So I'm in Reykjavik, and I just washed my face with oatmeal. The products in the shops around me smell like coriander rosebushes but they are also too many Kronur. So I'm using oatmeal and milk. And the rustic times begin. I also chanced upon a book about sex with elves, real advice for the mountain people, titled Please YoursELF. Reykjavik has changed so little since the last time I was here. I walked past the Mexican restaurant where I had the otherwordly tortilla soup two years ago—sadly replaced by bland and overpriced burritos, and the sushi restaurant where Brandon and I went with our mulleted but fashionable and sexually ambiguous Icelandic friend. The streets look the same, except there are a handful of second hand stores where there were none before...recession? Also, the only English books available in a few bookstores were primarily about the market and how to handle systemic and personal economic woes. eh.
I am staying in the city for a few days before heading south to my first farm in Selfoss. Until then I'll be planning and trying to get all the point of interest photos for my work, which are luckily on my street. I've been sifting through my leagues of patagonian photos to prepare an update on that end, it will be coming soon. But for now Molly needs to sleep. It's been 30+ hours. Oi.
