indíafari

While he goes rocketing off, soaring out on a trajectory even longer than that of Jón Ólafsson Indíafari, she is here, sleeping, dreaming herself to some never-was Hvalfjörður.

The shopfronts are painted warm colors. Food-smells (pot pies? some good, warm thing like that) spill out onto the narrow sidewalk. The monuments in the cemetary are fascinating: elongated figures stretch face-downward on the grass as if beating the earth in grief. There is a sort of little museum, a visitors' center. She considers buying a postcard. She feels guilty at having been waylaid by all these unexpected things. She had wanted to go up the fjord to the old whaling station, but she is on foot, and it is so far.