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.
Reykjavik 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 Gęšingur IPAs at Micro Bar, before wobbling back to my room.
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