Kiruna, Day 2 - Evening

     Everything was blue, as if I just wiped out in some gigantic surf and was held under for too long. I didn’t know if anybody else could hear me, but I convinced myself to let the others walk a little ahead in case. The huge vaulted ceiling matched my open maw. My mind flew somewhere else for a moment. I was in wood-trimmed room with books on the walls and a four horse feet sticking up from behind a couch.
     “Holy shit!”
     “There were blanks in that gun! I didn’t even point the gun at him!”
     “Holy shit!”
     “Maybe he had a heart attack.”
     “Holy shit!”
     I was back and just met the raised eyebrows of two large framed girls in parkas and Suomi shawls with nametags. They were probably wondering why I was chanting “holy shit” like a deranged monk. I stopped saying it, but I couldn’t stop thinking it. I was in the mother-of-all igloos and was standing between columns made from clear blocks of ice that were each rotated a few degrees so the column looked like a spiral. The others had walked half the length of the room and were standing under a clear chandelier of thinly cut chunks of ice. It didn’t give any light of its own but reflected a thousand shades of blue from a tiny hole above it. Holy shit.

     Some things are just plain cool, Samuel L. Jackson cool. One of those things lies about a forty minute bus ride outside of Kiruna in Jukkasjärvi. Built on top of the now frozen Torne River is the Icehotel. And, as its name suggests, it is a hotel made entirely from ice. I had added a visit to this hotel to the list-of-things-to-do-before-I-die a few years back, not coincidentally around the time Die another Day was released, right between “ride a dogsled” (check) and “see the northern lights” (no dice so far).
     Originally, the hotel was just part of some Nordic art. I’m guessing there’s not a lot to do in Jukkasjärvi during the long, dark winter other than build things out of ice and snow—so in 1990, the site was chosen because of the clarity of the ice blocks that can be harvested and later turned into sculptures. As the legend goes, some idiot tourists hadn’t made proper plans (This is a literary device known as foreshadowing.) and hadn’t a place to stay the night. They asked the kind, artistic types if they could sleep in their igloo. The nineteenth version of the Icehotel is now both a shelter and quite a legitimate piece of ice-art. Mid-November, four to five thousand metric tons of ice are carefully carved out of the river. It takes 50 artists and an industry of laborers a month to finish the 6000 square meter wonder. But like its miniature cousins in the driveways and front-yards of temperate climate suburbia, the Icehotel is doomed to melt in the spring.
     Inside, it was far from melting. The temperature sat just a few degrees above freezing. Coming in from the windswept, frozen river where it was about -15C (+5F), it felt quite fine, actually. Six wings junctioned into the main hall where we were now sliding across the ice benches and slipping across the table under the chandelier, three on each side. There are several rooms that were fairly barren except for the beds and a table or chair. Each was lit from underneath the various and sometimes random pieces of furniture by an orange or dull green light. Some rooms contained as many as six beds. One of the six halls was dedicated to a “deluxe art-suite” and had a sliding door with keycard access rather than the meager curtain. Three of the halls were set aside for “art rooms.” Each room was completely unique and was the design of a single mind.
     The first one I walked into was filled with crystals that were anywhere from tiny to chest high. They surrounded the double bed and even came from the ceiling. “Like the home of Superman, no?” said one of the French girls with whom we went on the dogsled trip. I excitedly went to the room across from us, not wanting to wait for the myriad of pictures that Nico likes to take. The next was set up like a labyrinth, barely big enough for me to get through with square shoulders. Then the light was gone. It was just me and my heartbeat for a while. I prepared myself to battle the Minotaur. I slid my bare hand along the smooth walls until I made it back into the hallway. When I finally came out, a thickly accented voice was asking her husband, “Why would the put a switch here, with no light?” I waited next to the doorway in the hall for Jörn and the girls to get bored posing for photos and move to the next room. The couple from earlier had been in the maze long enough to make it about half way. “What’s in that room?” I drew the curtain as Jörn approached. “I think it’s closed,” I said as ushered him down the hall. I hit the light switch as we walked past it, “it’s all dark inside.”
     Each room was seemed to get more and more spectacular. I was absolutely sure that this one was my favorite though. It had backlit pipes and faucets made from ice that led to a crystalline conveyor belt, complete with gears and rollers. The next room was even better. “No, this one is my favorite.” It was subdivided by an archway, under which was the bed. The left side was done in smooth snow-like finish the right was clear and slick ice, made to look like tiles but with cascades of still water, flowing from roof to floor.
     The next room was a tree trunk. We climbed around it, some of the massive boughs as stairs and in the top was a double bed. I plopped down and stared at the ceiling. The others were coming up the tree now. “Uh, Zack, this one is your favorite, right?” I admitted so with a smile and everyone laughed. I counted five. “You can have more than one favorite, you know.”
     With the rooms toured and well photographed it was time to hit the bar. I was first up the passageway, as I was almost all day, being too excited to wait for the Latin/Gallic pace. I had been waiting for this moment for a long time. There was a short girl with black hair behind the bar and an enormous fur cap, “Varsågod?” I resisted the temptation to order a Vodka Martini, S.N.S. and asked for something she felt like making. I was lucky because I was treated to mango-fruit-something-something infused Vodka that Absolute had shipped to the Icebar recently and was available nowhere else (or so the legend goes). Mixed with several colored juices and brandies, the potion was poured into an ice glass. I waited for the others to get the same thing and we clanked our ice-blocks. "Skål!"

