I haven’t yet learned the ways of the travel writer. I haven’t yet gained the experience to express the exhilaration that comes with exploring a new land. Though, the best teacher is experience. I must warn you, this is only a start.
Reykjavik is small town that hopes to be mistaken for a metropolis. Or perhaps its the other way around. The streets seem familiar within a few hours of aimless wanderings, and you can always find your way back. Its nearly void of the American chains that have weaseled their way into the capitals of other countries around the world. Every place feels like a secret, but the city is too small to hide anything well. After catching aglimpse of a staircase that promised to lead to something good, we found our way into Café Babalu. At first, when we were greeted in Icelandic we were sure that no tourist had ever found themselves in this wonderful little place. But this cafe was filled with Icelanders one day, and foreigners the next. I was flattered whenever I was greeted in Icelandic. It made me feel a little less obvious, as if there was something about me in common with these people. I realized, though, that no place was off limits. Tourists and locals (even cool locals) coexist. When we entered places, it was expected that we were locals but it was fine that we weren’t.