Iceland

It’s where a picture takes you

As you drive up to Djúpavík, a small village in the Westfjord region of Iceland, you soon realize that you are entering a forgotten world where dirt roads winding through the mountains give way to breathtaking views, leaving busy city life in the rear mirror. What started as a photographic journey to Iceland quickly changed into a personal journey. There were days when I immersed myself in my B+W photography shooting twelve hours straight and time flew by — yet time stood still for two weeks.

No place to race to, no appointment to keep, no phone to answer, no email urgent enough to keep checking the phone every few seconds, no likes to chase. And not only did I survive, but it was also liberating.

Getting out of the car after a four-hour drive from Reykjavík with the most scenic vistas en route, a short glance lets you take in the entire village of Djúpavík. A handful of houses and an abandoned old herring factory dating back to 1934, lovingly restored by Eva Sigurbjörnsdóttir and her husband Ásbjörn Þorgilsson, the village's only year-round residents since the mid-'80s. No stores, an abandoned gas pump, and only one road to get there. And nature all around you. You wonder how you will pass the time here for two weeks with not much to do other than take pictures, eat and sleep. And chilling out in winter-like temperatures is not my cup of tea; I instead envision myself lying at the pool, playing at the beach with my kids, or indulging in roller coaster rides with the entire family.

So here I am, my backpack with my gear weighs more than I would ever be able to stem during work out (hint, I don't work out unless you count running up the stairs in my own five-story Brooklyn house and cycling in Prospect Park). My room, the design is based on simplicity and functionality in good Nordic tradition, is in the little summer cottage next to Hotel Djúpavík, which was established in 1985 by Eva and Ásbjörn in the old women's quarters of the herring factory. And turns out the rusty old shipwreck that caught my eye as we were driving into Djúpavík served as the men's quarters of the herring factory.

My cozy cottage room is luxurious compared to the rusty boat, and the radiator reminds me of my German childhood. I pull up my chair, prop my feet on top of the radiator and look out the window marveling at the mountains while warming up my feet. Unpacking only takes a few minutes, my high heels stayed at home, and my waterproof boots, winter jacket, and gloves are my best friends for the coming days.

It's time for lunch, one of many sit-down meals to come. Delicious home-cooked food that just makes you feel better. I cannot recall the last time I had the luxury of simply sitting down for lunch and eating soup that warms my body and soul. I usually eat lunch on the go; my handbag is packed with protein bars.

Magnus, our gracious host and son-in-law-to-be of Eva and Ásbjörn, knows how to take care of his guests, making you feel welcome, part of his family. He greets you smiling at the door when you return late for lunch from a breathtaking, exhilarating five-hour walking trip, yet you had only intended to go for a thirty-minute stroll around the corner when you set out earlier that day. No, my fellow photographer John and I did not get lost on our way; we got lost in nature, sitting on a rock watching the sun paint the mountains and fjord golden. The perfect morning.

There is no rush. Ever. Everyone and everything moves at a slower pace. It is peaceful and eerily quiet at first. No tech-fueled interruptions prompt you to multi-task; silence allows you to enjoy the simple wonders of life. However, I am the first to admit that silence takes getting used to. Most people are uncomfortable when confronted with silence. Silence forces you to deal with your thoughts. It can feel like punishment in a fast-paced world. Yet silence gives room for imagination and lets you savor the moment. You cut out the noise and find your voice for the necessary.

My newly found inner calm gets briefly rattled as we drive the narrow, winding roads that alarmingly hug the deep cliffs to explore the remotest corner of the world. This place's natural, wild beauty, a photographer's paradise, surrounds you at every turn.

The Icelander's laid-back approach to life rubs up on me as I jump in freezing temperatures into the Krossnes infinity pool, soaking in geothermal hot spring water. A pebble beach littered with driftwood separates me from the chilly Atlantic, an iceberg floating by in the distance, and mountains surrounding me on the other side.

I reached a pivotal moment on this trip when I realized how much I rely on technology to communicate. Cuddled into my toasty warm bed one afternoon after a strenuous trail up the mountain to the top of Djupavikurfoss, a magnificent waterfall plunging down the cliffs ending at the bottom of the herring factory, I am sending a quick email to Magnus to find out what time dinner will be served that night. No response.

Later that night, Magnus confided in me that he often does not check his email for two to three days — and here I was counting on an instant "hit reply" in a world where time is measured differently. Frankly, it never occurred to me to step outside into the cold air and walk the three steps over to the hotel from my secluded cottage just to get a simple answer.

Nestled into a valley at the back of the Reykjarfjörður fjord, Djúpavík is a photographer's dream to capture Northern Lights. And here again, the more you patiently wait, the better your chances to witness one of nature's miracles. Weather changes from sunshine to rain and fog to clear skies in the Westfjord region on a whim. After day three, I stopped asking what Northern Light activity the Aurora forecast app for iPhone predicted because I quickly learned that Northern Lights are elusive and unpredictable. When you least expect it, you get lucky. What looked like wispy clouds moving in the wind at first were the most spectacular ever-shifting Northern Lights dancing in the sky above the mountains and fjord. I watched the swirly, playful light show in awe, and in all my excitement, I forgot to focus when capturing my first Northern Lights on camera. No worries, I later focused on the mountains at the horizon to come home with spectacular images to be enjoyed by generations.

And then there was Svavar Knútur, a friend of Magnus: "Just give it enough time, and it will be funny." Svavar stands a few feet from me in the cozy dining room of Hotel Djúpavík, yet fills entire cathedrals with his performances as a songwriter, singer, and storyteller across Europe. His stories and songs are rooted in Iceland's culture, a smart and witty hometown boy's perspective on Weltschmerz, humanity, nature — universally relatable — and the occasional (political) pun, making you laugh and cry at the same time. Weeks later, I find myself listening to Svavar's album "Brot (The Breaking)" with a smile, remembering this unexpected treat.

Back home, I have fond memories of this magical place called Djúpavík, and I genuinely treasure moments of silence in my everyday life. It's where a picture takes you.