Dottir

by Katrin Davidsdottir

  * * *

  My life story feels punctuated by my grandparents’ work posts. I have lived in Iceland since I was four. I consider it to be my base and my home. But when I look back at my life, my sense of time is anchored by where I spent my summers. When Afi’s station in London ended, my grandparents returned to Reykjavik. I had moved back from London a year prior and I hadn’t realized how much I missed them.

  Amma was an incredible storyteller. When I was young, she would sing to me and tell me stories. She had such a vivid imagination, I wish she’d written children’s books. She recounted fantastical tales about the adventures of the terrible trolls and magical elves of the Icelandic countryside, filling my head with wild dreams as I dozed off.

  When school was out, we traveled to our summer house, about an hour and a half east of Reykjavik in a place called Ida. My grandparents simply said, “We’re headed east,” and I would get giddy. It’s deep in the countryside and it’s been in my family for two generations.

  Along the way, my grandmother would pick up her troll tales and fairy fantasies, pointing to the parts of the landscape that were inspiration for her magical stories. There was one huge boulder on a mountainside that she would point out on every trip. I could never see what she meant. Once when I was seven, she was frustrated when I told her I couldn’t see the troll and immediately stopped the car, swerving to the side of the road.

  “Have you no imagination, child?” she scolded.

  The boulder immediately turned into a horrible grimacing troll in my mind’s eye. She cured me—for a moment—from my overly analytical mind.

  My great-grandfather built that house out east in the wide-open space near the bottom of a rolling hill. The mossy plot stood close to a river teeming with fish. The walls seemed too small for the vaulted ceiling when I was growing up, but the space is so peaceful. It’s the kind of place that produces energy. You can go there weary and return fully energized.

  Some of my fondest memories came from summertime visits to Ida. Amma baked waffles with jam and whipped cream. Even my grandpa would try his hand at cooking when we were there, something that never happened at home. He actually set the kitchen on fire the only time he cooked at home. During the day, Amma played badminton with me. At night, my grandfather, my little brother Jack, and I would play cards and watch murder mysteries. They called them “whodunits.”

  I wanted to be around them so badly that being away for even one night was too long.

  “Please let me sleep with you,” I pleaded in a note. “My room is so close to the trees and I’m allergic to trees!”

  While my eight-year-old tactics were less than compelling, they still let me sleep in the middle of their bed from time to time. In reality, I loved the trees. Outside, my grandparents had planted an army of them decades before I was born. They had grown to be enormous by the time I started visiting Ida. We call them “The Guardians” because they surround the house, protecting it from the harsh elements of the Icelandic countryside. No matter how nasty the weather gets outside, it’s always peaceful in our cottage in Ida.

  Denmark, 2003

  Shortly after my parents divorced, Amma and Afi moved to Denmark for Afi to start his new role as the Icelandic Ambassador to Denmark.

  The ambassador’s residence was magnificent; I felt like royalty when I was there. There were enormous spaces for hosting parties and galas. As a bonus, it was walking distance from Dyrehavsbakken (Bakken for short), which is the Danish equivalent of Disneyland. Opened in 1583, Bakken is actually the world’s oldest amusement park. We used to go every once in a while, but I was just a little too short to get on the rides, which was devastating at the time. I was fearless but had no way to prove it.

  The first floor of the ambassador’s residence is not for living. It’s for hosting hundreds of people. There are ballrooms and enormous kitchens. It’s large and ornate, and decorated with Icelandic art and entertainment. Amma loved hosting and she could talk for hours about art and culture. Amma loved talking about the house, but I loved the garden—so large you could get lost in it.

  Everyone in Denmark bikes everywhere. Bike lanes are divided. Fast, commuter traffic stays in the left bike lane, while the right bike lane is for parents with their kids in tow on their way to school drop-off and for the slow-moving tourists. My last summer in Copenhagen, my grandparents took me to a bike shop and bought me my very first bicycle. It was shiny and red with gears. I can remember how special and grown-up I felt, riding a bike with gears! I rode that bike constantly, all summer long, the feeling of freedom and adventure coursing through me.

  Benzipan and Suunkit worked at the residence in Copenhagen every day. They had served many ambassadors before Afi, but their stories focused on their homeland: Thailand. Suunkit was an old man but Benzipan had a daughter my age. She still lived in Thailand and I loved to ask about her as Benzipan showed me pictures and told me about life at home. Seeing pictures of this little girl, I imagined she’d be my friend if she lived here and the adventures we would have together. When my grandparents weren’t there, Benzipan would take me out to the amusement parks, either to the Tivoli or even Bakken.

  Benzipan and Suunkit cooked the best food, curries and soups, full of amazing spices that were all new to me. I would stuff myself full because it was so delicious. Any time there were big receptions, Benzipan and Suunkit would decorate the house and carve the fruit into ornate presentations for guests.

  I admired them; tremendously hardworking, they made a stark impression on my young mind. Benzipan ended up creating such a strong bond with my grandparents that she and her daughter traveled to the United States with them when they finished their time in Denmark.

