One Year a Human

At long last, I have lived in Iceland for one year, consecutively. On November 16, 2023, I landed in Iceland, moved into my Airbnb, and first truly called this country home. Since then, I’ve gone on a wild adventure as I have previously described. In the last two weeks alone, I’ve been to an evening work event, a Halloween party, a sendoff party, two birthday parties, a dinner party, and a movie night. Not to mention the regular writing group, meeting with the older man, karaoke nights, library group, and philosophy group. Or meeting with friends and work itself. All in two weeks. I find that a good summary of how things turned out for me moving to Iceland. Before coming here, what did I do? I met with my one friend remaining in Michigan perhaps once every two weeks. That was all.

Thus, when I came to Iceland, I knew nothing. Nothing about who I was, what life was like, nor what life could be like. I went out into the world blind and naive. But at least I went out into the world — and what things I saw and learned. However, that knowledge came at a cost: to see the world so fresh and new opened my eyes a little too wide. Now, I look out and see people and question everything about human existence in the modern world.

I got a promotion at work: a very prestigious opportunity for which I am very grateful. I can now say that I have succeeded in transitioning my career from my old life of computer science to my new life of art and creativity. But now I feel frustrated. The new work I have isn’t quite what I had in mind (though it’s just a start), and now I am stuck with a burning passion to go out and create. I want to take pictures. I want to make films. I want to open a gallery/creative space. I want to hold groups and community sessions. I want to fill my life and this small city with these things that bring me life.

My roommate and I want to make a short film. We have thoughts and ideas, but we hit a wall with one very interesting problem: Who will help us? The two people I have in mind are going to head off to their respective schools in other countries soon. Meanwhile, my other friends are perfectly capable, but they aren’t passionate about these things. I need people with the burning, raging, inner fire who are fed by the act of creating. And where are those people? The few that I knew are gone as well, also back to their respective countries. To me, this is a sad thought. I feel alone in my passion. If I had the right people, I would gladly throw my life savings at a gallery space downtown. I know I can still meet such people, but when? and how?

Aside from this creative passion, another lesson I’ve gained from my time here is the value of other people’s stories. Last week, I invited someone to visit a library in the east — to see a free exchange-market. I took home some candle holders and many old Icelandic books, but the point was, of course, to speak with this person one-on-one. And I learned a lot. About their story, their views of the world, and so on. This also instilled in me a desire to go out into the world, to “adventure” and truly experience other people and their lives. I’m already planning my adventures after Finland. I have Latvia, Lithuania, and Estonia in mind. Then perhaps Poland, Czechia, and Slovakia another time. Those are merely ideas; my point is that life is grand and vast. I can meet people here in Iceland, but experience takes place elsewhere. I want to talk to more people, hear their stories and how they came to be where they are now… how they came to be who they are now.

Though I am faced with another problem: taking interest in people. Some people, I do not find interesting at all. On Monday, I went with my roommate to one of our favorite places in Reykjavík for their nightly event. We spoke about literature, a back-and-forth on our experiences with different books and authors. I left early, and on the walk home, I came to a beautiful realization: we communicated in another language. I wish I could express how profound that thought is; I will certainly try:

The people I don’t find interesting or simply don’t get along with all have lives of their own. They hang out with other people, do things together, etc. As does anyone. But the people I am looking for are people who speak my language. For example, I don’t want to talk in terms of music: musicians, songs, concerts — those types of experiences. I want to communicate in terms of art, literature, and languages. Like that older man I meet every Monday. For six months, we’ve been meeting now. And we always talk about languages and society. I somewhat jokingly offered to teach a friend Finnish, and another friend joked, “Who would want to learn Finnish?” The irony is that this is exactly what I wish to express here: the people I am looking for are those who are crazy enough to think that Finnish is a beautiful, interesting language. Because I am the one, the opposite one, who listens to everyone speak about music and asks, “Who would want to listen to Taylor Swift?” We speak different languages.

Moving forward, I wish to understand how to take better interest in people despite their hobbies and passions. Not everyone needs to be a friend, but when I hear someone describe another person as “likable,” I’m always fascinated by what that means. I don’t want everyone to like me. In fact, I only want the people I would call “my people” to like me. However, I also want to take a deeper interest in others: be more open and considerate. I want to want to like other people — in whatever strange meaning that has. Similarly, I want to engage other people better in my own interests and passions. I can’t say I know what that means, either.

My dreams are unchanged. I first came to Iceland in March last year with the dream of buying a house and opening an art gallery. The only change is that my dream has grown larger, as I described. I need space. I need money. I need people. How to find those, I have no clue. But that is my mission: to figure all of this out. My fear, on the other hand, is that I won’t want to stay in Iceland — that I would rather attempt this all in Finland or Estonia or somewhere else whence the earth calls my name. I met a woman in Istanbul one year ago who said I could go to St. Petersburg in Russia to practice my Russian with her and her people. That calls to me as well. Would I ever do that in the current climate? I would not say a definitive no, and thoughts like that scare me.

So, I built a life in Iceland. I corrected my career trajectory. I found a miracle of an apartment (even if it isn’t what I had in mind). I created groups, joined groups, made friends… discovered the world. It’s mind-blowing to think that one year ago, I was alone in my dark Airbnb with no friends, no family, no home, no job, nothing at all. It also amazes me that I would still think of leaving everything behind to try out yet another country — though I would be going with my new knowledge and changed self.

I would not say that I am happy. I no longer know what happiness means. At least I am not unhappy. And I was very, very unhappy one year ago. I will call that progress. Every now and then, I will write down a thought for future reference. I’ll end this with an appropriate one thus:

Such is the beauty of life: to have reached a peak and look down into its depths. But such requires depths in the first place.

Or perhaps I should end on a Cioran-inspired note:

The luckiest of people are the ones who have no idea they are lucky.

Woe is the age-old question of whether we would be better off happy and naive.