The past 48 hours have been a whirlwind. Let’s start from the top…

I ended up spending TEN hours in the Chicago O’Hare airport. By the time the airline agent showed up (2.5 hr prior to departure), I was eager to get through security and to my gate. Then came the weather delay. Then came the announcement over the intercom: “Due to weather delays, connections to the following cities have been canceled:…”, followed by a list of a dozen different cities. Then came the mass exodus of most of my plane mates. Then came the waiting… We couldn’t really leave the gate area, because we were waiting for updates on our plane, which apparently had been diverted to Milwaukee due to the weather, and they were having a bear of a time getting the plane to Chicago (must have been a back-up on I-94; I’ve heard taxiing a 747 downtown is no easy task). Four hours after scheduled departure, we had a plane, we were on it, and people were smiling for the first time since supper.

During those 4 hours, I’d been working and reworking my schedule in my head, updating it with each passing planeless half-hour. In planning, I’d allowed myself a very generous 4 hours after landing to get my bags, go through security/customs, and take a shuttle to a bus tour. It was looking less and less likely that I’d be able to bend time (where’s the Doctor when you need him?). I made phone calls and emails left and right, begging tour agencies to allow me to reschedule. Since it was pre-dawn hours in Iceland, I had no replies.

I landed an exit row for the first time in my life! The excitement wore off quickly as I realized the 3+3 seat plane was only 1/3 full, so passengers were claiming full rows for the red-eye, and the exit row had fixed armrests. I felt obligated to stay in my post in case of passengers’ need (sidenote: I watched the film Sully with my parents last weekend before I left; poor timing), so I stayed put in my upright and locked position for the duration of the flight.

Sure enough, we landed at the time my bus tour was supposed to be leaving. I was too tired to care, so headed down to grab my baggage and go to the shuttle, which I knew offered wi-fi. When I checked my email, Iceland was already smiling at me: BOTH travel agencies had agreed to reschedule, which meant I could simply swap activity days without losing any activities! I was about as proud of myself as when I first managed to peanut-butter my bread without getting PB on my hand, the counter, or my shirt (ca. age 12, although I’ve yet to master the technique).

I hit the ground running – figuratively, as I had a 35 pound backpack and 15 pound frontpack jostling with every step – and headed to the capital city center. On 4 hours of plane “sleep” (those of you who have flown know what kinds of hours those are), I traipsed around downtown Reykjavík, stopping in museums (I looked into a Viking longhouse that was built before 871 AD!), shops, and churches along the way, enjoying the crisp Icelandic summer air (10 degrees Celsius is about 50 degrees Fahrenheit) while learning that genetically, Icelandic men are Norse, and Icelandic women are Celts who were stolen by marauding men who figured they’d need ladies to populate their newfound-land (the prequel to the Canadian one). I read about the three (3!) Cod Wars of the late 20th century. I also learned about Freydís Eiríksdóttir, with a frightening wax figure to supplement the imagination (Google if you dare; she sent natives running – I’d run, too). Then I missed my bus to my host’s berg and was forced for the dozeneth* time to ask for directions by saying the name of the town aloud: Hafnarfjörður became innumerable variations of hafs and nafs with varying repetitions of yours tacked on the end. I’ve yet to tackle saying Grænakinn (the bus stop I finally reached around 8 pm) aloud. I’m hoping I never have to.

*not a real word, but much more fun than twelfth. Also, “dozenth” would make more sense in spelling, but the extra syllable the e adds just does something for me.