íhaldsemi

The accents are weaker. Security is tighter. Café París is nearly unrecognizable. Lord knows what they are doing to Fógetinn there on Ingólfstorg. I tried to buy a tveggja vikna kort for the damnable Strætó at the terrible sjoppa on Lækjartorg, but it's gone now, replaced by a tourism whatsis.

(Til huggunar eru Fjalakötturinn og Hressó aftur á sínum stöðum, þó bara eftirlíkingar.)

The worst is that some fool has changed the packaging of the classic, nay, venerable Opal. This on top of the discontinuation of the Blue, which was like wiping out part of the spectrum of white light, is altogether too much.

I do not wish this country back into the fornöld. I do not like to think of myself as one who demands that a place remain frozen in time, a theme park of the authentic, all the inhabitants playing the roles of those people who were there when she first came. But I do not like these changes. Yesterday evening I gazed appreciatively down at a pool of water by the harbor and admired the blood of unlucky fish resting at the bottom.