Spontaneity connects the dots

There’s a moment during vacation when you become a part of your surroundings rather than a foreign object to them. Sometimes it happens immediately, when you exit an unfamiliar airport to the dazzling spectacle of something totally new. Other times it happens gradually, as your regular life fades into shadows and the warm light of adventure directs you forward.

My metamorphosis had not yet begun as we picked up our rental car in Reykjavik on an unseasonably cold summer day. As the agent showed us the car’s features, he apologized for the overcast, warning us not to let go of the handle as we entered and exited because the door could come unhinged.

This was no exaggeration. After (literally) blowing through two umbrellas the first day, we went to a store and asked the clerk to direct us to the umbrellas. Nearly everyone speaks English in Iceland, but it took a little translating by another clerk to explain that they – not the store, but the country – did not sell umbrellas because, well, what’s the point? No wonder braids are big in Iceland.

In our new raincoats, we explored the southeastern coast. Our plan was sparse. We drove to The Great Geysir and Eyjafjallajökull, the volcano that vomited so much ash in 2010 that European air travel halted for six days. Spontaneity would connect the dots between the two.

Through the mist, the volcano was neither ominous nor dramatic, as its unremarkable features lifted out of the ground like a steamer trunk under a table cloth of scrub and ashy soil.

Along the path to The Great Geysir, the land was split open in places, releasing ominous steam into the air. The Geysir itself put on a fine show of slowly drawing water into its mouth, then spitting it out with a dramatic BOOM.

Mealtime provided a break from the elements. On the third day, we wandered into Gamla Old Island Traditional, a Reykjavik cafe. Darkly lit, clean and homey, I ordered Plokkfiskur, the house special. As I ate the casserole of whitefish, onions, mashed potatoes and spices, my body warmed from the inside. We lingered for hours.

When we finally paid for the meal, I thanked our host for the delicious meal. While it tasted nothing like my grandmother’s chicken soup, I said, it had the same healing effect. She told me that the recipe belonged to her mother, and it was the reason she opened the restaurant. We talked and talked about the love of food and food made with love and in the end, we both shed a tear.

I’m warm. I’m here. And I’m at home.