I parked my rental camper van near Reykjavik’s iconic Sun Voyager sculpture—a sleek, steel tribute to Iceland’s Viking past, designed by Jón Gunnar Árnason in the 1980s. It looks like a Viking ship, ready to sail wherever the Vikings went back then. A perfect spot to kick off my late-night run… at 10 PM. Of course, in Iceland, 10 PM is basically mid-afternoon in the summer. The sun wasn’t going to set for another two hours, and even when it did, it would rise again by 3 AM, just to keep things very interesting. I mapped out my route: I’d follow the northern shore towards Grótta Island Lighthouse, cut through the Golfklúbbur golf course in Seltjarnarnes, and finish at the famous Rainbow Street, right by Hallgrímskirkja. As I ran, I found myself mesmerized by Reykjavik’s corrugated iron-clad houses—colorful, quirky. These sheet-metal homes, built between 1880 and 1952, have kept Icelanders warm and dry for over a century. But something about the city felt too new—unusual for a place settled over 1,200 years ago.

Then I learned why. Unlike the rest of Europe, where buildings from the 1300s still stand, Reykjavik has almost nothing left from before the late 19th century. Turns out poverty and brutal weather meant people didn’t build grand stone structures—they built turf houses, which were basically huts made of dirt and grass (the Viking version of hobbit homes)

Turf houses were Iceland’s answer to the complete lack of trees on the island. Imagine a wooden frame buried in sod, with a thick blanket of green grass growing over the roof. From the outside, they looked like something out of Hobbiton. But inside? Dark, damp, and barely warmer than the outside air. The only source of heat was a single kitchen hearth, and if you were really lucky, the walls didn’t start crumbling on you mid-winter.

Eventually, Icelanders gave up on turf homes, because no one wants to rebuild their walls every five years just to stay indoors. The switch to sheet-metal houses was a game-changer—lightweight, durable, and a bit more permanent than walls made of moss.

**Icelandic’s original homes** - turf homes

But Reykjavik isn’t just a city of corrugated metal nostalgia—it’s booming. As I ran past the older neighborhoods, cranes dominated the skyline, building sleek, modern apartments with huge windows and bold colors. I finished my run on the vibrant Rainbow Street, with Hallgrímskirkja towering above like a concrete spaceship about to take off. The sky still refused to get dark, and the crisp ocean air made me feel alive, exhausted, and absolutely in love with this strange, beautiful city.

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