Cracking Icelanders’ frosty facade? I found the steamy secret.

I first traveled to Iceland in the early 1980s. In a bid to learn the language, I got a stint on a remote Icelandic farm, with a family that didn’t speak a stick of English. I quickly learned something central about the Icelandic character. To wit: There is no such thing as an uncomfortable silence. I recall driving many miles with my farmer host when not a word was uttered. No small talk. No chitchat. No comments about the weather. I acknowledged this as a cultural trait and went with the flow.

This conversational stillness goes beyond the rural areas. Even in the cosmopolitan capital, Reykjavík, when people pass one another on the street, it’s eyes forward, expression deadpan, and mouth firmly closed. Of course, if one recognizes a neighbor, it’s only natural to greet that person. But a stranger? Never.

Which is where the hot tub comes in. Iceland is studded with public bathing areas supplied with geothermal water – a boon of living in a volcanically active country. I recall my first visit to a popular swimming hole in Reykjavík. After changing (in silence) and showering (in silence), I made my way to the hot tub area and immersed myself with a sigh of ecstasy.

For a while I had the whole thing to myself. Then an older, pleasant-faced woman arrived and descended – in silence – into the water. We both soaked for a few minutes until, “It’s good to be in the hot tub, no?” the woman remarked while smiling in quiet contentment.

“Why, yes, yes it is,” I replied, taken off guard by the experience of an Icelander talking, unbidden, to me, a stranger. 

The conversation took wing from there. When the woman discerned, from my accent, that I wasn’t Icelandic, it only whetted her curiosity, providing fodder for more conversation. As we spoke, a young couple entered the tub. “Look at this man,” said my new acquaintance. “He’s an American, but he speaks Icelandic.”

The young man’s face brightened. “You don’t say!”

I now became the object of intense interest, a kind of linguistic oddball who had learned an antique language spoken by fewer than 400,000 souls. The mood was convivial, more like something I’d expect from ebullient Italians. I quickly discerned that there was something about the community of the hot tub that unlocked the “inner Icelander” that was otherwise kept under wraps. Further, there was an equalizing effect between the loquacious me and the normally reticent Icelanders, resulting in us finding a sort of middle ground where meaningful, if measured, conversation became possible.

Eventually, it was time for me to get out of the tub because, paradoxically, one can get dehydrated in hot water. And so, reluctantly, I said my goodbyes and departed.

As I pulled my things together, my mind wandered to the masterpiece of science fiction by Robert Heinlein “Stranger in a Strange Land.” The protagonist is a human born on Mars and raised by Martians. Coming from a desert planet, he brings with him a ritual called “water sharing,” whereby a glass of rare, precious water is shared between two people, creating a lasting bond.

Something similar happened in that hot tub. Before leaving, I was extended an invitation for tea and Icelandic pancakes with cream in the young couple’s home. 

Since my inaugural visit to Iceland, I have made frequent returns to that island nation, where I now have dear friends. Icelanders are still a rather laconic folk (six months of darkness may play a role here), but I am no longer discomfited by the lack of a greeting on the streets, or the silent bus rides.

I have my ace in the hole, because no matter where I travel in Iceland, there is a hot tub nearby, the geothermal water serving as a lubricant for conversation, which might lead to friendship, and the possibility of Icelandic cream pancakes.