It is day one of my annual migration to France. With luck and fortune it will be the last of these for awhile. This year fiscal prudence has forced me to abandon my previous habit of flying British Airways business class and turn instead to Icelandair. As a result, rather than relaxing in the Heathrow Business class lounge I am sitting in the transit deck of the airport here in Reykjavik. It’s the first time in many moons that I’ve been in a country where I had absolutely no knowledge of the language. At all. This is of course okay because Icelanders speak English better than I do albeit with a weird lilt that sounds a little like Britney Spears trying to effect an Irish brogue after three or four cocktails.
I may have to dodge the thunderbolts of Odin for saying this, but so help me, with the hardwood floors, white walls, and tasteful modern furniture, the waiting area looks like the Ikea in West Sacramento except for (down to?) the group of Chinese tourists taking pictures of themselves standing in front of the “Welcome to Iceland” sign.
Other notes on Iceland: I passed