Chapter 7
Forget a promotion. I’m so getting fired.
Closing my eyes, I rub at the pulsing pain between my brows.
It’s a little after noon, and exhaustion is settling in rapidly.
Risking a side glance over at Ben, I see his glazed eyes fixed straight ahead, face blank.
If I’m this tired with a few hours of sleep (coma) on the plane, he must be completely wiped.
“Do you want me to drive for a bit?” It’s the first either of us has spoken since leaving the Blue Lagoon, and Ben startles at my voice, rapidly blinking several times.
“Thanks, but we’re almost there.”
He juts his chin forward, and I look back through the windshield to see the outline of a cityscape rising into view on the edge of the horizon, as if we’ve followed the yellow brick road to the edge of the Emerald City.
Minutes later, we’re driving into the heart of Reykjavík, and my eyes stayed glued to the passenger window as I take mental snapshots of my surroundings.
Bike riders and pedestrians filling busy sidewalks—snap!
Young kids in zipped-up jackets and caps pulled low playing various schoolyard games wherever there’s a swatch of open grass—snap!
Colorful, artsy shops and cafés lining the streets, no corporate chains in sight—snap!
Then we’re turning into an underground parking garage, cutting the city out of view.
Once we’ve checked into our low-lit, sleekly decorated hotel, we take the elevator to the fourth floor and follow the dim hallway to neighboring rooms. Stopping outside our side-by-side solid-black doors, Ben flicks his wrist over and checks his watch. “Meet you downstairs at four?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Ben nods and disappears into his room, likely grateful for the four-hour reprieve from me.
Unlocking my door with the key card, I maneuver my luggage into the room that I’ll call home for the next two nights.
I abandon my belongings in a heap by the door, cross the black laminate flooring as I flip off my shoes and strip off my clothes, pull the heavy gray curtains together until they block out most—but not all—of the daylight, and crawl into the plush queen-size bed in my bralette and underwear.
Just as I close my heavy lids and give in to the exhaustion of travel, a high-pitched beep sounds from somewhere in my room. I open my eyes and sit up, searching for the source.
Another beep, louder this time.
What the fuck?
Climbing out of bed, there’s a third beep, and then a fourth, each shriller than the last. Then the beeps come faster and more insistent, and I spin circles in my underwear and debate what to do.
I flip the switch on the bedside lamp. Nothing happens.
I try the switch on the wall for the overhead. Nothing happens there, either.
If this is some type of hotel evacuation, I should probably have clothes on.
I hastily dress in my abandoned pile of clothes once more and head out into the hallway, fully prepared to be met with others who must be hearing the same piercing beeps. But outside my door, it’s perfectly quiet. No beeps. Not another person in sight.
Does the fire alarm sound only inside the rooms? That doesn’t seem up to code.
Exhausted and confused, I eye Ben’s door. The last thing I want is to talk to him right now, but I don’t think I have a choice.
Burying my pride, which, let’s be honest, at this point is already halfway in the grave, I walk to his door and knock three times.
When he eventually appears, it’s in gray sweatpants and a plain white tee, rubbing at his eyes as if he’d already fallen asleep. “Hey,” he says, voice raspy. “What’s wrong?”
“Is your room, um, beeping?”
His blank face stares back at me. “What?”
“Is your room beeping?” I curtly repeat. It’s a simple yes-or-no question.
“What? Beeping? Why would my room be beeping?”
There must not be an evacuation, so I guess this is a me problem. “Never mind,” I mutter, and turn back toward my room, prepared to suck it up and call the front desk for assistance. If I can figure out how to work the goddamn phone.
“Mona,” Ben’s tired voice calls from behind me. “You put your key in the key slot by the door, right?”
I squeeze my key card in my palm and glance back over my shoulder. “Key slot?”
Ben’s eyes narrow, arms crossing over his chest as he stands watching me from his doorway.
“Yeah, you know how some hotels have the key slot that controls the appliances in your room? Nothing works if the key isn’t inserted?
That might be the source of your beeps. There’s probably a limited amount of time you have to insert your key once you enter the room. ”
I blink at him a few times. Never in my life have I stayed at a hotel that had this feature.