  * * *

  After Denmark, Afi’s next station was in the U.S. capital, Washington, D.C. I was eleven at the time and thought it was so cool that my grandfather was going to be the ambassador to the United States!

  I wasn’t a little girl any longer and during the summers that I visited D.C., I would attend training camps at a local gymnastics gym called Arlington Aerials. It was very different from my home, the opposite of the pristine Icelandic gyms I was used to. Arlington Aerials was more like a gym, less refined, and it actually smelled like a gym. I loved the foreign feeling that the camps offered. They operated with a more rigorous system, with higher expectations put on each athlete. They trained a lot more frequently, with more intensity than I was used to back in Iceland.

  The American girls were surprisingly open and friendly, but I didn’t make many friends outside the gym. I had it good with my grandparents and I preferred spending time with my family. Most days my grandfather was busy with work, and Amma would take me shopping. If another ambassador’s family had kids my age, we would all go together.

  Summer 2006

  During my grandparents third and final summer in D.C., my mom and I stopped in D.C. on the way to a gymnastics camp in Alabama with my Icelandic club team. I was trying hard to disguise it, but I was in tremendous pain.

  Both of my wrists were killing me. I had never experienced anything like it and the timing was terrible. I never complained about injuries, biting my lip and carrying on instead. Getting sidelined was more terrifying to me than the injury itself. I let the situation deteriorate to the point where I couldn’t move my wrists. I was even using a closed fist to do round offs and back handsprings. That caught my coaches’ attention and they forced me to rest. This was a nightmare for me. I was at a huge training camp with Olympians as coaches and now the whole opportunity was in jeopardy.

  Doctors determined that there were no visible breaks on the X-rays. I got a cast, a prescription for anti-inflammatories and directions to take it easy until the cast came off. I missed the remainder of the camp. When the cast was finally removed, I remember feeling so nervous and unsure. I treated it gingerly until I was confident that the healing process had been successful. I cartwheeled around the house in celebration.

  Although I was limited in my movement,
I had an amazing summer training every day. My grandparents were busy, so I would put on my leotards and shorts and head to the gym. My grandfather’s chauffeur, Francisco, drove me to practice. He made every day like carpool karaoke, singing at the top of his lungs as we rolled for forty-five minutes across town.

  * * *

  When he was a kid, Afi helped build a three-story housing complex, and then lived there growing up with his parents. When he and Amma were newlyweds, they lived on the second floor, over his parents. So when it came time for my grandparents to move back to Iceland it was an easy choice for them—they purchased an apartment in that same building.

  My mom moved to another town, even farther from Reykjavik, which made it hard to coordinate transportation, especially when I had exams and needed rides from school. When my mom was unavailable, Afi picked me up on his lunch breaks and took me to his office. I would sit in his office and study until it was time to go home.

  I’ve always wanted to be like my grandfather and these days would reinforce my admiration for him. Sometimes I would have lunch with him and the prime minister, which really impressed me. I thought I was so cool. In my mind, I wanted to be an ambassador or the prime minister. Maybe even the president.

  I still lived with my mom, but on days when I was in Reykjavik, I would stay with my grandparents. I was at their house often enough that Amma kept an inflatable mattress for me to sleep on in the living room, which made me feel welcome. They provided me with security and stability, though I was constantly moving around.

  My mom’s husband got a new job and the whole family moved to Norway. I was still serious with gymnastics and I had switched gyms. I had just gotten into the college where I wanted to study. College in Iceland is what Americans might think of as prep school. It’s a nonmandatory preparation for sixteen- to nineteen-year-olds in advance of university. My life and my best friends were all in Reykjavik. So, I moved in with my grandparents.

  * * *

  In gymnastics during my college years, my love for conditioning was as strong as ever. Among the other girls in my class, however, the unpopularity of our Russian coach and his methods were at an all-time high. Girls were melting down and crying in training. They would complain incessantly behind the scenes.

  The coaches would tell us, “Look, you’re doing the conditioning for yourself. Don’t short the reps. You’re not doing them for me.”

  Some girls would cut corners, but it ran against my nature. I wanted the conditioning. I thrived on it. Eventually, the other girls made enough of a stink that my coach was transferred and instructed the younger girls instead of us. Ironically, many of those younger girls wound up as some of the best in Iceland. Our Russian coach was replaced with Romanian ones.

  If you watch the Olympics, you’ll see that Russian gymnasts are strong, well built, and powerful. The Romanians, on the other hand, are thin. They are very graceful but far less powerful. Instead of a double flip, they will opt for a twist. They will focus on the artistic side of the sport and incorporate ballet.

  Romanian coaches put a premium on the routines. For conditioning, the coaches would instruct the athletes to do more reps of the routines. Instead of traditional conditioning, the coaches believe that bars will strengthen your core and floor routines will increase your flexibility.

  Only gold medals can say which method is the best, but I can tell you with confidence that the Russian methods favored me. I am not small, light, or graceful. I’m a bigger athlete with Viking bones and I needed the strength work and conditioning. Every time I requested more, the Romanian coaches replied that I needed to lose weight. They emphasized weight loss. They even discouraged us from conditioning because they were afraid we would gain muscle mass.

