(Day G)

In the north of the country, Lake Myvatn tacitly made its statement, laying low among grassy mounds and miles of clear sky.

Here, and many other places, the grassy parts of the country had the look of being freshly-mown, as if one massive abandoned golf course. Peering in grass huts and driving along long roads, I half expected to find a cluster of workers with grass stains on their jeans, some evidence of the hard work it must take to look effortlessly pristine.

I decided I should come back some day when they were least expecting it and try to find out: had I only seen the tip of the iceberg? Or, was this the wrong question, the only thing that was keeping the skeptics from staying forever?

(Day F)

In other places the water was much hotter. It burst from the earth looking for air. It dispersed and settled along cool mud and ragged rocks. It attracted the eyes of passersby but went wherever the breeze took it.

The Earth was young in these parts, still active, yet I felt old and still. It took my eye some time to get used to the process of distinguishing gradations of gray.

I thought of being back home and walking through the business district downtown at dusk or the hours before sunrise. Sometimes, when the snow was falling, there would be a white layer, almost translucent, dusting above the muddled sludge of days past. People would walk, but they were fewer than usual: each one could be counted. They would be going somewhere, surely, I thought, perhaps by habit.

It was a bit like that, yet very different. It took my mind some time to get used to.

Meanwhile, the breeze dragged semi-clouds past my feet.

(Day E)

I wish I could say that I found a hot spring full of people relaxing and peering out of the glass windows of my building, set-apart. What I found was more ho-hum, unfortunately--I am sure you can imagine.

Done with the office building I decided I would go in search of a hot spring, a natural one (there were many nearby, I'd heard from a bather at a public pool on the outskirts of town). So, I hopped on a bus full of vacationers and a couple of hours later we were disrobing en masse in the middle of nowhere.

You could feel the rocks and some kind of grass in your toes. The water was warm to hot depending on where you chose, and the air was everywhere cooler. I wondered, if I came here every day--or even every week--would I fall asleep in warmth-induced relaxation, or would it manage to stay this stunning forever?

(Day D)

We walked through the city and up to a square in which we found an outdoor photography exhibit. The stranger was still despondent, but I looked at each photo for a minute or two, sometimes more. The images were beautiful, I thought. Cold. Set on days unlike today. Transporting.

On one end of the square was a building set apart from the rest. It was glassy and narrow and had an assymetrical roof. I wanted to know this building. So, I left.

When I neared the building I realized it was not set apart after all. It was just an embellished arm of a much larger structure, perhaps an office building. Something institutional. This disappointed me. I thought of many reasons why not and then thought "why not?," and went inside.

(Day C)

In the city I saw a stranger, a man, very thin and all alone. He looked quite sad. As it was a beautiful, sunny, and pleasantly mild day, I saw no reason for this. Just before this vacation I had been reading a lot of existential literature on my morning commutes. I thought: if you see something like this, you should probably say something.

I was alone myself. The man did not look very intimidating, only sad. I decided to talk to him directly rather than report him to an Official.

I asked him had he seen the poster behind him: there was something nearby to be enjoyed. And, besides, it was too lovely a day to be wallowing in the shadows. How many such days could one possibly get in Reykjavik? Shall we go?

(Day B)

Down a path were two eyes watchful over the landscape, waterscape. There was a path leading to them, but I never found out if there was one leading beyond.

I sat on the grass and stared up at the clouds for several minutes, maybe more than half an hour. They looked more impressive in person: starker colors, less solid shapes.

The clouds moved, but the eyes never moved. I guess the landscape changed enough to remain worth watching, even from the same vantage point.

Seven Days in Iceland (Day A)

As far as I recall, I did not see them when I took the photo. On the roads in Iceland my traveler's eye became relatively uninterested in the presence of persons, attracted instead by the wide expanses of blue and white, and green.

I suppose it is the opposite for the residents.

When I got home, I wondered who they were and what they were doing: perhaps a mother telling her son to be careful, to be home before dark?

What could this mean in Iceland in the summer?