Then again, this hotel is far nicer than the ones Calvin approves for us Locals.
I force a self-deprecating grin, a nonchalant shrug of my shoulders.
“You know, now that you mention it, I know exactly what you’re talking about.
” Lies! “I must be really jet-lagged.” I scan my key card and push my door open when it flashes green.
“Thanks for the reminder, though. Sorry I woke you.”
He nods and says, “No problem,” then disappears back into his room.
Back inside my own room, I locate the key slot that I hadn’t noticed before on the wall next to the door, slip my key card into place, and watch the circular red light switch over to green.
Then I crawl back in bed and pull the covers up to my chin, wondering how I’m going to keep up my world-traveler facade throughout this entire trip, until I eventually fall asleep in a blessed, beep-less silence.
* * *
The streets of Reykjavík echo the soundtrack of a vibrant city.
Chatty pedestrians. The bustle of outdoor cafés.
Tinny bicycle chimes whizzing past us on the sidewalk.
I love it all so much it’s a physical transformation that takes over my body.
An expanding of my heart as my blood pumps faster, a change in my gait as I quicken my pace and practically skip down the sidewalk, a wide grin pulling at my cheeks as I commit to memory every detail of this incredible city.
Pulling my teal pea coat tight around myself to fight the winds, I round a corner and am met with the sight of Hallgrímskirkja—Iceland’s largest and arguably most recognizable church.
The architecture is equally stunning and unique, designed with concrete, hexagonal columns increasing in height as they near the center of the structure.
In the middle, a clock tower rises toward the gray clouds above, forming a steepled apex topped with a cross.
I recall in Suki’s notes that the specific design pays tribute to Iceland’s basalt columns, one of the country’s trademark elements found at numerous popular locations, many of which are on our itinerary.
“Ahh-maaa-zing.” The word stretches past my lips in reverent praise to the travel gods.
“Did you expect anything less?” Ben reaches for the camera strapped across his shoulder.
Frankly, it makes me anxious that his very expensive camera just bounces at his hip like it’s no big deal, but whatever.
Not my business. Having worked with photographers frequently—although I imagine snapping pictures at a competitive disc golf tournament is not quite the same as photographing the breathtaking sites of Iceland—I’ve become accustomed to assisting when needed, offering an extra hand while they switch lenses and so forth.
So while Ben holds his camera in one hand and reaches back to unzip his backpack with the other, I generously offer, “I can hold that if you need me to.”
“No, thanks. I got it.”
Well then.
The response was casual enough, but I feel the sting of dismissal anyway.
Photographer Ben who wears his camera so carelessly doesn’t even trust me to hold it for him.
Fine. That’s fine. I have my own work to do anyway.
Leaving him to his own stubbornness, I find a nearby bench and plop down, pull my notebook and trusty Pilot G2 from my tote bag, and begin to jot down notes on the architectural masterpiece in front of me.
When it comes to the articles for Around the Globe, Calvin prefers we writers stick to informational facts only.
But I prefer to tread a carefully curated line that’s more informative substance with an added personal touch, because I firmly believe no one wants to read a slew of stated facts like a research article with no heart.
I am, however, unwilling to state my outright opinion on whether a reader should spend their time and hard-earned money to visit a specific location or skip it, since it’s all incredibly subjective.
So instead, I include a mix of what the reader can expect (facts) and how the site made me feel (personal touch).
Then the reader can do with that information as they please.
(Maybe decide to skip the Tri-City Hot Sauce Festival.)
Sitting on a wooden bench in the heart of Reykjavík, staring up at the stunning church before me, the immediate feeling that sweeps through me is insignificance.
Not in the negative connotation of the word, though. Not in the way I sometimes feel insignificant within my own family, or the way it took seven years of chasing fluff pieces to get a glimmer of opportunity within my company, or in the way my life can feel small and quiet compared to others’.
Here in Iceland, I feel insignificant in the best way.
There’s an entire world before me that functions every single day, cities—some of which I’ll see, some of which I’ll never even know exist—filled with people all doing their best to survive, languages spoken around me I’ll never understand, yet the commonality of the human experience is immensely beautiful and comforting on a level I don’t have words for.