“Sometimes it can feel like Iceland is just one big tourist attraction.”
Helga Gudrun, a waiter at a family-owned restaurant in Vik, a scenic village in South Iceland, had just placed a bowl of warm Icelandic lamb soup on the table. Home from college to work the summer season, she was reflecting on the ways tourism had changed the place where she grew up.
Visitors had spurred job growth and helped revitalize the area, but not all tourists follow the rules, Ms. Gudrun said. Farmers have complained about tourists parking on their land and feeding horses without permission. “One horse even died,” she said. And in July, a local paper reported that Vik’s septic system had been overwhelmed by the “sheer number of tourists.”
It hadn’t always been this way. In fact, one event in particular had set it all off.
“I remember the summer everything just — changed,” she said.
For many years, Iceland was a place more heard about than visited. Its name evoked Viking sagas, the Northern Lights and the hypnotic tones of a singer named Björk. But in March 2010, a volcano, Eyjafjallajokull, sputtered to life after 187 years.
A mammoth cloud of volcanic ash exploded into the atmosphere. European air space closed for eight days, its largest disturbance since World War II. More than 100,000 flights canceled, millions of travelers stranded, around $1.7 billion in lost revenue for airlines.
Throughout the chaos, news channels beamed images of Iceland’s lunar landscapes, black-sand beaches, towering glaciers and geothermal pools. Suddenly, this island nation the size of Kentucky, with a population comparable to Pittsburgh’s, had captured the world’s attention.
Hoping to capitalize on the international interest, the Icelandic government and travel organizations moved quickly — and by June had launched the “Inspired by Iceland” campaign. When the dust and ash settled, the Nordic island country was ready for its moment in the sun.
Iceland was in need of a turnaround. The 2008 financial crisis had left it reeling: Unemployment had hit 9 percent, and the Icelandic krona had halved in value.
Low-cost airlines played an important role. EasyJet began offering flights to Keflavik International Airport, the country’s main international airport, in 2012. Wow Air, the Icelandic ultra-low-cost carrier, began operating the same year and by 2016 was offering free stopovers on flights between North America and Europe. It was easier than ever to visit.
Online, Iceland’s wild beauty became a coveted backdrop on a popular new app called Instagram. Justin Bieber shot a music video there, frolicking beside waterfalls and skateboarding down the now-iconic wreckage of a U.S. Navy plane.
Fifteen years have passed since Eyjafjallajokull’s seismic eruption — and tourists have flooded in. In 2024, Iceland received about 2.3 million foreign overnight visitors, up from fewer than 500,000 in 2010. The industry has transformed the country, in many ways for the better.
Locals have a saying: Thetta reddast — “It will all work out.” And by many measures it has. But as Icelanders, aided by a longer outlook, begin to take stock of the seemingly irreversible changes around their country, some feel that the honeymoon has come to an end.
Evolution in the Capital
Downtown Reykjavik, Iceland’s coastal capital, was nearly empty on an early morning in July. Iceland gulls flocked overhead as the volcanic Mount Esja, a popular day-trip destination, towered to the north. Hallgrimskirkja, the country’s tallest church and a landmark, glared down from atop a central hill.
The city’s main street is lined with colorful storefronts, many of which cater to tourists. Tiny troll dolls, horn-hatted Viking figurines and encased bits of volcanic rock were all for sale. Locals wryly call the seemingly identical stores “puffin shops” for their countless offerings related to the island’s famous clown-faced birds.
Just inside IcelandCover, a shop that rents outdoor clothing to tourists, David Ingimarsson sat, awaiting customers. Before starting his own business, Mr. Ingimarsson, 31, worked at several pillars of Iceland’s tourism industry, including the Blue Lagoon, the popular geothermal bath, and Wow Air, which ceased operations in 2019.
In 2022, he moved into this storefront. “It’s funny, when we got our driving licenses,” said Mr. Ingimarsson, who grew up in Reykjavik, “the thing to do was drive right down here.” In recent years, though, as the downtown economy pivoted to serve tourists, much of the street has become pedestrian-only — and many longtime businesses, including a beloved hardware store that operated for over 100 years, have closed.
“Those kinds of businesses just don’t make sense down here anymore,” Mr. Ingimarsson said.
Backlash to mass tourism is not new. Recent responses include protests in Venice, grumbling in Paris and water-gun ambushes by locals in Barcelona. As herd tourism is exacerbated by social media trends and massive cruise ships, its holistic impact is increasingly under the microscope.
“We have to really stop and think,” said Katrin Anna Lund, a professor of geography and tourism, in her office at the University of Iceland. “What do we want to be offering?”
