There’s a mosquito buzzing around my office as I sit here typing at 9AM.
It is almost summer here in the southern US, and the annual plagues have begun.
A wasp set up shop in my laundry room. I’m allergic to wasp venom. Can’t find the wasp nest.
Last night about a dozen huge cockroaches rained down into my backyard from an oak tree onto my head. One flew into my face. I smashed it on the steps before running inside.
Anyway. Iceland.
I’m coming.
I can’t wait to get away from July’s thick humidity and bugs and punishing heat. To be in the mountains with cool temps and low humidity and nary a mosquito in sight.
The air smells different in northern Iceland. It smells like blue steel and detachment. It doesn’t smother you on late spring evenings or stagnate in swamps in August like the air here. Iceland air comforts no one and keeps moving.
If I concentrate, I can conjure the smell.
And if I cannot go, if I have to cancel my trip, if this pandemic is still swinging through July, then I have a back-up plan.
More on that later.
Everyone stay safe. I’m done being anxious and scared. What happens will happen.
My Scandinavian Summer 