I’m about to gush about the Ice Hotel, and I’m finding it somewhat difficult to begin. I don’t often gush about places I go or meals I eat. I’m not sure why; perhaps I like to keep my peak experiences to myself, to reflect upon in quiet moments. Perhaps I feel like the best things should be kept under wraps, in order to keep them special. It's silly, I know. The best things should be shared, not kept secret.
But the Ice Hotel isn’t a secret. It has been covered in documentaries and written about in destination magazines so many times that it has long ceased to be news. Everyone has heard of it. Been there, done that.
Perhaps that’s why I was so blown away; I honestly did not expect it to be so exceptional. I thought it would be like so many other things: overrated.
Only it wasn’t. It was a sumptuous feast for the senses, from start to finish. Taste, touch, sight, smell… the Ice Hotel engaged my entire body, and I was dazzled on every count.
For the sake of brevity (ha!), I'll just list three:
The beauty. The Arctic landscape is stunning. It is more than just snow; the cold, condensed air is thick as smoke, and the light is magical; this time of year, the sun makes an appearance at about 9:30 am, in a show of pink and yellow beams, and sets about five hours later, sinking in waves of rose and purple. The inside landscape was equally astonishing; when we walked for the first time through doors covered in reindeer pelts into a building made entirely of ice and snow, my breath caught in my throat. The hall was decorated with thick rectangular pillars made of ice; a chandelier dangled from the ceiling, an assembly of huge ice crystals threaded with fiber optic cables. Each of the ice suites was entirely different. We saw waterfalls made of ice; ice angels with wings that nearly touched the opposite walls; a sparkling ice catwalk, in which a tree seemed to spread its branches. The Ice Chapel, located in a separate building, was like something out of a winter dream. The ceiling was carved to emulate the criss-crossed arches of a gothic church; behind the ice podium rose a sheet of clear ice carved with Swedish flowers that resembled snowdrops.
The temperature.
As someone who lives in California, it was difficult for me to grasp the notion of
temperatures between –20 and –40 degrees. I bought snow pants and a ski jacket and packed as many warm things as I owned, but I still wasn’t prepared for the extreme cold. I
was bundled into multiple layers, and I still couldn’t stay out for more than 20 minutes without rushing inside, fingers aching with pain and eyelashes crusted with ice droplets. On the second day, we finally made our way to the gear desk, where they handed us standard-issue Ice Hotel jumpsuits, a teal and black outfit with a fur collar, and offered thick boots, hats and gloves if ours weren’t up to snuff. We pulled the jumpsuits over our clothes; it helped. But it was still cold. C-c-c-cold.
The food. Before the trip, I arranged an interview with Richard Näslin, head chef at the Ice Hotel Restaurant. I must admit that my expectations weren’t terribly high. This was the Arctic Circle, after all! What could they possibly have on hand– chipped beef and potatoes? But when I opened up the menu, I felt a surge of excitment: bleak roe served with “traditional accompaniments”; smoked reindeer joint served with wild game gravy and stewed morels; arctic char with an apple-potato terrine. I’m going to write up our dinner in more detail for another purpose, but let me say that I was enchanted by every bite. The reindeer joint – let me just say, without exaggeration, that that dish alone was worth the trip, to say nothing of the other dishes that made my spine tingle.
When I met the chef, I was astounded yet again. Here was a tall young man with a shock of strawberry blonde hair and a bashful smile. He reminded me of Matt Damon.
“Do you mind my asking…?” I said, several minutes into our conversation, “How old are you?”
He didn’t hesitate. “23,” he replied.
A twenty-three year old head chef with a passion for authentic Swedish cuisine, who wants to deliver a distinct sense of place in every dish that he makes. I was smitten.
Ah, but even the most beautiful dream must end eventually. I’m off to Morocco in the morning, but I'll carry memories of ice with me.
