13. Alana
Alana
Ohh I love an instant plan, and especially one that proves I’m right. I take out my phone and shoot off a text.
“Reykjavík is, in fact, the best city. First, it’s only a five-hour flight. I’ve already texted the private pilots the Olympians use. Wheels up in forty-five minutes.”
“But I don’t have clothes,” he stammers.
“We’ll get whatever we need when we get there.” There’s panic in his expression. Oh shit. That’s right. He only has a thousand dollars. “It’s okay,” I tell him. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you. My city, my treat. Let’s go.”
Half an hour later, we’re standing on the tarmac.
I’m giving our valet the list of everything we're going to need when we get to Reykjavík.
Winter clothes. Waterproof layers. Bathing suits for both of us.
A hotel room, ideally something nice. And critically: a car.
I expect one at the airport when we land.
“Reykjavík,” the valet confirms that what I’m requesting is correct.
“Yes. Reykjavík. Jesus Christ.”
We board the private plane. I give a quick smile and greeting to Amber, the flight attendant. She’s been working with the Olympians forever. The best part about her is that she knows how to be discreet.
“So,” I say. “Before you get all snooty and judgy, have you ever been to Reykjavík?” Grae sits in the seat next to me. We have the whole plane to ourselves, but he chooses to sit right beside me, which is pretty cute.
“Well, I’ve been to the airport.”
“Oh no, you haven’t. You’ve been to that other piece-of-shit airport that everyone goes through on the way into Europe.
The layout doesn’t make sense. The food is in a weird ass spot, and who the fuck puts a giant bathroom on the bottom floor?
” My unholy rage for that place builds. “And there’s no shuttle to the car rental place.
Iceland is known for shitty and random weather.
You’re not going to prepare your guests in the first five minutes in your country? Seems like a bad plan.”
“You seem to have some intense feelings about this.” He smirks at me.
My skin is crawling just thinking about it.
“The only thing decent about it, is that it’s near one of the spas.
And even that isn’t great.” That’s not the way to make an impression or to win the best city on earth game.
“No, we’re flying into actual Reykjavík.
It’s a much smaller airport and gets us exactly where we need to be.
” I glance over at him. “Listen. Go to sleep. I’m not going to deal with a jet-lagged baby at three-thirty when you’re completely overwhelmed. ”
“How do I know you’re not going to murder me in my sleep?”
“If I wanted you dead, you’d already be.” He does not know how close to accurate that sentence is.
DAY 2
We take off. We get champagne. Then, true to form, he wraps his arms around me and snuggles in.
By the time we land, we’ve each gotten a nice four-and-a-half-hour power nap.
“That’s the best part about Reykjavík,” I say as we land.
“It’s five hours away. It’s easy. It’s reasonable.
It’s not like Kyoto, which is what, eighteen hours? You lose a whole day traveling.”
A car waits for us, and I hop in the driver's seat for the ten-minute ride from the airport to our hotel. There’s nothing overly lavish about the hotel, while checking in I point to the shop cat, because that’s one of the best features of Reykjavík.
Grae immediately runs over and starts petting it.
The receptionist smiles and tells us our room is ready.
That’s one of the perks of being super rich.
She also shares that our clothes are upstairs.
“Fantastic,” I say. “Let’s go.”
But he turns back at the cat and then up at me. “Why are we leaving? There’s a cat in the lobby,” he says.
“I’m telling you,” I say, “greatest city on the planet. Let’s go.”
It’s still early October, and it’s the perfect time. Reykjavík’s weather is random at best, one day can have all four seasons and a typhoon. You really don’t know what you’re going to get, it makes you prepare for everything, and my little planner brain loves it.
He laces his fingers with mine and presses his chest to my back as I open the hotel door.
As soon as we’re in the room, he pins me to the wall and kisses me.
His body presses against mine, and I didn't realize how much I craved his mouth until I got this taste.
Breaking the no- kissing rule was a huge lapse in judgement. I push him away.
“No. Not on the schedule. Not yet. I spent the whole time planning and sleeping.”
“Yeah, I can tell.” He doesn’t seem disappointed or hurt that I rejected his advances, instead he goes with the flow. I point to the closet.
“Go get changed.”
