Thibaulstrop's Saga

I will begin this tale with three facts:

1. The Icelandic sagas (often called the first novels) are legends of the first people who lived during the Settlement Era.
2. The Saga Museum of Reykjavik is not in Perlan. 
3. The speed, in miles per hour, of a sneeze is approximately 55.

And so it dawned on the third morning in Reykjavik a promise of a day with less-than-perfect weather – even less perfect than the two days before. So less-than-perfect, in fact, that our travelers’ tour had been canceled. When our wary travelers awoke, they saw a deceptively calm, ice-colored sky, only to find their wireless Internet was no longer operational. The first few drops of frigid rain fell as they made their way to the C is for Cookie Café, where they dined on rye toast with butter, ham, cheese, and hummus while sending vital messages to friends, family, and the keepers of their inn’s wireless Internet. 

As they made their way into the world again, a cold rain had started to fall. A slight wind blew, though nothing, noted the travelers, tour-cancelation worthy. But the sidewalks – no less cleared than they had been the days before – had frozen overnight and were now slicked with a layer of rain, making their walk to the city center slow going.

Their first stop, the Settlement Expedition, pleased our travelers. Afterwards, they wished to learn more about these early settlers and their stories at the Saga Museum, so they caught a bus to Perlan. However, even though the buses were clean, fast, and many of them mustachioed (for men’s cancer awareness), the stop names were less than clear. While the timetable clearly stated a stop for Perlan, the stops announced on board did not, and thusly our travelers got off a full stop ahead of where they were to be.

Now, in normal weather, this would not be such a problem. Our travelers merely had to walk an extra ten minutes or so to reach the top of a hill where the museum sat within a glass dome with a blinking light on top. But the moment they got off the bus they understood why their aforementioned tour had been canceled.

In America, the travelers had heard stories of the rain being God’s tears, or God’s spit, or other bodily fluids of God’s. But on this day, in this Nordic land of ice, the rain that stung their cheeks and wind that shoved them along the path to the Perlan was nothing short of sneezes coming from the great nose of Odin himself. It was as if Odin had the worst cold in all of Valhala, and no one was safe from his torment. 

So the travelers leaned against the wind and icy mucous of the gods, trudging through slushy snow and wet ice to the top of the hill, that ten minutes feeling more like ten days. When, at last, they reached the top, the welcoming warmth and dryness of the Perlan – and the promise of the Saga Museum - was as comforting as a mother’s hug.

Except this was less like the comfort of a mother’s hug and more like the disorienting realization that this strange woman is not your mother, and your mother moved downtown last May, and how strange that it still says this address in all the guidebooks and websites. Pity. Care to see our cafeteria?

Our travelers sat next to one of the windows of the glass dome, listening to the wind whip over the building, watching the rain pelt the glass and the surface of the closed observation deck. It really was beautiful, this not-Saga Museum. There were lovely views of Reykjavik and the surrounding land, and a geyser-like fountain on the ground floor that erupted every ten minutes. Our travelers might have been more excited to be there were they not soaked, cold, and wondering how they were ever going to find the strength to walk back down to the bus stop.

They packed and bundled, ready to face the gods’ wrath, but got barely feet from the front door before turning back. The way was too treacherous – the wind too strong, the rain too sharp. Our travelers, heads hung in defeat, entered the Perlan again, greeted by the confused steward who, just moments before, wrested the door open for them to the harsh outside world. Embarrassed, they admitted their weakness. The bus stop was too far. They would need to call a taxi. 

The steward, our travelers’ hero, hailed a car that appeared in mere moments, which whisked them back to their inn in under twenty minutes and twenty dollars. Our travelers hung up their clothes on the radiators, settled down to relax, and celebrated the return of the internet…only to find out their tour for the next day, too, was canceled.

And so ends this story.