funheitt

The heat is terrible. I am trying to think cool thoughts, icy blue thoughts, memories of stiff arctic winds, of dark December days.

I remember coming out of such a day and such a wind into the foyer of the Þjóðbókasafn. There I was greeted by a small, orange cat curled up by the wall. I reached to scratch his ears, realizing as I did so that he had chosen this spot because it allowed him bask (from ON baðask?) in the air blasting from the recessed heating vent, air that was funheitt, flaming hot. I praised him for his resourcefulness and turned over the tag on his collar so that I could address him politely, by name. Finding it, I had to smile.

Nú, heitir þú Funi, þá? Flame is a good name for an orange cat on a heating vent.

Oh, but if I were to be a cat in this heat, let me be Drífa, Snæbirna, Hrímgerður ...