A couple of minutes later, we’re both back in waterproof pants, layers, and hats. It’s not too cold right now, probably around forty, but forty degrees is so weird. It either feels frigid if you’ve come from seventy-degree weather or positively balmy if it’s thirty.
Reykjavík forty is cold.
“So, sell it to me,” he says, as we leave the hotel lobby, standing in the town square surrounded by centuries old buildings. “Because what I’m seeing looks like every other city in Europe.”
We walk past little two-story buildings that ooze cuteness, restaurants that aren’t open yet, and shops flipping over their closed signs and welcoming us in. It’s an uphill walk, but the incline isn’t anything too crazy.
“Okay, we’re going to go up to the church.”
“Oh,” he says, peering down the street. “Is that Rainbow Road? I see it all over Instagram. It’s not nearly as long as I thought it would be.
” No, he’s right. The pictures online make you think it’s going to go all the way to the church, but it doesn’t.
It’s enough of the Biteforst to make it seem cool though.
“Yeah, that one’s super underwhelming,” I admit.
“But still. Let’s keep going.” I lock my hand with his, dragging him through the streets.
“Okay, first we have to stop at this shop right here. This is the only place you can get actual hand-knit sweaters. Not the other stuff that’s made with Icelandic wool, shipped out, and then stamped with a label.
These are made by like, ninety-year-old women.
It's a dying artform so we have to support it. Go, go, go.” I push him inside.
The store is warm and sweaters and gloves fill every usable space. He flips over the price on the tag and pulls back. “Jesus, four hundred—”
“Shut up and pick one.” We both leave with new sweaters. He has puffins on his. Mine has sheep. We’re continuing up toward the church when he stops and points.
“Fluffy kitty.” I recognize her from the first time I came.
“Yeah. So that cat is a super important cat,” I say. “Her name is Olivia. She has a massive Instagram following. This cat is one of the key reasons Reykjavík is the best city. She's been coming to that store for twenty years. Even when the store was shut down for COVID, she was there every day.”
“Oh. That’s sad.”
“But it’s open now.” I use my everything’s-fine voice, the same one I use on the kids. “Everything’s good and she has a job in the store. She sleeps on a yellow blanket all day and lets you pet her. But she’s not at work right now so let's go.”
I point out every single piece of street art along the way.
Every exposed brick wall has something incredible painted on it.
“I’m sure you love all of this,” I say, knowing I’ve already won this non-competition.
He stops to take in the contrasting colors and the subjects of each piece, and I squeeze his hand.
“I like your reaction to it more.” He squeezes my hand back and leans in for a quick kiss.
There’s another giant cat mural. I tell him that one is famous too. When we finally walk up to the cathedral I ask, “What do you see?”
He squints. “I see a dick.”
The cathedral is at the highest point in the city, with long white columns pointing high at the center, tapering off on the ends. It’s elegant with a mid-century style, but also, it’s made of concrete. It’s so out of place, and yet perfectly fits the vibe of the city.
“I’m sure someone out there has a whole history about why this cathedral is the greatest in all of time, but for me, it’s all about the dick.”
“I mean the city seems to have a theme: cats and cock. It’s entertaining, I'll give you that.” He pauses and adds, “I see what you like about it.” That small admission is worth a kiss. His cheeks tighten when he smiles as I press my lips to his, our no-kissing rule erased.
We continue down the street, and I point to a bakery we were able to smell from the cathedral.
Sure, every building is bright and adorable, but this one takes the art to a whole new level.
The front is covered in bright colors and sheep illustrations.
I drag him inside. The coffee is underwhelming, but the cinnamon rolls are perfect, still steaming from the oven.
“Come on, these are my favorite pieces.” I say and he follows me, keeping up, but drinking his coffee is slowing him down.
Two murals are on the side of a building. One is Hel, goddess of death. Regal and powerful but not terrifying. Inevitable. On the other side is Freya, goddess of fertility and warfare, riding into battle with her cats.
“They look like the woman I want to be,” I say. “See, this is the thing. Most other places abandoned the old ways. Not here. It’s embedded in everything. You have Catholic and European elements, but you also have a healthy Norse population sharing its ways too.”
I take him down a different road back to the hotel, past a bookstore that’s been around since the 1400’s which I tell him all about. But we don’t go in, much to his surprise and horror. “There’s something even better.”
“Better than a bookstore?”