I feel like this blog graphs out my brain function pretty nicely. As sleep decreases, ranting increases...It's been a long 6 weeks...
Anyway: I landed in Reykjavik at midnight and got on a bus into the city. This was no ordinary bus. Apparently, by day, it runs as a tour bus with automated robot-voice facts about everything you pass, so when it's masquerading as a lowly airport transfer bus in the wee hours the commentary still runs! We drove through the volcanic ash mound hill things that had names I could neither pronounce nor write made primarily of minerals I can't spell. I swear it was all very educational.
The bus stopped at a depot and we were all wrangled off, with our luggage, and told to stand in a line. At this moment, I was seriously awaiting Bjork Von Martian with her Skyr-powered laser gun that emitted high frequency beams of Sigur Rós...And she'd be wearing one of those sweaters... Volcanos...Brennivín...er...where was I?
Oh: So then instead of Marvin the
At this point it was increda-late, not that you could tell by looking, so I buzzed into the hostel and walked up 2 flights of stairs to reception, which was a glorious, antique wonderland slash bar. And I swear all of Reykjavik was there.
Ordinarily, this would mean that I was going to throw my backpack into the luggage storage room (an old freight elevator. Even the luggage room was cool. Be still, my hostel-loving heart) and head to the bustling bar to make friends, but I didn't have a kronur to my name and was, after a night flight, hygenically in no place to be scamming drinks from kindly strangers, if you know what I mean... So I did what any sane person would do, checked in to my room, had a half-hour discussion with the woman at the desk about the earrings I was wearing and Icelandic art and design, and walked upstairs, past the diorama of a vintage barbershop and innumerable pieces of defunct arcade games, to my room, found the appropriately numbered bunk and climbed into bed...With a strange man... That's right, kiddos, hide your kids, hide your wife, there was a bed intruder... (yeah, I couldn't resist that one) I stifled a *serious* eep-sound, sprung out of bed, hitting my head on the top bunk and somehow still managing not to wake the massive Norse bed thief, tiptoed (read: tripped over every duffel, wire, and dust-bunny imaginable but didn't crash to the floor, meaning I was totally stealth) through the room until, examining much more carefully this time, I found the only vacant bed, claimed it as my own, and passed out.
Five hours later I awoke. bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, scheduled my airport bus, and set out into the city for a solid 5 hours of meandering before my flight. Apparently it's strange for anyone to be out and about before 9 unless they're a beard-faced, sweater-clad, octogenarian, so I got some sideways glances as I ordered breakfast and made myself at home in a cafe with my cup of tea, hafragrautur--oatmeal--and skyr (it seemed to be the breakfast of choice for that crowd, only with coffee instead of tea. If it's good enough for Icelandic grandpas, it's good enough for me)
After breakfast I followed the path set out for me by the woman at reception, past government buildings, museums, churches, and statues, and, after stopping by the post office, I curled up along the water at Solfar, the Sun Voyager monument, with my trusty purple marker and wrote my final round of postcards.
I walked back along the water to the hostel, collected my luggage, and went outside to meet the bus (which tried to leave without me, and I chased it down the street, which would be its own story, but frankly, my hand is getting tired and at this point, that kind of madness should be expected of me. You can fill in the tale yourself, I trust you.)
Sitting in the airport, I realize this adventure has come to an end...
Or maybe it's just evolving...
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