I remember it so well: November of 1973. I was living in New York, still wondering if leaving Poland had been the right thing to do. I was nearly done with college. Thanksgiving was just a few days away. I had wanted to go skiing in New England, but there was no snow. I wanted to get away from the city. On a student budget. I was working the late shift at an upper westside bookstore. I had enough money to go somewhere. But where?
I chose Iceland. Cheap airfares. Somewhat exotic then.
So many things stand out from that trip: I arrived without a place to stay. The Tourist Office found me a room in someone's house. Waiters were on strike and so I couldn't eat out. Everything was expensive. And the days were very very dark.
In the three days I was there, I walked, took pictures, had a massage. First one ever. On the last day I rented a car. A VW bug. I was happy that they allowed a rental to someone who was just 20. I sort of kind of knew how to drive a stick. I headed away from the city and got stuck on some icy stretch of lonely road. I was told there would be geisers, but there was only ice on a moonlike landscape and the car slipped and I pumped the brakes and tried to shift and somehow I made it back to the city.
I took a photo of the frozen lake in Reykjavik. I really liked the image -- a child pulling another child on a wooden sled across a lonely stretch of frozen water, but it wasn't otherwise a very good photo. I submitted it to some local contest and not surprisingly, it did not win. I also wrote a story about my weekend. It was my very first short story. I did nothing with it. It's probably in my trunk of forgotten papers.
Don't you think I should return to Iceland? I'm on my way. I should be there tomorrow.
The day was otherwise a blur. Misty skies, fading gardens, pesky chickens, lovely children. Breakfast. All of it compressed into the morning and afternoon hours.
It's evening now. Storms come, storms recede. Chicken sitters are in place. And as Ed chases away buzzing biting flies somewhere on a boat far away, I'm waiting for my flight to Minneapolis. From there -- Reykjavik.
I chose Iceland. Cheap airfares. Somewhat exotic then.
So many things stand out from that trip: I arrived without a place to stay. The Tourist Office found me a room in someone's house. Waiters were on strike and so I couldn't eat out. Everything was expensive. And the days were very very dark.
In the three days I was there, I walked, took pictures, had a massage. First one ever. On the last day I rented a car. A VW bug. I was happy that they allowed a rental to someone who was just 20. I sort of kind of knew how to drive a stick. I headed away from the city and got stuck on some icy stretch of lonely road. I was told there would be geisers, but there was only ice on a moonlike landscape and the car slipped and I pumped the brakes and tried to shift and somehow I made it back to the city.
I took a photo of the frozen lake in Reykjavik. I really liked the image -- a child pulling another child on a wooden sled across a lonely stretch of frozen water, but it wasn't otherwise a very good photo. I submitted it to some local contest and not surprisingly, it did not win. I also wrote a story about my weekend. It was my very first short story. I did nothing with it. It's probably in my trunk of forgotten papers.
Don't you think I should return to Iceland? I'm on my way. I should be there tomorrow.
The day was otherwise a blur. Misty skies, fading gardens, pesky chickens, lovely children. Breakfast. All of it compressed into the morning and afternoon hours.
It's evening now. Storms come, storms recede. Chicken sitters are in place. And as Ed chases away buzzing biting flies somewhere on a boat far away, I'm waiting for my flight to Minneapolis. From there -- Reykjavik.
