Finishing Full Circle

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Driving into Reykjavik, via a multi-mile underwater toll tunnel, we are filled with that strange blend of both sadness and success that inevitably arises toward the end of any sort of grand adventure. We have looped our way around and the entire country via the trusty Route 1 Ring Road, and although we've hardly seen it all, we have certainly seen enough to be plenty convinced that the world can't get much better than Iceland. Yet, even as we begin driving into the more heavily populated areas of Iceland (i.e. when roads become less gravel and dirt and more asphalt, and sheep stop outnumbering people in the census report, and gas stations sightings begin occurring at 1/4 gas tank intervals instead of at 1/2 tank), we wonder what is keeping throngs of tourists from hopping aboard this arctic island's Train. It seems as though we've fallen down a rabbit hole, and stumbled onto a well-kept secret of the universe. And we don't want to leave.

We hand the keys to our beloved Suzy back over to the Budget Car Rental Guy (who happens to be a dead-ringer look-alike for someone back home. In fact, this trip has been a string of doppelganger sightings-- one after another, and in a week's span, Brian and I have reconstructed a small version of home, complete with several random Carrolltonian replicas, a handful of family member look a-likes on both sides, and even a Nonnie bear sister or two.

Next we try to walk to our hostel, but after an hour or so of wandering about rather aimlessly, our initial enthusiasm for making it there on our own has completely waned, and we resign ourselves to hailing a taxi at the halfway point. The taxi driver is a giant friendly man, whose body spills over the seat belt, and who talks with us excitedly about his visit to the States a few years back. The people! he says, there are so many of them, everywhere you look! And Central Park!, And the skill and agility of the taxi drivers as the speed through streets of NYC! We laugh and ask if he'd like to swap places, because we love Iceland's smattering of people, the lack of billboard advertisements protruding into the sky, the sensation that comes with driving for hours toward a sun that never sets, without another soul in sight, and the seemingly infinite supply of arctic air so refreshing we almost feel guilty for breathing it in so greedily. Hmm, he supposes that's nice too sometimes, but how can these things possibly compare to Memphis, Tennessee and visiting the home of the KING himself? Nothing can't compete with Elvis, he says, with absolute seriousness. Even though I shake my head in amazement, somewhere down deep, I've noticed an unusual little pang at the mention of Memphis, and his talk of the people, the hustle bustle, and the spirit of the southern city. And I realize the Jonar Arandson, the taxi driver, has unwittingly succeeded at something that others rarely can. He has made me homesick.

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Photos

300 year old Turfed Houses
Inhabited from the early 1700's until 1947.

Comments

[Salmon Pattie]

Hey hey! Love the pictures; you have an awesome camera! And awesome scenery! Come home soon :)