| Monday 19 October 2015--My flight from Glasgow is at 2:05pm, so there is 
plenty of time to drive from Seahouses after breakfast.  Traffic through 
Glasgow is not as heavy as I'd feared it might be.  There's a long line at the 
Icelandair check in, but it moves quickly.  A young red-headed Icelandic woman is 
in line behind me, and stands close by my elbow, like she's thinking about passing 
me.  I'd be annoyed if she weren't so good-looking.  I have a pint and lunch at the 
Sanderling, go to the gate, and soon enough am in the air.  I'm in a window seat, 
as usual; the redhead, coincidentally, has the aisle seat, with the middle seat 
empty.  If I were thirty years younger, or even twenty--hell, fifteen--I'd try to chat 
her up.  Not a word passes between us on the flight. 
 The Flybus leaves me a couple of blocks from my guesthouse, a new one for me.  
When I arrive, I find a note on the door telling me where to find the key for entry.  
It isn't there.  Fortunately, there is time left on my SIM card, bought sixteen 
days ago in Sweden, despite my efforts to use it up in the past few days.  I call 
my host, and he is here within ten minutes to let me in.  The housekeeper has left 
my key on the kitchen table, instead of its exterior hiding place.  There are a 
couple of places I've stayed in Scotland where the note on the door told me 
that the key was on the kitchen table, and I should walk right in through the 
unlocked door and get it.
 
 Reykjavík seems to have taken over the lazy layover role from Amsterdam.  I have 
two nights here, and not much in mind to do.  I have dinner at Nóra Magasin, and 
a few Gæðingur IPAs at Micro Bar, before wobbling back to my room.
 
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