Going to America, the Promised Land
- Bryndís Viglundsdóttir
- 5 hours ago
- 5 min read
By Bryndís Víglundsdóttir
We welcome this article by Bryndís Víglundsdóttir who tells us about a promise she made to her ten-year-old self. When first arriving in New York City she was presented with a much different cultural experience leaving her to wonder what the rest of the country was like: is this the Promised Land?
I was ten years old when I promised myself that one day I would go to America. I had read about remarkable Americans whom I deeply admired, and I longed to see their country and meet the people who lived there. I had also heard of Icelandic students who had excelled in school and earned scholarships to American universities. Since learning had always come easily to me, I began to believe that such an opportunity might one day be possible.
I graduated from Menntaskólinn í Reykjavík in 1955 and, a year later, from the Teachers’ College. That allowed me to pursue my passion and begin teaching in the fall of 1957. In February 1958, the American Embassy in Reykjavík placed an advertisement in Morgunblaðið, then the country’s largest newspaper. The notice, from the Institute of International Education, was also published throughout Western Europe. It offered a scholarship to study at an American university, covering tuition, textbooks, and room and board in a dormitory.
Truthfully, I did not think it was worth the effort to apply. The scholarship was offered across all of Europe! I struggled to understand some of the questions on the forms and was unsure how to phrase the required information. Finally, I decided to ask our family doctor for help. As a young physician, he had worked at the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota, so I was certain he would understand the application and be willing to assist me. Both assumptions proved correct, and with his help, I submitted the forms to the embassy.
In May, a letter arrived from the American Embassy informing me that I had been awarded the scholarship. It covered a year of study at the University of Northern Iowa in Cedar Falls. I would need a valid passport, a visa, passage to America, and I was required to be in Cedar Falls no later than September 15, 1958.
I chose to fly across the Atlantic on August 31. I became busy preparing by securing documents, sewing clothes, and trying to gather some American dollars. At that time, foreign currency was scarce and difficult to obtain. The black market was thriving, but I was not prepared to turn to it. I obtained what little I could from the bank, which was a miserly sum. When I protested that I was going to school for an entire year, I was reminded that the scholarship would cover my needs and that the bank would not provide money for shopping in America. Little did they, or I, know that I would be hungry throughout my first year there.
The day before my departure, my parents held an open house. Family and friends came in a steady stream until late in the evening. My mother prepared wonderful refreshments. It felt almost like a wake, as if people were bidding a final farewell to someone embarking on an uncertain fate. I heard whispers: “She was always a bit different,” and “How in the world did she think of doing this?”
My grandmother, who lived upstairs, embraced me tightly and said, “Here is a good person going to the dogs.”
“Amma mín,” I replied, “dogs in America are kept on a leash, so you need not worry. I will be fine, as you will see when I write to you.” She cried anyway. I did not. I was entirely happy. My dream of going to America was about to come true.
On September 1, the following day, a Loftleiðir plane—today known as Icelandair—departed from Reykjavík Airport. My parents, sisters, brothers, and many other relatives came to see me off. It was a major occasion.
Looking back, I realize how small that aircraft was. It was propelled by engines with spinning propellers, the cabin was cramped, the legroom minimal, every seat occupied, and smoking was permitted throughout. I have never tolerated smoke well and was miserable. We stopped in Newfoundland to refuel, but passengers were not allowed to leave the plane to stretch. After twelve hours in the air, we finally landed in New York at Idlewild Airport, now John F. Kennedy International Airport.
When I stepped off the plane, I struggled to breathe. What was wrong with the air in America? Was it like this everywhere? The air felt thick and heavy. Only later did I understand the reason; it was severe pollution. At that time, the word “pollution” was not yet part of our everyday vocabulary.
A friend from college, who worked as a stewardess for Loftleiðir, had arranged to be on the crew for my flight. She had explained how to find the bus to Manhattan and met me at the terminal. We took a taxi to the hotel where the crew stayed and where a room had been reserved for me. On the drive, I saw more cars than I had ever imagined existed in the world, and people everywhere. I wondered: Is all of America like this? What have I stepped into?
I knew two of the pilots, and that evening the crew took me sightseeing. We began with supper. I had no idea what to order, so I simply chose what they chose. I was served something called a “hamburger and fries.” I had never seen or tasted such food before, and it was a revelation.
When the British occupied Iceland, I was six years old and my brother was only four. They had taken over space in the building next to ours. One evening, we peered through their windows to see what the “green men,” dressed in moss-colored uniforms, were doing. We saw them cutting potatoes and frying them like kleinur. When we told our mother, she insisted we must be mistaken, as no one, not even the British, would fry potatoes! Now, eighteen years later in New York, I finally understood what we had witnessed.
After enjoying that very American meal, a hamburger with ketchup (also new to me) and fried potatoes, the crew took me to jam sessions in Greenwich Village. For three days, I walked through New York, gazing at everything until my eyes ached. Then I boarded a Greyhound bus bound for Iowa.
Thus began my wonderful adventures in America, from 1958 to the present.