Also, there's an ice church where you go to ask God why you are here...and others are in Miami.

Oh good, I was looking all over the hotel for somewhere to chill my Don P. to proper 59 degrees Fahrenheit. Up until now, I hadn't seen anywhere and had thought this hotel a bit low-brow for my tastes. Thank god.

A question I have had about the Icehotel is, "How can you sleep on a block of ice?" Well, the memory-foam mattress that are advertised to TV, you know, the Swedish Sleep System--those help alot. On top of that, there are reindeer furs and a sleeping bag. It's probably the most comfortable bed I've ever not slept on.

110 Kronor each ($12.46)

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Kiruna, Day 2 - Morning

      I was starting to get a hang of getting dressed. The first time it took me the better part of a half-hour and now I was down to under 20 minutes. I forgot the deodorant though, which meant I had to do it twice this morning. I was usually the first of the three out the door, but my ego bruised when I met Nico and Jörn outside shuffling their feet and making apologies on my behalf to the Swedish man in blue overalls and matching hat. He was supposed to pick us up at 10:00. My wrist said 9:55. “…damn Swedes,” I began, “I mean,” raising my voice for the next part, “I’m sorry, I had to lock up.” A quick looking over of the three of us and we were led to the idling VW. “Two upfront. One in the back.” My index finger of my ungloved hand went automatically to my nose. I turned, grinned at the other contestants and was met with quizzical looks. Even though I had explained this process to them at least twice each, the Europeans were slow to catch on. The last person who touches his nose had to take the least pleasant option. This holds true in many circumstances, not just for getting “shotgun,” another concept that I was alone in following. “Nevermind,” I said and opened the sliding door to the van, intent on martyrdom. There were five people looking at me and probably wondering why I was pointing at my face. I wasn’t expecting anybody, you see. In the back seat was a father and two cookie-cutter blonde kids about five and seven. In the middle seat, with the one available seat for me were two girls, about our age, who wind-chimed “Hallo!” then “Hej!” This further added to my embarrassment.
      The morning sparkled. The sun was unobstructed by clouds and the sky was blue. After spending the winter in Stockholm I found myself squinting southward and thinking, “Oh yeah, that’s what it looks like.” It added to my excitement. We were driven down the E10 to a home with an entire pack of sled-dogs caged separately behind it. They were howling madly by the time we got out of the van. They must have enjoyed the weather too. The place was also busy with people. Getting out of another van and taking a ludicrous amount of pictures were two graying couples with French accents.
      We were led into the “gear room” and amidst giggles and grunts began recreating ourselves in the tiny wooden shed. An overall here, a helmet here. Where are the liners to these mittens? Will I need to switch boots? So on and so forth. I found a particularly good hat, one that looked exactly like Genghis Kahn’s and an olive drab flight suit. Perfect. Outside, sweaty and nearly exhausted from the ordeal I introduced myself. The girls were speaking French with the old couples and that settled the question of their origin. The blond trio, from Denmark, was visiting ‘mom’ who was working as a doctor this winter in Kiruna.
      Handshakes and hello’s were interrupted because the employees drafted us to grab a dog and lead it up the hill. I thought that it would be like leading a man to the electric chair. Rousted from sleeping in, and then dragged out of the warm doghouse into the ½ meter of snow, I imagined the dogs would be less-than-enthused. My life-long experience with the ever-lazy and always timid Great Danes led me to believe all dogs were inherently slothenly. Not the case. They dragged us up the hill and would have probably tied themselves to the sled if they had only the opposable thumb to do it. I felt less guilty then, knowing it wasn’t just this evolutionary divide that kept me from the pulling end of the machine. At the top was a wooden sled that resembled a tree fort I had built at age 12. The construction was sound, but the rusty nails and reindeer skins that covered it spread doubt. Before I had time to arrange my myriad of mittens and hats we were seated and speeding away.
      This was fast. Way fast. As fast as a dog can run, perhaps faster because they weren’t simply following the lead dogs, they were racing each other. Six pairs of dogs tore us through a frozen forest. The dogsled is organized with lead dog(s) in the front. The next row are the swing dogs. They are more-or-less to help the whole bunch follow the lead. If just the lead turned, the rest would probably assume they were headed off to the woods for a piss. At the very back are the wheel dogs who physically turn the sled. The rest, called the team dogs do the hard labor. The whole process is really quite complex, more so than the four-strokes in the snowmobiles that took off earlier. To add to the difficulty, the dogs often fight as evidence from their scared snouts. Constant attention is required, especially at rest, when the dogs want to run the most.
      I had the fortune, as a result of my self-imposed back seat ride earlier, of being in the front of the sled. Jörn was sandwiched warmly between me and Nico, whose back was to the driver, the same man from earlier. The Swedish man, who still hasn’t introduced himself called out commands to the dogs. The dogs are controlled by this set of words only, no reigns or shock collars, or cracking whips. After plunging over some serious dips, causing the weighted sled to become airborne a few times, we hit the frozen lakes. After about ten minutes I began to freeze. My exposed face took the brunt of it. I noticed ice in the corners of my eyes too. That was quite painful. I heard a long string of vocal commands. It was really complex. Not just the simple “Gee” (right) or “Haw” (left) from earlier. I imagined something like, “okay, ten more meters forward, and then after the fallen tree, make a swooping left. Once past the bridge, take the hairpin right easy. How’s the family by-the-way, that canine kibble alright last night?” It turned out he was just on the phone with the other sled team. It was about this time that I tried to extract my camera.
      After about a half-hour’s ride we parked at a tee-pee. Colorful snowmobiles were parked out front as well. Coffee and cakes were served. I took in the sunlight and the scenery as the second sled pulled up. We all huddled close to the fire, and dusted the ice from ourselves and the dogs.
     Now, here is a detailed description of every layer of winter clothing. If you aren't feeling a little warm by the end of this, you aren't human.

