We’re back in Reykjavik. In a glorious hotel with satellite TV and too many pillows. It’s grand.
It’s the point in the trip where we cross over from present tense to future tense, to thinking about things that need to get done, people we’ll get to see, about home. Emails have gone out and a dinner reservation’s been made, concert tickets have been purchased. The September of a new school year approaches.
Yesterday at dinner we both exhaled and said we were ready to come home. I think we were both a little nervous to admit it and maybe devalue what we had been doing and were doing. I didn’t want to seem ungrateful or to appear less than fully present as we still had several hundred kilometers and a long weekend ahead of us. But an agreement was made that it is a good thing to be ready to come home. And it feels good to be homesick, though I wish there was a word that didn’t imply sickness. We need a milder diagnosis. It’s not a yearning or a desperation. It’s an anticipation and a swelling sense of the next. It’s a good feeling. One we’re relishing as we think about all that will be done on the new house in the days after the plane lands.
It feels good, too, to be back in Reykjavik. We know the street names, we know where we are. We aren’t trying to get anywhere. We’re in a transition for these next few days. If we’re working with the sick-ness trope, this is the quarantine. Thank goodness we’re not Icelandic ponies or we’d be here forever.