Many tourists follow a handful of well-established itineraries. Some visit the Golden Circle, a day trip to visit an easily-accessible geyser, waterfall and geothermal bath. Others drive along Iceland’s southern coast. Ambitious travelers complete the 820-mile loop on the famed Ring Road. Ms. Lund, though, said more variety would benefit the industry’s long-term sustainability.
Part of the problem, she said, is that Iceland has long marketed itself as a stopover destination with a handful of must-see sites. Meanwhile, the remote drama of the Westfjords, or the quaint fishing towns in country’s northern peninsulas, go relatively unvisited.
Though accessibility to these parts has long been an issue, that is changing. In the last few years, easyJet started direct flights from Britain to Akureyri, the unofficial capital of Iceland’s north.
By presenting visitors with a deeper Icelandic experience — history and local culture, rather than just selfies and Vikings — Ms. Lund hopes the country can attract tourists who want to stay longer — “not just those who come to check the boxes,” she said.
Changes in a Scenic Hot Spot
A drive along Iceland’s southern coast is framed by vast, green spaces and waterfalls that spout from the sides of mountains. Icelandic horses and livestock graze. As hours pass along the two-lane road, the plausibility that elves and fairies do exist, as local folklore suggests, grows.
Vik i Myrdal, often simply called Vik, is Iceland’s southernmost town and sits on the coast about two and a half hours from Reykjavik. Today, it’s famous for its black-sand beaches and a picturesque, red-roofed church on a hillside. Its imposing neighbor is Katla, one of Iceland’s most active volcanoes.
Even without any recent lava, Vik is a hot spot. Since 2010, the once-agricultural town has been shifting toward tourism. “Let’s put it this way,” said Einar Freyr Elinarson, 34, the mayor of Myrdalshreppur, the municipality that incorporates Vik. “Every other farm used to have a dairy farm. Now, every other farm has a guesthouse or bed-and-breakfast.”
Before, Vik mostly hibernated during winter months. Now business is year-round. Around the zip-lining vendors, A.T.V.-rental companies and glacier-tour pickup points, a mini-economy has developed: new restaurants, a brewery, a live “lava show.” On a recent weekend morning, every seat in a school-bus-turned-cafe was full.
According to Mr. Elinarson, foreigners of close to 30 nationalities work in the town. One of them is Adam Szymielewicz, from Poland, who welcomed locals as they trickled into the town’s public pool. For most Icelanders, a dip is a daily ritual, a communal meeting point, like the sauna is to the Finnish.
Mr. Szymielewicz, 35, arrived in Iceland seven years ago to work as a lifeguard. He’s not alone. Since 2010, the percentage of foreign citizens living in Iceland has risen to nearly 17 percent of the total population, up from 6 percent. Myrdalshreppur is the only municipality in the country in which foreigners are the majority. In Vik, they make up around 60 percent of the 11,000 residents.
As more workers come to Vik, the town has experienced a “baby boom” said Mr. Elinarson. The elementary school, where Mr. Szymielewicz also teaches, is growing quickly. It has also faced some peculiar issues. On its playground fence, the school has hung signs reminding tourists not to photograph the students.
The original, Nordic-style homes fade into cement, Soviet-like structures, many of them prefabricated, on the east side of town. “They kind of remind us Poles of home,” Mr. Szymielewicz said with a laugh.
Mr. Elinarson acknowledged the criticism. But he’s still excited for Vik’s development, even if it changes the local fabric. “The alternative was that the town was dying,” he said.
Because of tourism, Mr. Elinarson said the challenges they now face are positive ones. “Instead of, ‘We don’t have any new children,’” he said, “the question is, ‘How are we going to teach all of these new children?’”
‘We Can’t Do It at the Cost of Culture’
Back in the capital, a soon-to-be escape room was under construction. On the waterfront, a Ferris wheel built last year sat next to a cruise ship.
That night — in this part of the world that doesn’t necessarily mean when the sun goes down — locals and tourists mixed downtown. Drinking a beer inside Kaffibarin, a rustic downtown mainstay, Oli Dori, a D.J. and musician, lamented the precarious state of music venues in the city.
Until last year, Mr. Dori, 43, ran events at KEX, a hostel and music venue that closed its performance space to make way for more rentable rooms. “We had such a special audience — hotel guests and locals together,” he said. “It’s not often that happens.”
To Mr. Dori, and to many Icelanders interviewed, their qualms about tourism were nuanced. “Love-hate is too strong,” one man said at a bar downtown, “but it can be frustrating.” Still, they recognize its worth in the country’s economic vitality.
The issue seemed to be with mass tourism and how, if consistently unchecked, it could deplete Iceland’s unique spirit. “We love to have people from all over the world,” Mr. Dori said, “but we can’t do it at the cost of culture.”
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Stefano Montali is a news assistant at The Times who contributes reporting across various sections.
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