  I’ve never been a rebellious athlete, but I was very unhappy with what we were doing. Moving in with my grandparents meant I was moving away from Hafnarfjörður to the heart of Reykjavik, which gave me the perfect opportunity to try a different club.

  * * *

  I moved to a club called Armann. The moment I walked into the modern, airy space, I liked it, but I was also intimidated. The head coach, Vladimir, was Russian and had a reputation for being extremely strict.

  I was terrified for my entire first training session. Vladimir called me Tanja, either because he couldn’t remember my name or liked this name better. I didn’t dare to correct him and so the name stuck with me for two years because of my refusal to speak up. By some stroke of luck that day happened to be a conditioning test. I performed extremely well and actually enjoyed the session. We did push-ups until our arms were going to fall off and hanging pike tests that were borderline torturous.

  The move over to Armann was the right move at the time, but I missed my friends from Bjork. Many of them are still among my best friends to this day. Over time, the girls from my team at Armann also became my best friends. It wasn’t until years later that they told me over lots of laughter that they had not been happy with me that first day. They had scoffed, asking, “Who is this new girl who shows up and just keeps going?!”

  I trained with them the entire summer. Summers at Armann focused on conditioning. In the afternoon sessions, we did some skill and apparatus work, but mostly it was about getting strong and fit.

  In August, we attended a training camp in Denmark for two weeks to prepare for the coming season. We literally lived in the gym. Everyone slept on huge mattresses on the floor and we spent most of our waking hours training. Every morning we would wake up and go out for a jog before breakfast. A massive session followed and led directly to lunch. We would practice on the apparatus until dinner was served and then sleep like rocks before we repeated the whole process the following day. I have never seen as much improvement in such a short time as I did in that two-week period. It worked perfectly for me.

  Six months later, I injured my ankle. It was a big sprain with lots of swelling and constant pain. It seemed small at the time, but it had a lasting impact on the direction I would take. I started putting school in front of gymnastics. I would take the day off if finals were coming up to study. My ankle gave me an additional excuse to stop moving, and I lost momentum.

  * * *

  For months, Amma cleaned up my bed each day. I was still an extended-stay guest. A visitor would never know I was living there. Amma decided it was time for me to become a permanent resident. It took two years, but finally we made an official room for me. The TV room chairs were switched out for a sleeping bed. I had a closet of my own, a desk, and everything I could need to live comfortably.

  Living with my grandparents was a blessing, but it also presented some unique challenges. My mom had been so strict with what I ate when I was growing up. I was never allowed to eat anything unhealthy unless it was a cozy night or candy day. It was something we did on special occasions and I was used to the regimen.

  Grandparents, on the other hand, live to spoil their grandchildren. Grandparents don’t say “no.” Grandparents don’t stop you from eating sweets, which is okay if you’re not living with them. I had to ditch the excuse that it was okay because “I’m with Amma and Afi,” and I set my own boundaries. Harder than it sounds. I did my best to be strict with my diet, but they always had cakes around. Afi is the son of a baker, and he loves his pastries. Our little thing at night was making hot chocolate. We would make fresh “Icelandic bagels” (Kringla) and dip them in.

  The morning routine included everyone waking up in shifts, then eventually meeting in the kitchen. My grandparents had their second cup of coffee while I ate breakfast. Grandpa would take me to school on his way to work, then take me to training later.

  * * *

  At the time I knew nothing about diet. My strategy as a gymnast had been to eat as little as possible. If I could skip breakfast, I was pleased. I would have a really light lunch and maybe a banana before training. Losing sight of my diet was not the end of the world, but between the stress of my exams and the lack of exercise it did present a problem. A pattern develo
ped as this cycle continued. I started to gain weight.

  I remember when I finally recognized that the Kringla were a problem. It was an ah-ha moment that we were having these “treats” every day. I had to have the conversation with my grandparents that I couldn’t do this anymore for fear of derailing myself further.

  When I finally did return to training, I was surprised to find that I was not enjoying it as much. I felt like all I was doing was attempting to get back to where I had been. Progress wasn’t even in the discussion, it was a foreign concept. I felt sluggish and heavy and lost the fun I had previously found in the sport. It was clear in my mind that gymnastics would not sustain my athletic future. I knew I would never be the best in the world. My lack of enthusiasm led me to explore other options. That was the end of my gymnastics career. I needed something new. At sixteen years old, after ten years of living and breathing gymnastics as training and sport, I looked for something to replace it.

  * * *

  The lack of direction in my post-gymnastics era made me feel miserable. I spent most days bored, contemplating what my next move would be. It was a difficult time for me. I’m a high achiever and I thrive on waking up with a goal in mind and attacking my day with a purpose.

  Later in the summer, I decided to try my skills at track. I had always been a natural runner but had never experienced the intensity of track intervals on the oval. I found that events like the 400-meter and 800-meter races could beat me up in the same way as the hardest days of gymnastics conditioning.