Icelandic Invigoration

I always take in a big breath of air the second I step into a new city.

The August air at Keflavik international is unlike any other. It is crisp and cold, and the perfect remedy to knock out the grogginess from the plane’s recycled oxygen. Immediately, I am invigorated. I jumble the keys to the rental car, marveling at the way it glimmers as it reflects the stars above. Only ten minutes out of the airport and Iceland brings me back to earth. I quickly forget the clamor of Philadelphia and feel a stark connection to nature again.

I cram my suitcase in the small trunk, wedging it on top of my friend’s bags before we begin the hunt for a hotel to catch a few hours of sleep. Our tight budget left us GPS-less and I can’t remember the last time I held a physical map. As I lose sight of the airport in the rearview, the roads simultaneously grow darker and the surrounding land feels emptier. It is eerie how the atmosphere appears almost abandoned. The stillness of the land is something I haven’t witnessed in a while and I catch myself desperately searching for any small sign of life.

“Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to pick the flight that arrived at two in the morning,” I nervously joke to my friends. The bright yellow signs pointing toward downtown Keflavik are the oddly reassuring, and I squint as far down the road as possible in anticipation for the next. I relax into the drivers seat the second I see streetlights in the distance, nervous yet excited to see what is beneath their glow.

After only a few minutes of driving through the small streets filled with tiny white homes, a sign reading “Hotel Keilir” appears as if it had been placed there for us. A woman with short hair and a soft voice sets us up with a room. “It faces the water,” she whispers with a smile as she hands me the key.

Sleep sets in as fast as my head hits the pillow, and am woken up the sun poking at my eyelids and the sound of squalling birds. I fill up one of the cups sitting by the sink with water from the faucet, something that is not done at home unless desperate. Outside of our window are large rocks that separate the blowing green grass from the dancing sea, and appear to be the only stable part of the windy landscape. The energy between the sun and the sea is overwhelming, especially considering it seemed inexistent just a few hours prior. I take a sip of the water expecting the same brassy taste of the faucet water at home.

It is crisp and cold. I am invigorated.