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.
Next
|