The City Of Armilla: Travelogue

The smell of old, mossy wood doesn’t mix well with the sea spray bombarding my flushed face. Especially when you’re cold to the bone, trying to salvage what body warmth you have left. I was violently regretting my decision to take the boat. At this point, Iceland was a distant fantasy, the mainland that’s too far for comfort now…I was committed. The senile little boat wasn’t reassuring in the slightest, a sodden collage of metal scraps slapped onto the remains of its original wooden frame, a botched attempt at a cyborg war ship. Still evidently an old fishing boat; logo stains from a long-forgotten company tattoo the boat’s old exterior, an indication of its human creators. I vividly remember the boat’s quirky deck, humorously unfit for the job of transporting tourists from the mainland to Armilla’s docks. Only a small roofed hut outlined with wet wooden benches was available for cover, filled with excited travel-goers. The taste of salt soon changed to an unusual taste of iron, I had to check I hadn’t bitten my tongue. It was a sign we were close, and I joined the other ship dwellers in their anticipated chatter.

The vibrant bustling dockyard was an exuberant welcome to Armilla, filled with productivity, cargo, and a surplus supply of metal. I heard the sounds seagulls, machinery and chatter echoing off the monochrome landscape, a very unusual yet harmonic experience. My excitement immediately drawn to the sound of powerful, gritty engines reverberating amongst the cylindrical metal skyline…a calling. The sensation of wet socks was enough to cut off my train of thought, and I decided to find warmth.  

I was envious at the nymphs, strolling along with little care for the cold gusts, clearly weathered and unphased compared to the humans huddled under coats and hats. Coastal smells of fish quickly faded as I wandered further into the city, replaced by perfume and fabric softener emitting from laundromats and fragrance stores, two seemingly common establishments. I enjoyed the novelty of incense sticks, which accompanied almost every windowsill visible, what a strange concoction of culture. On occasion, the rows of streets would break for a garage, where the aroma of tyres and unusual egg smell accompanied revving, cranking and clattering. Then the shops would start again.

A narrower turning gave me a break from the crowds of the main roads. I recall a little alley parallel to the back of a laundromat. The humming of fans blew its warm detergent-smelling mist onto my clothes, covering me with cloudy water droplets, a surprisingly wonderful experience. I remember manoeuvring by grinning face around my surroundings, watching the spots of sunlight play with the laundromat’s strange architecture, patterning the metal walls like leopard print. The alley opened to a small green space, centred around a grand Neptune statue decorated with flowers, candles and more incense. I sat next to a middle-aged nymph and had a pleasant chat about her business, which we were seated against.  

Another vividly remarkable memory I have of my trip was the aroma of coffee, Armilla was known for its baristas. I chose a café with the most enticing caffeine scent and ordered myself an unbeatable cappuccino which arrived in a cup more like a bowl and patterned with coca in the shape of a school of fish.  The Snúður was also memorable, a cinnamon filled bread roll covered in chocolate. As I ate, I listened into a table adjacent to me, three nymphs complaining about the “ugly human buildings on the outskirts of the city centre” and how they “hope for them to be demolished before May in time for the festival”.

The stroll to my hotel was just as remarkable. I commented on a pair of unusual police uniforms, they explained their role as “fire wardens, necessary with Armilla’s architecture. Fires pop up all over the place, I pity the kelp-drying businesses without insurance.”  I was warmly greeted by the hotel receptionist. I recall a strange scene through the window as my paperwork was checked…I watched what I believed to be window cleaners on the adjacent building. In fact, they appeared to be polishing the buildings metal exoskeleton, what a gruelling process! The hotel was filled with aquatic life, illuminating its rooms. Allegedly, the hotel’s fish habitats were all interlinked as one system, partnering with a nearby hatchery and volunteering its space as a marine habitat. To my pleasant surprise, my room’s ceiling was an unobstructed view of fish, swimming amongst turquoise waters. Armilla’s use of interior space was unforgettable.

It was dusk by the time I re-emerged. The streets were filled with celebrations, which I learnt was extremely common as tourism is huge in Armilla. The smell of Gin and beer warmed my nostrils, sending me into a nostalgic and festive spirit. I walked with eagerness through the streets, browsing menu boards. I ordered some hot spring rye bread with smoked mutton, washed down with beer and followed by a hearty stew served with sheep’s head, a delicious experience…not for the faint stomached. I was no longer concerned over the laws against eating fish, as this restraunt reassured.

I arrived at the garage bright and early, blowing on my fingers and watching by breath as I waited for the garage shutters to rise. I reminisce on how excited I felt, but saddened I’d soon be leaving Armilla. An orange glow crept over the distant mountains, silhouetting the unusual structures and immense satellite disks dotting the horizon. Finally, the shutters rose, and I was greeted by a nymph mechanic. A few signatures and forms of ID were restlessly shown before I was escorted to another building. The heavy brass door was pulled open, revealing the car. The design reflected everything I had experienced in Armilla, love at first sight. State of the art, hydroelectric powered muscle with all the trimmings. Ten years of saving and I had finally become the owner of a famous Armillian sports car.

The pinnacle of my trip was the drive along the vast stretch of road overlooking the ocean, the only solid link between Iceland and Armilla. I watched the little water droplets dance across the windscreen, dressed in yellow light. With the sunrise to my side and Armilla in my mirrors, it was the only experience that could finalize my short but unforgettable stay in Armilla. I drove across the bridge, homeward bound.