“You’re not in Florida anymore. Ha ha ha.” Said the guy at
customs. This was long over-due information seeing that the last time I was in
Florida was eighth grade. But Chicago had been 95 degrees- practically
Floridian – and so I stepped off the plane in Keflavik wearing running shorts.
The outfit, a bit inappropriate in Boston, was insane in the Icelandic wind and
rain. It was 5 degrees out, not that numbers meant anything anymore. Prices
were in ISK, degrees were in Celsius, distances in kilometers, even time was on
a 24-hour clock. I wasn’t sure what day it was.
We were supposed to get into Iceland on the morning of
Thursday, the 29th. Instead we got there that evening? Friday
evening? A delayed flight out of O’Hare meant a missed connection in Boston,
which meant a night in Boston, which meant another missed flight out of
Keflavik, and an unintended night in Iceland.
When we stepped off the airplane in Iceland, though, none of
that mattered. Not the lost time, not the confusion over numbers, not the
howling wind and rain. Two words in neon lights pushed all this from my mind:
Duty Free. A grocery store spread out before me, a grocery store that sold only
candy, electronics, and booze in massive quantities. Swedish chocolates,
liqueurs marinating birch twigs, pallets of beer, plug adaptors. And all in
prices I couldn’t understand. This was going to be great.
We got a six-pack of tall boy cans of Gull beer, a giant
Lindt chocolate bar (giant), some peanut m&m’s, a little thing of vodka and
one of whiskey.
The last duffle in the baggage claim went around three times
before we left it empty handed. I could have used some pants. I was on the
second day of wearing my t-shirt and short shorts, and the dress of the people
in the airport resembled an REI commercial. Rain jackets, pants, boots, fishing
tackle, climbing gear, bike seats, Nate Swenson! (Not all those last things. I
mean to say that they were dressed warmly and high-tech.)
I wanted to find out if they sold pants in the airport, but
while everybody, it seemed, spoke excellent English, I wasn’t sure if they
spoke British or American. I was concerned that they’d think I was in need of
some new underwear (underwear, how embarrassing!), and I didn’t think I could
pull off asking for trousers.
The airport hotel was within walking distance. Midnight, it was
lit up in the wind and rain.
I realized that sitting on the hotel bed, drinking copious
amounts of warm beer, and eating large amounts of chocolate wasn’t the great
activity I thought it would be. They don’t even have Netflix. Why do I go
anywhere?
Today (days later), Kyle saw us off on the ferry from Oslo
to Copenhagen. We talked about when we were going to see each other next. Maybe
we could go on a trip together? “How about Iceland?” he suggested.
No. Not Iceland. Not unless pants and Netflix.
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