or potato, and tastes like a bitter, faded Sambuca. Usually imbibed during the mid-winter feast Thorrablot, Brennivin has been adapted as an addition to craft cocktails while retaining its reputation for destroying the body like the bubonic plague.
Two young Icelandic men walked in. We had met the night before at this very bar and made vague plans to meet tonight for the concert. The taller, more outgoing of the two bounded over and sat down without hesitation—this boisterous, burly, blond individual was determined. He introduced his little brother, who was quiet and skinny with short, brown hair.
Their names sounded like gibberish. They joined our game and entertained us with facts about Iceland’s economy and bragged about eating puffins and whale. At around 2 am, my friends and I left the bar to walk back to our hostel. It was eerily bright and the party was still going strong at the bar.
As I drifted into a deep sleep, the shots of Brennivin warmed my body and I felt ready to conquer anything. In my dream-state, I wandered into perilous ice caves, where an entire puffin colony miraculously appeared. I looked up and saw the Aurora Borealis suspended above the horizon. It was a blissful, schnapps-fueled dream.
I recounted these memories to friends at home, but there’s no substitute for the actual experience of finding hidden geothermal pools, stone structures reportedly built by elves, and lumpy moss fields. I could only raise my glass to the glaciers, the Icelandic horses, the volcanoes.
During that week, we trekked many miles through all sorts of precipitation in order to bathe in a natural hot river, my inner Viking insisting that the greater the risk, the greater the glory. Even when I felt like stopping, my feet kept moving one in front of the other, ascending higher and higher, exulting in the majestic landscapes. Every mountain we climbed seemed steeper, yet more rewarding, than the last. And I had also conquered Brennivin, braving the bitterness to savor the warmth.