Epilog

Chapter 31 of Search For a Dancer, a memoir of a week spent in Iceland in November 2022

Three days after I had returned home I developed Covid. I quickly infected The Weaver.

It was a weird strain; we both got really sick and we both developed conjunctivitis. I went deaf. A few weeks later our first grandchild was born and he was sick, too (but not with Covid). Thankfully, by New Years Day we had all recovered.

Then I began to write this story.

I have been looking onto returning in 2023 but my interest seems to be waning. Flights are 50% more expensive, lodging is double, the Iceland Airwaves acts booked so far are, for the most part, uninspiring. Even the new theatre season lacks appeal. And I’ve read all of Halldór Laxness! The law of diminishing returns—forestalled by two decades of cultural discoveries—seems to finally have taken effect.

This party is over.

But… I will miss my days spent in Reykjavík ‘cool and crisp’; walking to the pool; chatting with the locals; lunches with old blog-pals; afternoons idly roaming the streets; the anticipation of the evening’s cultural offerings. And those nights!

Iceland has been a major part of a third of my life.

Is the memory of a dancer in a noisy cellar enough to sustain me? Will these random scenes be enough to last the rest of my lifetime?
Krónan:

Iðno:

Perlan with Hringbraut:

Jofriður Ákadóttir:

Ásthildur Ákadóttir:

Marta Ákadóttir:

Jóhanna Rakel:

Karólina Einarsdóttir:

Björnsbakarí:

Baejarins beztu:

Tjörnín:

The charms o' the min', the langer they shine,
The mair admiration they draw, man;
While peaches and cherries, and roses and lilies,
They fade and they wither awa, man… ~ Robert Burns

                                    THE END