Top:
    polyester/titanium weave base layer
    polartech fleece 3mm
    dual layer polartech/nylon-lined jacket (4-5mm)
    2-layer down pocketed/weathershell ski jacket
Legs:
    silk-weight capilene base layer
    polartech fleece 3mm
    single layer snowboarding pants
Feet:
    2 pairs of wool socks
    gore-tex snow boots.
Hands:
    neoprene/polyester glove liners
    snowboarding gloves
    wool mitten liners (over gloves)
    weatherproof burlap mittens
Head:
    wool beanie
    polyester scarf
    helmet with 2cm neoprene padding and plexiglas windscreen

overalls, down pocketed and weatherproof that were provided by the sled company

      After warming up as best we could, it was time to change fuel sources. Kibbles and bits took off with the Danish family and the French. That left us with four steaming snowmobiles. They are easy to drive, but it takes some getting used to. Snowmobiles tend to feel skittish, even at slow speeds, but they are stable enough to hit about 80 kph without getting any speed wobbles. They are terribly noisy and give off a choking cloud of exhaust—much like the dogs. We took the shorter route home, which took us around a ridge, offering a bold view over the landscape. As the road turned towards town, we saw the ironworks and the mountain straight ahead.
      Somehow the dogs beat us back. They must have had lunch on their minds. Heading towards the changing room, I had trouble walking from a solid morning of excitement. Nico and I exchanged some high-fives and some caveman noises that most males make when they combine gasoline fumes and testosterone. On the way to the changing room I caught the eyes of my middle-seat companions. We exchanged a sideways glance and a smile that is usually preceded by an inside joke. I didn’t have to say, “That was the most awesome thing I have ever done.” She didn’t have to say, “Yeah, me too.”

"high" noon


Nico, no. 24 and no. 37

"This is gonna be awesome!"


