A Night in Reykjavík

Not five minutes after the trunk of the taxi slammed closed on my luggage and we took off towards the airport, I got the message that my flight was going to be delayed. Immediately, I knew what that meant for me — I had only an hour layover in Iceland on my way back to the US. Unless my next flight was late too, there was no way I would make it. “How many flights per day can there possibly be between Reykjavík and Detroit?” I wondered to myself, fearing my chances of getting home today were not looking great at all.

After more than two months of chaos that spanned across five countries, a failed mission to reinvent myself, an embarrassing knee injury, the awkward downfall of a short lived situationship, and several ears of corn boiled in a kettle, I had had it up to here. A few more hours in an airport seemed a lot more daunting than it should be under the circumstances. I cast a yearning glance out the window of a Toyota Prius which shocked me in its ability to pass the required vehicle inspection and set my sights on the dwindling streets of Berlin, unknowing what fate I was about to meet.I don’t know what it is about airports that makes it feel like every surface is contaminated with disease, bodily fluids, or both, but I was sick and tired of it already. When I dropped my checked bag, I voiced my concern about missing my next flight with the airport staff, but was given very little reassurance about what would happen after I landed. I really don’t like to pressure customer service workers, so I accepted my defeat and headed to security.

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