Here begins my arduous recreation of my travel journal, seventeen pages of hasty scrawlings in a large Moleskine notebook (supplemented with photos as I upload them), documenting my honeymoon in Reykjavik, Iceland. I wrote more than I anticipated and expect the typing will develop into something even huger, but here we go.
Tuesday morning in Minneapolis, I woke up early for no accountable reason other than excitement, perhaps. Having gone out for drinks with Editing friends the night before, I was parched and toddled to the kitchen for some water. The cats waylaid me so I played with Toki in the living room for a few minutes, practicing his aerial attacks. His thumping around in joyful leaps might have woken Rebecca so I took it to the living room.
Eventually we were both awake and leapt into action. Coffee brewed, Rebecca started cleaning up the living room while I went to the hardware store and got copies of our house keys made for the friends and family who would have to watch our cats for us.
Around 1:00 PM mom stopped by on her way back from the airport, having picked up Andrew coming up from New Orleans, bringing his son Kai (who mom had been babysitting since Sunday). I threw together a surprisingly tasty lunch--gyro meat in a pita with BBQ sauce--and made more coffee. Andrew gifted us with some of his original artwork. I marveled at how far his craft has gone. He's an amazing artist and he's constantly improving! Baby Kai was adorable: shy at first, he soon became very affectionate and gave everyone hugs. His hair seems to naturally grow into a mohawk, a thick line of long hair running down the middle of his head while thin on the sides. He was most entertained by watching Toki flip around and leap at his favorite toy, the tufted feathers on the end of a long plastic wand. Toki just likes to leap for the sake of leaping and doesn't care about catching the thing until he's just about tired of the process. Kai laughed and laughed at the agile black cat.
They left and Rebecca and I returned to packing our clothes, then left for the airport. We parked at the Hubert H. Humphrey terminal and went to get our tickets, and there we encountered our first snag. The clerk cocked her head at me and asked if I'd already checked in. I certainly had not, having just arrived, and tried to state my case. I take complications like this badly, especially on the advent of a voyage. I take them as omens and begin to fill up with dread. Two clerks deftly studied the entanglement: another worker named Ben, who'd just left the building, checked someone else under my name because he believed our names were similar. Pretty soon a tall redheaded Icelandic woman came up to the desk, informing us that TSA said her boarding pass did not match her passport, and I got to meet Kristín Friðriksdóttir (my name is Christian Fredrickson--close, but not).
Waiting at the airport, Rebecca and I got dinner at Fletcher's Wharf and received a mediocre, overpriced meal. This was the portent of things to come, not the tangle at the check-in desk, I see that now. I had fun with the menu, as some past diner evidently fancied him/herself a fledgling editor and attempted some typographic corrections in pen, on the menu itself. Hilarious, because he/she was quite erroneous in the corrections. That was about that, except for later when I watched a woman attempt to leave the bar with a glass of white wine and wander around the terminal. The bartender, being of gentle disposition, was unable to immediately attract her attention but eventually did prevent an international disaster, causing her to leave her glass of wine at the bar.
Rebecca ran off and delivered our copy of Rock Band in the mail, returning it to the manufacturer because there's a skip on the disc and we can't get past a certain level due to it. We got some more coffee, boarded the plane, and watched an episode of Malcolm in the Middle on the overhead drop-down screens. That was nice. Unfortunately, Bridget Jones' Diary 2: the Edge of Reason or some crap was on next so I had to rely on my Shuffle and the spiff new noise-canceling earbud headphones Rebecca got me.
We received our in-flight meal: some kind of rolled-up pasta filled with pork (which R. can't eat, having grown up Jewish and not having an appetite for it), a brownie, a roll (neither of which she can have due to a gluten intolerance), and she asked me what kind of salad it was that I was enjoying. "It tastes like crab salad," I said, which made her laugh inordinately hard. There was absolutely nothing on her tray that she could eat, and it was five more hours until we touched down in Iceland. Fortunately, she did remember to bring some trail mix.