Mt. Airy to Iceland: a long trip to see a Penis Museum

Posted 5/25/18

During her recent trip to Iceland, Mt. Airy author Constance Garcia-Barrio visited the world’s only Penis Museum. Here a museum employee proudly demonstrates one of their larger specimens from a …

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Mt. Airy to Iceland: a long trip to see a Penis Museum

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During her recent trip to Iceland, Mt. Airy author Constance Garcia-Barrio visited the world’s only Penis Museum. Here a museum employee proudly demonstrates one of their larger specimens from a creature you do not want hanging around the neighborhood. According to Constance, “The museum shattered that famous adage: See one, and you’ve seen ‘em all.”[/caption]

by Constance Garcia-Barrio

On a Thursday night at Icelandair Hotel Reykjavik Natura, I joined other guests in pajamas and slippers for the 9 p.m. story hour. Juice, cookies, blankets and pillows lay ready for us in the dim auditorium before a professor of literature from the University of Iceland told stories of elves and trolls, “hidden people” or “Huldufolk” who live unseen by humans unless they choose otherwise.

Little had I known when I jetted off from JFK that I would touch down in a land sown with so many stories. True, I’d come to attend the Iceland Writers Retreat where 60 of us, hailing from Mumbai to Mt. Airy, would take workshops to hone our craft. Cram that many writers into one spot, and tales sprout like wildflowers. But Reykjavik Natura’s nighttime tales put me on notice: the Land of the Midnight Sun would steep me in stories.

The very founding of this North Atlantic island of 340,000 people comes wrapped in legend, I learned from a booklet while waiting for a bus into town the next day. Norwegian chieftain Ingolfur Arnarson threw two carved pillars off his ship, vowing to settle wherever they washed ashore, the story goes. In 874, Arnarson found them in what became Reykjavik, I read before boarding bus five.

I had decided to follow in the footsteps — sort of — of 8th century Irish monk and geographer Dicuilus, who described Iceland as “…filled with sheep and very many diverse kinds of seabirds.” I had no religious intent, but I did aim to buy one of Iceland’s fabled sweaters. Word had it that the Reykjavik’s Handknitters Association carried the genuine article.

Bus 5 whizzed past low, blocky buildings, few trees and rare litter. The Fairy of Befuddled Tourists helped me glimpse a banner that said “Tales from Iceland” on a building. Given the previous night’s storytelling, it seemed promising. Outside the building, a bench had two-foot tourist elves on it. “We don’t know if they exist,” a sign explained, “but we honor them just in case.” Inside, I watched 14 three-minute video clips on Iceland with subjects ranging from volcanoes to music. My favorite was a visual diary of a mom, dad and three kids camping in gorgeous places. Altogether, an entertaining portrait of the country.

“Where’s the Handknitters Association?” I asked Gunnhildur, a staffer, as I left. “I’d like to buy a sweater.”

“I don’t know, but there’s a good store two blocks down, and the Penis Museum is around the corner.”

I had warmth in mind, though not that variety, but I couldn’t resist a visit. Exhibits in the Icelandic Phallological Museum range from a polar bear penis to a mouse specimen. I found the “artistic oddments,” including three large stones — one oblong, two round, suggestively arranged — more fun. A totem pole fashioned in the appropriate shape had “Viagra” carved into it. The museum shattered that famous adage: See one, and you’ve seen ‘em all.

After many a wrong turn, I found the Handknitters Association. The scent of sheep wafted out the door from sweaters tiny to gargantuan spilling off wooden shelves stacked from floor to ceiling. Colors ranged from pinks to grays to browns. I hate shopping, but the lamby aroma, the soft feel and all those hues intoxicated me. I chose a sweater in the wool’s natural color, like dry sand, with a yoke of dark green and brown eight-pointed stars. Earth colors, like wearing woven land. At $200, it was a low-end price!

My foray emboldened me to book a tour that would take me beyond Reykjavik, and the bus drove over terrain layered with stories. Miles of black lava fields, ice-crowned mountains, geysers, glaciers and volcanoes are said to have inspired Jules Verne’s 1864 science fiction classic, “Journey to the Center of the Earth.” Our guide hard-cooked eggs for us by lowering them in a wire basket into a boiling spring— and lava stalagmites led producers to shoot scenes from Game of Thrones here.

I bathed in the Secret Lagoon in the village of Fludir and emerged with velvety skin. Elsewhere, a geyser of exploding blue-white water made me shriek in amazement. Along the road I caught sight of tiny houses built so that elves can live there peacefully, and I heard that Iceland’s engineers consult elf experts before routing new highways, lest angered Huldufolk cause trouble.

Iceland’s trove of lore grew deep, thanks in part to its distance from the rest of Europe, some folklorists say, but the location led to invasions in World War II. Under Norwegian rule from 1262 to 1380 and Danish rule from 1380 to 1918, Iceland remained neutral in WW II, but England invaded it in 1940 due to its usefulness for air and sea strikes against Germany. In 1941, the U.S. took over Iceland’s occupation.

Reykjavik native Haldor Laxness (1902-1998), winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1955 for his novels, poetry and plays, wrote a novel protesting the U.S. decision to establish a permanent air base in Keflavik, near Reykjavik. The U.S. blacklisted Laxness as a result.

During the occupations, Iceland, now an independent democracy, withstood the pressure of English. Although the Icelanders I met spoke excellent English, they maintain their own language, which developed from Old Norse. Icelandic has changed little over the centuries. AEver Thor Benediktsson, a Reykjavik actor and author, told me that present-day Icelanders can read sagas written centuries ago.

Stories from many traditions feature a king, queen and castle. Our writers’ group enjoyed today’s equivalent when Guoni Th. Johannesson, Iceland’s President, and his wife welcomed us to a reception at Bessastador, the presidential residence, near Reykjavik. We had wine, cheese and scrumptious hors d’oeuvres.

Guoni Th. Johannesson seemed a prince in different ways. “He’s a soccer dad who carts his kids around,” AEver Tahor Benediktsson told me, “and he goes plogging, where you jog but stop to pick up trash.”

My time in Iceland included stories that will remain with me happily ever after.

Icelandair Hotel Reykjavik Natura offers discounts of 20 percent to 30 percent for stopovers in Iceland as well as in-house restaurant discounts. Constance Garcia-Barrio is a long-time Mt. Airy resident, author and retired professor of Romance languages at West Chester University.

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