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Kiruna, Day 1

     “It’s green with white trim,” I said from between my fingers, my chin in my palm. I moved my elbow off the gray pressboard countertop in an attempt to look as cheerful as possible. It was probably from IKEA, but it looked institutional enough for an airport. Maybe I would get my missing backpack sooner if I was upbeat. “Where are you staying,” asked Sofia, the only counter agent in the airport’s single-room lobby. “Kirunas rumservice. You can reach me at this number,” I took her pen and did my best to remember. It had been a while since I had needed to call myself. “The next plane is due at klockan sju…er…seven. We will have a taxi bring your ryggsäck.”
     “Great. Tack, hej då.”
     Usually my trips hit bumps mid-way or just towards the end. This was a new form of being screwed. The taxi I had reserved the night before was still nowhere to be found. I was more concerned about the absence of my winter gear, without which, I would turned into a meat-popsicle. A quick phone call assured me that the taxi is coming. The snow had started to come down harder and I could barely see across the deserted parking lot of the Kiruna airport. I noticed that there were dog-pens on the far side, and wig-wam shaped buildings that housed massive, treaded snow-cats for clearing the roads. Off to a bad start. Okay, just stay positive.
      Kiruna is about 145 km north of the latitude that marks the Arctic Circle. It is a city of about twenty thousand, and one of Sweden’s most popular tourist destinations. Aside from the dog pens at the airport, Kiruna didn’t really look like a postcard Arctic village, which I imagined. Capillaries of snow covered roads that intersect in traffic circles and well lit with orange sodium lamps connect various red-painted buildings to the main artery, the E10 highway, which leads north-west to Norway. The city centre is a cluster of former industrial buildings turned into apartments. Curiously enough they retained their smoke-stacks and loading docks—a monument to the industry that explains why people, apart from the insane, still live here: Iron. Kiruna has two nearby mountains. Both terraced by strip-mining like gigantic rice fields. Ringed with service roads and covered with snow, the mountains look like layer-cakes. Also cake-like, atop the nearest and largest of the two mountains, were the towers of the most massive ironworks I have ever seen—more massive still, because they were not at the top but behind and still visible over the crest.
      Without my gear, it would be impossible to use the last few hours of daylight to do any sort of exploring or otherwise outdoor activities. We did the next logical thing. Made tacos and drank beer. Tacos and beer combine to make one of the best cures for depression. If pharmaceutical companies caught on and made a taco/beer concentrate, perhaps in a pill form, I think the world would be a better place. Indeed the world had become a better place, for not had I just finished wiping the salsa from my lips when my prodigal backpack did return. We dressed and set out. Night begins somewhere after 3.30 pm (taco time). We walked toward town center and did some window shoping. The usual Swedish traditions are strong in Kiruna and the clerks were dusting shelves and counting the kronor in the registers in preparation to close around four. So we did the next logical thing and played in the snow.
      We wandered to the stadshuset which was on a ridge just at the outskirt of town in the direction of the larger of the two cakes. After climbing some great snow banks and hurling some snow balls at each other we circled the town hall and were in full view of the Kiirunavaara. Since it was dark, we could see that it was decorated now with glowing lights and bathing the entire sky in orange. Now the land between us and the cake-mountain was visible. I had visions of Tolkien. You know, when the great forest was ripped down to turn the tower of Isengard into the base for Saruman’s white-handed army. It was a jungle of train-tracks, power lines, smokestacks, furnaces and tunnels that was hard at work as the rest of the town was packing it in.
      Beneath the Kiirunavaara is the world’s largest iron mine and the reason for the rift between us. The place there is actually sinking down into the earth. In 2007, a new site for the town was chosen, and over the next ten years everything in the path of the chasm will have to be demolished or moved. The building we were next, due to its special architectural status will actually be moved piece by piece to the town’s new home at the foot of the smaller cake. Even the E10, the vital supply line for Sweden’s nationally owned mining company, LKAB, would have to be moved.
      A face full of stinging white powder and laughter brought me out of my revelry. I too, it seemed would have to battle some orcs. “You #$%ing bastard!” I scooped a handful of snow and gave chase.

