I didn’t sleep a wink on the plane over. I’m not quite sure why. IcelandAir is, by any standards, at least a good airline. The seats were a bit narrower than Delta’s, but there was more legroom. Perfect for me, although some of the wider-assed travelers near me were audibly less than amused. I’m guessing it’s either due to the constant grousing and shouting by the half-deaf octogenarian tour group that filled the rear half of the plane, or the adrenaline rush of finally fucking going to Iceland, a moment I’ve been lusting after like an adolescent peering into his first nudie mag.

Around 4 AM, Iceland time, I start seeing the sun rise over the north Atlantic. By 5, it’s up fully and I can see the featureless ocean below. There’s more than an hour left in the flight and my adrenals are already pumping hard.

Landing in Keflavik is an intriguing experience. As you approach, you’ll see nothing but water for miles and miles, almost entirely obscured by a fluffy marine layer. Diving into the soup, you’ll emerge and still witness nothing solid for a good ten minutes. Then, just before wheeling about, your first glimpse of Icelandic soil: a small, black promonitory jutting out into the steel-blue frigidity that surrounds this island nation. Then, all of a sudden, that hard-edged black rock is everywhere, dotted with a few red-roofed hangars, and you’re on the ground.

Deplaning into the bracing breezes of the silvery dawn, I found myself herded through the most perfunctory customs check I’ve encountered so far. A simple metal detector check, without the customary American removal of shoes I’ve come to detest. Then, “How long are you in Europe?” “Three weeks.” “All in Iceland?” “Yes.” Stamp. “Have a nice stay.”

Downstairs, the duty free shop is easily the size of the entire baggage claim area, and then some. I, foolishly, did not avail myself, having far too much luggage already. Out through customs, nothing to declare, I get an eagle’s stare from the customs attendants – after all, I’m one man walking around with 90 pounds of baggage. The total cubic-meterage of my things probably exceeds that of my own person. Walking past them, I can see only one thing in my future: rubber gloves pulled tight over frozen Nordic hands, probing anatomical areas Man Was Not Meant to Know.

Fortunately, they instead pull aside a musician walking in front of me. Rather lucky on my part and I’m immediately whisked into a car by Addi, an affable Icelandic driver. He points out a few landmarks on the way to Reykjavík and tells me about Iceland’s labor shortage as he tries to figure out whether I’m supposed to go to a hotel (and which hotel it is that I’m destined for) or to Headquarters.

After several attempts to get in contact with someone local, I’m informed that the choice is mine – go to the hotel, which probably doesn’t have my room ready yet, or head for HQ, where there is breakfast and coffee.
It’s an easy choice. Coffee wins. So here I sit, typing up the last few hours, sipping some espresso to supplement whatever choice cocktails my body has seen fit to dump in my blood and having an Icelandic breakfast. In this case, it’s a little tub of skyr (“með vanilla”), which is a sort of Icelandic cheese-yogurt hybrid. It’s actually quite pleasant and mild

My next task is to figure out how to get a shower, I suppose.

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