The Taste of Icelandic Volcanic Ash

When the plane landed at Keflavík, the sky was an indescribable grey-blue, mixed with a faint, elusive smell of sulfur. Three in the afternoon, yet the sunlight was as stingy as the residual glow before midnight. I had come to Reykjavik for a small translation seminar, the topic unimportant, at least to me. What truly drew me was the name "Iceland" itself, like an uncut piece of obsidian, cold, sharp-edged, yet potentially hiding unexpected light within.

Settling into the hotel, it was already evening. Outside the window, the city's sparse lights looked exceptionally lonely against the vast backdrop. I decided to go out for a walk, find a place for coffee. The air was crisp, the wind strong, carrying the saltiness of the sea and a deeper, mineral chill. Entering a streetside café, the warmth and aroma of coffee beans immediately enveloped me. It wasn't crowded, just a few scattered pairs, each immersed in their own world.

I chose a window seat, ordered black coffee and a slice of rye bread spread with thick butter. The coffee was hot, intense, with an unadorned bitterness. The bread was surprisingly hard, requiring effort to chew before the primitive aroma of wheat slowly released. Just as I was struggling with the bread, she walked in.

She wore a dark grey wool coat, her hair the common Icelandic light gold, loosely gathered at the back of her head. Her gaze was calm, like a lake surface covered with thin ice. She ordered something at the counter, then walked straight to the empty table next to mine and sat down. Before her was only a glass of water with a slice of lemon floating in it.

An empty table separated us. Silence permeated the café's low background music (Bill Evans, I think). For some reason, I sensed a peculiar aura emanating from her, not perfume, but something more essential, like... the smell of mixed earth and minerals? Perhaps it was just my imagination, influenced by the strange atmosphere of this land.

She suddenly spoke, her voice soft, with a peculiar rhythm: "This rye bread, can you taste the volcano in it?"

I paused, putting down the bread. "The taste of the volcano?"

"Mm," she nodded slightly, her gaze drifting outside the window, where only bare branches swayed in the wind. "Years ago, when Eyjafjallajökull erupted, volcanic ash covered the entire city. During that time, the air, the water, even the food, carried that subtle granular texture, a kind of... mineral taste after being scorched." She turned back to look at me. "Some people hated that taste, but I felt it was the true taste of Iceland."

I didn't know how to respond. This conversation went beyond typical café small talk, carrying a Kafkaesque absurdity and poetry.

"Are you a tourist?" she asked.

"Here for a conference," I replied. "And to look around."

"Look around..." she repeated, a faint, unreadable smile touching her lips. "Look at what? The Northern Lights? Geysers? Or us, the people living on the edge of the world?"

"Perhaps all of them," I said. "I'm interested in the 'edge'."

She didn't press further, just lifted her water glass and took a small sip. The lemon slice swayed. After a moment, as if talking to herself, yet also to me: "When I was little, I liked licking stones. Not just any stones, but those black, porous volcanic rocks. They had a special taste, like rust, and a bit like... well, hard to describe, like the bones of the earth."

I felt a slight dizziness. A news headline flashed through my mind – "Iceland: Homeland of Pica". So, it wasn't just groundless rumour.

"Don't you find it strange?" I asked cautiously.

"Strange?" She tilted her head, her eyes clear. "Eating dirt, eating chalk, eating hair... Why find it strange? When we lack something in our bodies, or have a void in our souls, we have to find something to fill it, right? Food is too bland, too processed, it's lost its primitive texture. But those things not considered food, they retain the most real sense of existence."

Her tone was as calm as if discussing the weather. But I distinctly heard a bottomless loneliness and a kind of metaphysical hunger within it. This land, cold, solitary, geologically active – do the people living here also need to absorb some unusual 'nutrients' to combat their inner desolation?

"So, do you still..." I hesitated, unsure whether to ask.

She smiled, a genuine smile this time, like brief winter sunlight. "Occasionally. When I feel like I'm about to float away, I'll find a suitable stone, or just grab a handful of sand by the sea, to feel that coarse, cold reality." She paused, adding, "There's nothing shameful about it. We all have our own 'pica,' don't we? Some are obsessed with alcohol, some addicted to shopping, some pursue fleeting fame... It's all just filling a void. We just choose different 'foods'."

The coffee had gone cold. Outside, the sky had completely darkened, turning a deep, almost solidified blue. The murmur of conversation in the café seemed to quiet down, only Bill Evans' piano flowed through the air, each note like a smooth pebble sinking into a silent, deep pool.

She stood up, ready to leave. "If you stay in Iceland long enough, perhaps you'll also begin to understand this 'taste'." She left this sentence behind, wrapped her coat tighter, and vanished out the door like a gust of wind.

I sat there for a long time, motionless. Half of the rye bread remained on the table. I picked up a small piece, put it in my mouth, and chewed slowly. This time, I seemed to actually taste a faint, elusive bitterness and hardness belonging to volcanic ash. It wasn't a sensation on the taste buds, but more of a metaphysical experience originating from existence itself.

Stepping out of the café, the cold wind hit my face. Reykjavik's streets were vast and silent, as if the entire world was holding its breath, waiting. I looked up at the deep blue sky, imagining countless invisible particles of volcanic ash floating like ghosts in the air, waiting to be tasted by some lonely soul. Perhaps, we are all involuntarily swallowing our own share of 'volcanic ash,' trying to find something solid within it, something to prove our own existence. And Iceland, this homeland of pica, simply reveals this secret more honestly.