“No. Not on the schedule. Not yet. I spent the whole time planning and sleeping.”
“Yeah, I can tell.” He doesn’t seem disappointed or hurt that I rejected his advances, instead he goes with the flow. I point to the closet.
“Go get changed.”
A couple of minutes later, we’re both back in waterproof pants, layers, and hats. It’s not too cold right now, probably around forty, but forty degrees is so weird. It either feels frigid if you’ve come from seventy-degree weather or positively balmy if it’s thirty.
Reykjavík forty is cold.
“So, sell it to me,” he says, as we leave the hotel lobby, standing in the town square surrounded by centuries old buildings. “Because what I’m seeing looks like every other city in Europe.”
We walk past little two-story buildings that ooze cuteness, restaurants that aren’t open yet, and shops flipping over their closed signs and welcoming us in. It’s an uphill walk, but the incline isn’t anything too crazy.
“Okay, we’re going to go up to the church.”
“Oh,” he says, peering down the street. “Is that Rainbow Road? I see it all over Instagram. It’s not nearly as long as I thought it would be.” No, he’s right. The pictures online make you think it’s going to go all the way to the church, but it doesn’t. It’s enough of the Biteforst to make it seem cool though.
“Yeah, that one’s super underwhelming,” I admit. “But still. Let’s keep going.” I lock my hand with his, dragging him through the streets. “Okay, first we have to stop at this shop right here. This is the only place you can get actual hand-knit sweaters. Not the other stuff that’s made with Icelandic wool, shipped out, and then stamped with a label. These are made by like, ninety-year-old women. It's a dying artform so we have to support it. Go, go, go.” I push him inside.
The store is warm and sweaters and gloves fill every usable space. He flips over the price on the tag and pulls back. “Jesus, four hundred?—”
“Shut up and pick one.” We both leave with new sweaters. He has puffins on his. Mine has sheep. We’re continuing up toward the church when he stops and points.
“Fluffy kitty.” I recognize her from the first time I came.
“Yeah. So that cat is a super important cat,” I say. “Her name is Olivia. She has a massive Instagram following. This cat is one of the key reasons Reykjavík is the best city. She's been coming to that store for twenty years. Even when the store was shut down for COVID, she was there every day.”
“Oh. That’s sad.”
“But it’s open now.” I use my everything’s-fine voice, the same one I use on the kids. “Everything’s good and she has a job in the store. She sleeps on a yellow blanket all day and lets you pet her. But she’s not at work right now so let's go.”
I point out every single piece of street art along the way. Every exposed brick wall has something incredible painted on it. “I’m sure you love all of this,” I say, knowing I’ve already won this non-competition. He stops to take in the contrasting colors and the subjects of each piece, and I squeeze his hand.
“I like your reaction to it more.” He squeezes my hand back and leans in for a quick kiss.
There’s another giant cat mural. I tell him that one is famous too. When we finally walk up to the cathedral I ask, “What do you see?”
He squints. “I see a dick.”
The cathedral is at the highest point in the city, with long white columns pointing high at the center, tapering off on the ends. It’s elegant with a mid-century style, but also, it’s made of concrete. It’s so out of place, and yet perfectly fits the vibe of the city.
“I’m sure someone out there has a whole history about why this cathedral is the greatest in all of time, but for me, it’s all about the dick.”
“I mean the city seems to have a theme: cats and cock. It’s entertaining, I'll give you that.” He pauses and adds, “I see what you like about it.” That small admission is worth a kiss. His cheeks tighten when he smiles as I press my lips to his, our no-kissing rule erased.
We continue down the street, and I point to a bakery we were able to smell from the cathedral. Sure, every building is bright and adorable, but this one takes the art to a whole new level. The front is covered in bright colors and sheep illustrations. I drag him inside. The coffee is underwhelming, but the cinnamon rolls are perfect, still steaming from the oven.
“Come on, these are my favorite pieces.” I say and he follows me, keeping up, but drinking his coffee is slowing him down.
Two murals are on the side of a building. One is Hel, goddess of death. Regal and powerful but not terrifying. Inevitable. On the other side is Freya, goddess of fertility and warfare, riding into battle with her cats.
“They look like the woman I want to be,” I say. “See, this is the thing. Most other places abandoned the old ways. Not here. It’s embedded in everything. You have Catholic and European elements, but you also have a healthy Norse population sharing its ways too.”
I take him down a different road back to the hotel, past a bookstore that’s been around since the 1400’s which I tell him all about. But we don’t go in, much to his surprise and horror. “There’s something even better.”
“Better than a bookstore?”
I wiggle my eyebrows, trying to keep the secret as long as I can. Because Grae’s right about the city’s theme. I lace my fingers with his and slow down my pace, so we are shoulder to shoulder until pausing in front of a building. “A penis museum?” He asks with equal parts curiosity, humor and disbelief.
