from Thursday, March4th of the year2010.
I love the ritual of arriving in Iceland. For some confusing reasons, you have to go through security again upon landing; this slows down the whole process and, weirdly, relaxes some of the typical anxiety about rushing off the plane and through the duty free. I have the habit of walking just past the arrivals hall, into the transfers area, to buy an orange juice to make sure my Icelandic card still works (this time, no: my old bank, KaupÃ¾ing, has turned into something called Arion with a distressingly Navajo logo; apparently, I have to go “in” and speak with my service lady). While one awaits one’s bags, the halogen glow of the duty free beckons; also one’s cellphone starts buzzing with requests for Red Lucky Strikes and Whiskey. All of this achieved, hop into the car, turn left then right then left then right then around the corner into the dark, slow, anglerfish-observed curve of the road into Reykjavík. I’m in bed now, preparing for a nap, with the windows open, the fan on, and the promise of a long day.