Nighttime Arrival

Nighttime Arrival

Coasting in out of the darkened Icelandic skies, the plane touched down as it always did, cloaked in a blanket of night. Inside, the airport was brightly lit, done up as if for a party that the guests never showed up for. The 66 Degrees North shop and all the duty-free boutiques dazzled with impeccable displays, the stacks of Icelandic vodka and bottles of cologne and designer clothing arranged in neat aisles that were deserted at seven in the morning. I decided to abandon my flight to Paris, wanted to stay a few days in Iceland. In truth, I just couldn’t bear the thought of getting on another airplane. I’d had enough.

When I’d broached the idea of changing my itinerary in Boston, the ticket agent there told me it could be done—with great difficulty and at great expense. I would have to delay my trip back home, and pay more than five hundred dollars. This is about what my original round-trip ticket cost. I told him I would check with the people in Iceland and see what they had to say about it.

The ticket agents in the deserted airport arranged for my new travel dates, charged me around two hundred dollars to change, and kept my original return date. I didn’t consider this a bargain, but it was better than the deal the Bostonian had offered me. Since Iceland, like most of the world, is in a state of economic collapse, it is actually a good time to travel there. From what I could tell—based on the going exchange rate—the items I bought in that country were all but free. On this trip I became something I’d never been before: An international shopper. I chose the best hotel I could find, right in the heart of the downtown dining district, with its fashionable shops and convenient avenues that led to all the interesting places. This wasn’t in the least extravagant on my part, since the place was costing about half of what it normally would. At the hotel’s lavish and darkly burnished reception counter, I knocked on the exotic wood, exhaling the aroma of cheap licorice I’d bought on the airplane.
“Is this real?” I asked the stylish and pretty receptionist. “I can’t afford a place like this back home,” I said, extracting a piece of licorice lodged in one of my back teeth. “This is nicer than my house.”

And in the pre-dawn chill that seems colder and more remote on the drive from the airport to the capital, the car radio played. This has become something of a tradition, the expected welcome: Some piece of musical oddity, most likely a selection from the most remote corners of Americana, or a forgotten melody that maybe only haunted your memories, lingering on the periphery but never quite getting a hold on your consciousness. So it was with this trip. I tuned in the main station of the country, heard the subtle but well-executed melody coming from what surely must have been a Texas band, driving home a beat that was simple but strangely compelling, the lyrics and rhythm working perfectly to create a mood. They must do this on purpose, those Icelanders. They surely have a sense of humor, a great and abiding fascination with the absurd. I watched the darkened nightscape pass on the horizon, the outlines of jagged and low-lying mountains, while this familiar but unidentifiable song played an unlikely accompaniment.

I found a parking garage, with the sun just now climbing a little above the horizon. I parked the quiet and smooth Toyota, locked it, and went to my new hotel and a long nap after my day of travel.