We’re having guests for dinner and David comes out dressed in olive camo shorts and a fluorescent salmon T-shirt. I step into the hallway, see what he’s wearing, and have a new-jerk reaction—No! No! Those colors were never meant to be worn together!
Apparently I’ve hurt his feelings because his response is a petulant—Well, look at what you’re wearing!—which makes no sense because I’m dressed in clothing which is, in fact, attractive, appropriate to the occasion, and won’t make anyone’s eyes bleed. He stomps off and comes back wearing the same shorts with a T-shirt he wears when working on Habitat houses—frayed at the seams, faded black, and covered with white paint splotches. I wisely don’t say a word.
He also goes his own way clothing-wise when we’re traveling. For the tour’s getting-acquainted luncheon in Reykjavik, he shows up in olive pants and a maroon T-shirt (Clash!) with TEXAS A&M printed across his belly, though he swore off wearing billboard T-shirts long ago. Though I know better than to chastise, I’m unable to restrain myself from lifting a derisive brow and muttering a snarky, “Really?”
“It’s a conversation starter,” he tells me with an unconcerned shrug.
And indeed it is. Men he doesn’t know cross the room to slap him on the back and tell him they know someone who went to A&M; or that they went to A&M; or that their son or daughter is going or is planning to go to A&M. Or contrarily, they announce that they went to UT but they won’t hold his having gone to A&M against him. All these conversations are hyperbolically convivial. And David’s right. He invited attention as soon as he entered the room.
The next morning we go for a walk. For all we’ve heard about Iceland being, well, icy, there’s no wind and the temperature is a mild seventy-two. Across from the hotel is a walking path that is noticeably pristine, bordered by healthy green grass, and well-planned—a divided bike lane on one side and a divided walking path on the other. The few people using the paths follow the rule about staying to the right. Gotta love a country where its people follow the rules even when there’s no one there to monitor.
We head to the right, and about two hundred yards along we come across a man sleeping in the grass. He’s wearing a cap, a pair of sunglasses, and colorful workout clothes.
As we continue on, we discuss the man who’s passed out and how Reykjavik used to have a reputation as a hard-drinking wild-partying town; and though, in recent years, they’ve worked to change their status, we nevertheless assume drinking too much is the reason he’s passed out in the grass.
When we’ve put in our half-hour, we turn back, and once again come upon the sleeping man, who’s in the same position he was in earlier.
“He’s not breathing,” I tell David.
“Let’s watch and see.”
So we stop and stare at his chest for several minutes. There’s not the slightest rise and fall. What’s the protocol here? Neither one of us brought a phone. David suggests we take the few steps up to the street and see if we can flag down a cop—and there’s no cop in sight; in fact, traffic is so light that there’s only a single set of brake lights in the distance. Ludicrously hopeful, I scan the buildings looking for a police station. No luck.
We decide to return to the hotel and notify the front desk. On the way, we come across a man heading in the opposite direction. David stops him, tells him about the dead body, and asks if he’ll call it in.
“I’ll take a look,” the man says in a skeptical tone, offering no confirmation that he’ll make a call.
When we get back to the hotel, David tells the concierge, who calls the police, who request that David stay and guide them to the body. We need to get cleaned up and packed, so David denies the request, gives a clear description of where the body is (across the street, to the right, adjacent to the socker fields, next to the bench), and returns to our room to get ready for the day.
Later, when our tour comes together and we’re all standing in huddles the way people do when they’re waiting for things to get going, we mention that we came across a dead man on our morning walk.
“I saw him, too,” a woman says. “What time were you walking?”
“Eight-thirty,” we tell her.
“Oh. When I walked by at eleven, he was still there.”
Well, that’s disturbing.
At this point we’re herded on to our buses and are driven around to view the highlights of Reykjavik for a couple of hours before we’re taken to our boat, which will take us to see fjords and puffins, and to hike in the artic circle, where our heads will be attacked by arctic terns. For these excursions we will dress appropriately and as advised—in layers, and in such a way that T-shirts broadcasting personal information will be concealed beneath sweaters, jackets, and windbreakers.
For a reason I’m unaware of, this sphere marks the Arctic Circle. They have to move it every year and it’s expected to be underwater in five years’ time.
This shows how dynamic Iceland is.
Shouting in a Viking-like manner on an ice throne in a frozen cave. Why? Who knows? Then, of course, there’s the T-shirt.
