So, here I am in beauti...scenic...drab and grey Keflavík*. I've spent the last few hours at the airport, mostly peoplewatching, but also being bored, meeting Jesse the couchsurfer, running into Bjarki the former teacher-ish thing-guy, listening to him tell his 2 year old how ˝Daddy once saw Tinna puke because she was sooo hung over˝, et.c. Had Jesse taste Brennivín. He didn't like it.
I sat next to Charlton Heston on the FlyBus. I could have sworn it was Heston if I didn't know he was dead. (Heston, that is, not the bus guy.) He was wearing a baseball cap with the phrase National ..something militaristic: Force or Service or something. He was super-yank!
The plane is about to leave...and I don't want to write during take-off.
*This entry is backdated. I'm actually in Prague.
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