no taxi for us at Kiruna Airport

ironworks turned apartments, Kiruna C
wikipedia, http://sv.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kiruna

our street with the Kiirunavaara in the sunset

same street, 4 pm

iron and snow, Kiruna's twin mascots

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Kiruna, Arrival

My fingertips burned as if I had just picked up a hot coal. I clenched and unclenched my fist as best as I could consider they were buried beneath four layers of various gloves and mittens. My ears hurt badly earlier but now, mercifully, they had gone numb along with my feet about ten minutes ago. In fact, most of me was numb. I tried again to open my overall's pocket and extract my camera but my hands were still completely useless. "Hey, Zack!" A heavy Spanish accent from behind. I ignored it; I had to concentrate on the pocket. Since I was sitting up front, it was my job to take pictures and, as it was painfully obvious now, shield the others from the 40km/hr wind. "Zack, turn around." A German voice from beneath a pile of scarves and hats that was seated behind me. Fire raced to meet the newly exposed left side of my face. We glided over a bump as I turned and the last bit of sensation from my fingers was that of the button of my overalls slipping out of my grip. "Damnit. What?" I met three pairs of eyes and a camera flash. At least I could leave mine in my pocket for a while.

     About two pages into my book I had nodded off. I had smartly given myself the seat by the window that was directly behind the emergency exit row. Those of you who know your 737 airframes will know that the 700 model has only two seats instead of the usual three seats per row on the two emergency exit rows over the wing. This leaves the lucky (or smart) guy in the window seat in the row behind with double the legroom. The familiar thud-clunk and simultaneous decrease in airspeed brought me back to the SAS cabin I had left for the last hour. I was probably dreaming of coconut palms and bikinis. Landing gears should come with a snooze button. The faint scent of pretzels and "doo-dad"s replaced tanning oil. I don't remember when, but at some time the little bag of peanuts had been phased out. My thoughts turned to the masses of peanut farms and union workers who had to find other jobs now because of three people who are allergic to peanuts...that's nature's way of telling you not to eat snacks on airplanes.
      My peanut sidetrack was cut short because I looked out the window. I was sure now I was dreaming of sand and sea and brown girls because now I was very angry. Below was a sea of white, like clouds. This was not unusual considering I was in an airplane, but the black veins of trees and the occasional miniature red building ruined the illusion. Why the hell, I asked myself, would I willingly go to the Arctic Circle in February. The landing was fairly standard, the plane got lower until it touched the ground--but we touched down, everything was different. The runway was snow and ice from end to end with a few hundred meters of tarmac that had been grooved like the emergency lanes on American highways. Reverse thrust and airbrakes were deployed but no wheel brakes. The count of ten. Then jerking back and forth like my Uncle Horst coming to a yellow light at the bottom of a New Jersey hill. The count of twenty. The pilot turned the plane on a dime pointed towards what I assumed was a large stable and cut the turbines. Stillness, cabin lights, and hasty opening of overhead compartments. I used caution--because the contents of overhead compartments can shift during flight.
      Out of the window, it was now apparent we were not just careening through some farm, but had landed at the airport. And it was snowing. Back home this would excite me, as it does to all lowcountry kids, to a riotous froth. But I started to shiver, at first just to practice, but then because cabin doors were wide open and the hot, recirculated air was escaping. Nico, my roommate and jealous (because of the legroom) neighbor must have read my face because he shook my arm in the way that he always does and smiled, "Zack! We are in Kiruna! Zaaaack!"
      I didn't have long to be sad because they brought up the big metal stairs. I love the big metal stairs and boarding/disembarking directly onto the tarmac instead of the distinctly foul-smelling umbilical cord known as the Jetway. The Jetway, as far as I'm concerned, is the single worst part of flying commercially. It's worse than the mouth-breather with bad breath sleeping in the seat next to you and worse than US Air's beef stroganov (the smell is the same). I could write a whole doctoral thesis on the inefficiency of and my grievances with the Jetway...but you aren't here to read about the inconveniences of flying--there are plenty of hardworking comedians who have made a good deal of a living just on this.
      I excitedly pushed passed the slower passengers, a big no-no in orderly Sweden. I few sincere ursäkta-s (ur-sheck-dah)-s later I was out of the door and onto a big set of caution-yellow stairs with snow swirling in the floodlamps. I was about to do the presidential two-fingered peace sign that I usually do when I get to use the stairs, but my first breath of arctic air brought me to caught at once. By the time I reached to sliding doors and knocked the snow off my boots, I had learned my first arctic survival tip: breathe short and often, and cover your face.

the trio at Arlanda Int'l

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Postcards from Lapland

Photos by

Julien "Le Magicien" Falcy