We're in Iceland. We're driving. There are stones stacked on the side of the road and they look like people. It takes my brain a second to register these shapes though, and in the meantime my eyes wander to some mounds ahead. By the time I look back at the stacked stones, they just look like stacked stones. I think about all the stories of Icelandic elves and trolls. That deception must have been some of their handiwork.
We're listening to the radio. It's the top 15 US pop hits, peppered with "sht" "rík" "tir" sounds coming from the radio announcer. It's sounds like the language that would be spoken by a cross between tiny wood elves and sweet-natured fairies.
We're looking out the window. There are black mounds covered in green moss for miles, until they hit black peaks streaked with snow far in the distance.
We hit the city. The modern architecture with brightly colored accents contrasts beautifully harshly with the black and white landscape.
We eat at a soup place. They have chicken, beef, and vegetable. There are anime characters on the walls. There's a bathroom-style paper towel dispenser that echoes its function through its form -- a butthole-shaped opening gives you your napkin. Gross. But the soup is delicious -- definitely not Asian style, despite the theme of the restaurant. People come in, quickly pay for their "take away" orders, and slip out quickly.
Tired, I wash my face next to the elf-crushed-by-a-volcanic-rock decoration, shower in the sulfurous water, put on my eye mask that will block the 18-hour-per-day sun, and sleep.
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