Wednesday/Thursday June 6-7

 

Preparations were haphazard for this trip due to all of the class work that came down at the last minute.  I knew what I faced ahead of time and did a decent job of budgeting my time, although I have no ideas of the results of my pre-trip scholastic efforts.

 

I was working on a Master’s of Business Administration degree from a small private college near Portland.  One of the options they offered included weekend classes, and I took one regular class and one weekend class that term.  Everything came rolling down at the end of the term, and I had precious little time to complete the required assignments.

 

Andy came by to pick me up, reliable as ever, right at 9am.  I hastily paid some bills and loaded his car with the big and small packs. We had a good breakfast at the M & M and then mailed my bills and final paper before heading out to the airport.

 

I had tried to stay up late the night before to reduce the impact of jet lag and get a couple of extra things done, but only made it to 12:30a.m. I rose at about 5:30 and started putting things together.  Of course, I dropped right off on the flight out of PDX to Minneapolis (MSP), which was quiet and pleasant, no doubt aided by an empty seat next to me.

 

We arrived in MSP with nothing but time to kill. The waiting area at the Keflavik (KEF) gate was crowded and unpleasant.  I pondered a middle-aged Icelandic woman’s children. An aggressive younger boy bullied and decked his older sibling, a girl of maybe eight or nine who obviously had some sort of handicap. It was made quite evident by her thick glasses, distant look and a doll that was about four years late for her age.  She was quiet and introspective, and she broke my heart.

 

The flight was typical Icelandair chaos, with knockout attendants and lousy everything else. I sat by a nice MSP couple taking their first tour overseas to Great Britain.  Unfortunately, the woman was fat which left her and I competing for space most of the flight.  She was kind enough to yield to me most of the flight, but it still didn’t help much. I hardly slept the whole time and rustled around uncomfortably most of the way.

 

Against my better judgment, I took dinner on the plane.  What a fool I was.  What was I thinking?  It was Icelandair, after all. No choices, just chicken and rice with vegetables and the usual post-holocaust accessories.  I carefully chewed everything in hopes of avoiding what I knew in my heart would be a disaster, as a William H. Macy movie that lost my interest played on.

 

When I began international travel in ’97, I bought a first timer’s guide put out by Rough Guide.  It said airline food was expensive poison, and I took it with a grain of salt. Icelandair’s food was just that though, and could have been a trip ruiner for me. Next time, somewhere other than M&M (which has since consistently played havoc with my system) and never, ever again will I eat air chow.

 

Icelanders look fondly upon Icelandair. To be running a profitable airline with so many planes was a point of pride for such a small nation, apparently. Augusta later told me that it was the only airline she’d flown on. Makes sense, now that I think about it.  But it must consistently be the worst I’ve flown, stunningly shaped attendants notwithstanding.

 

We landed at KEF and was surprised to find the place under expansion. I moved my way around the maze of customs, baggage and immigration, showing remarkable concern to make the duty free shop, but baffled as to what I needed since I purchased a couple of pints before I left Portland.

 

I coolly strode by two twenty something girls who played the parts of customs officials.  I knew I was toting in about three times my allowed liquor, so I felt like some sort of international criminal.  I smiled at them as I walked by, half hoping they’d stop me just so I could talk.  They continued to cringe on, looking like college girls on their monthly losing streak, rather than tough ball busting customs officials on the lookout for either international terrorists or fat Oregonians looking for a good drunk.

 

I took some cash at an ATM and promptly got screwed when I exchanged the three C notes I brought.  I took a comfortable bus ride from KEF to Reykjavik but messed up on my delivery point by being indecisive with the driver. I ended up going one stop too far and took a 9am hike across town. I wasn’t feeling so hot, and I stopped in an SKV terminal, the city bus transit point.  I grabbed some OJ, sweated and watched Reykjavik waking up and lumbering off to work.  Some transients milled around and eyeballed me, as well as some none too pretty Icelandic chicks.

 

Ah, the blood and guts of the city.  Up until that point I’d thought everyone in Europe took the bus.  Of course, Iceland is very American in that everyone drives everywhere, and only the bottom rungs of society take public transportation to work.

 

Icelandic woman are very similar to Norwegian women.  Ugliness roars out of oddly disconcerting faces as frequently as a drop dead beauty.  Whatever the reason, Icelandic women seem to really run the extremes.

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