Ég held að við séum öll trúðar í þessum strætó*

Chapter 13 of Search For a Dancer, a serial memoir about a week I spent in Iceland. Mondays on Flippism is the Key

It seemed as if the Flybus was over-booked.

It was probably a vagary due to flight schedules—in the past they were never full or, perhaps, since Covid they have fewer drivers. I snugged up to an ocean side window, I love to see the city lights stretch out along Faxaflói bay, lights of city where I’ll be ensconced for the coming week. As it began to get seriously full I was hoping some lithe young woman (or some tiny old woman) for that matter, would sit next to me so I would have some room to use my laptop. I had already opened and had locked on to the bus Wifi when a mountain of a man came lumbering up and took up two-thirds of my seat. Holding my laptop sideways, I dashed off a quick email to my spouse (who was still asleep, but the thought counts, eh?) but finally gave up and returned it my backpack. I thought it wise to strike up a conversation lemonade from lemons lord knows I was squeezed enough!

“Business or pleasure?”

Goliath eyed me warily. I tried again.

“City or countryside?“

“Country. I’m on a photography tour/seminar thing. How about you?”

“Definitely city. There’s a music festival going on, and the theatre season is in full swing.”

“I’ll miss that, our group is heading out, straightaway from the bus terminal.”

“Looking to shoot some northern lights?”

“Maybe, but I see them at home… Newfoundland. We’ll be looking at mountains and water falls. ”

“The forecast looks pretty good for the next week. I guess you are used to this weather,.”

“A walk in the park—with the right clothes.”

The conversation ebbed. The Flybus continued snaking its way through the lava fields, passing the small bay Vatnsleysuvík. I looked out the window and remembered the first time I made this trip, nearly a quarter-century ago. It was in March, there was sunlight then and you could see the terrain.  I thought we had landed on the moon.  That trip was a package deal, ridiculously cheap, we even stayed in The Hotel Borg. Those days are long gone.

“Are you staying in one spot, or are you going to move around?”

“We’ve got a lodge, we won’t be in the city much at all, except for the bus station. Where are you going to stay?”

“I’ve rented an apartment in the center of town, one with a kitchenette. Being able to make my own meals will just about pay for the cost of my lodging compared to eating out. I’ll be so busy I won’t have time for restaurant meals either. If I get desperate there is always the pylsur stand.”

“Pylsur?”

“Icelandic hotdogs. made with lamb. Probably as bad for you as any other hotdog, but tasty, open all night, right between the venues. Order ‘Einn með öllu’; one with everything, yummy.”

“Well, all our meals are provided, the tour package wasn’t cheap but then what is these days?” Another lull. “You shooting mirror-less?” I asked.

“Not this lifetime, I’ve got too many lenses to start swapping systems. What about you? Are you shooting the festival mirror-less?”

“I’m getting too old to carry the big stuff. I just have this thing, it is too small for a mirror, ” I said, pulling a little camera out of my jacket pocket,“Smallest interchangeable lens camera made. With this lens on its a 300mm equivalent at f1.4—it fits in my pocket.” My God, this conversation is so banal.

I could tell he wasn’t impressed, big lens=big cock, in some minds.

The vehicle lights around us wove a vision in abstract tapestry.

The sky began to lighten as we entered Garðabær. The city was waking up, the traffic had become stop-and-go, but when we got on Hringbraut it opened up and in a couple of minutes we arrived at BSÍ—the bus terminal near the city airport. I stepped off the bus. The air was still cool, but the winds hadn’t yet started, it was, for Reykjavík in October,  a pleasant day.

I took off my mask.

*I think we’re all bozos on this bus.


Search for a Dancer Index…