The first time I moved to Iceland, I arrived at night. Hitchhiking from the airport, I couldn’t see the land itself, only its outlines. Street lights, windows, and construction cranes described the topography in glowing fragments, but the colours of vegetation and the feel of the place were missing. Iceland existed as memory, images I had seen before travelling. My first real introduction came at 05:20 the next morning.
Through the narrow gap of my slightly open bedroom window, I heard it: the unmistakable call of a Red-throated Diver. First came a mix of recognition and confusion. The call was familiar from home, but I was in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar cohabitation, in an unfamiliar country. Then the thought settled: a Red-throated Diver is a waterbird. There had to be water nearby.
Later that morning, on my way downtown to meet other exchange students, I crossed a bridge. My map told me I was looking at Grafarvogur, just 200 metres from my window, as the crow (or diver) flies. A small dark shape rested on the water. Possibly my alarm clock. At that moment, Iceland became one bird less abstract.
Interspecies guides
The following week, my world was small: the campuses of Listaháskóli Íslands (LHÍ) and Háskóli Íslands (HÍ), and the route between them. But birding expands even limited geography. On my first walk through Reykjavík, it wasn’t the buildings that oriented me; it was the soundscape of Tjörnin. Between a church, a parliament, and a theatre, I found Whooper Swans, Gadwalls, and Greater Scaup closer than I had ever experienced before.
Passing Þorfinnstjörn, Arctic Terns dive-bombed me – clear evidence of a nearby nest. Outside HÍ, European Golden-Plovers ran across the lawn, probing for worms. By a small shed in the harbour, a White Wagtail entertained bystanders, catching insects mid-flight. Outside the swimming pools, Redwings hopped around, slightly larger and darker than the ones I knew from home. Within days, the city began to organise itself not by streets, but by species.
Welcome to Iceland
Birders tend to be quietly strategic when travelling abroad. Many of us keep a “dream list,” a mental inventory of species we hope to see. These lists come from field guides, but just as much from social media, where birders share sightings and fleeting encounters. It’s a global, loosely connected community where the barrier to interaction is low. You can ask a stranger about a bird and end up with a place to stay.
Before moving, I had already made a few contacts in Iceland. So when a flock of American Cliff Swallows, firmly on my dream list, showed up in Reykjanesbær two weeks into my stay, things moved quickly. My internet friend Edward connected me with Simmi, who offered me a ride. As we drove across Reykjanes, Simmi pointed out landmarks and told stories, filling in the landscape I had only just begun to see. At the site, I met others I had only encountered online, including Yann. “Welcome to Iceland,” he said, as we watched the flock of incredibly rare birds. It felt accurate.
Learning the patterns
Birding doesn’t just teach you where you are, it teaches you how a place works. Birds indicate environment and change. Certain species appear in certain places, at certain times, under certain conditions. When I arrived, it felt like noise. Then patterns emerged. Ruddy Turnstones returned to the same stretch of beach by Grótta. Gadwalls lingered in the vegetation at Vatnsmýrin until evening. Eastern winds could bring European Robins across the ocean, and when they arrived, Fossvogur cemetery became one of the best places to find them. Through these patterns, the unfamiliar became legible for me.
The bird way in
The second time I moved to Iceland, it felt different. I was no longer arriving into abstraction, but returning to something partially known. The same landscapes were there, now layered with memory and recognition. I hitchhiked more. I asked more questions. I reported the birds I saw. Somewhere along the way, I began writing and making art, trying to understand not just where birds are, but what they make possible between people. Because birding, at its core, is a way of paying attention: to land, to weather, to movement, to details that are easy to pass by.
I’m not claiming the answers are in the birds, or perhaps I am, but learning a place and its people is also about learning what isn’t spoken. Birding creates small openings for that: a shared vocabulary between strangers, a reason to switch languages mid-sentence, an excuse to knock on a door, join a walk, or follow someone’s directions to a windswept corner of the city. It is a practice that could just as easily welcome other newcomers as it has welcomed me.
I arrived in Iceland in the dark. A bird showed me where the water was. I understood a little bit more.
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