One of Many Stops

Dee Anne,

Hope and I stopped for another latte.  They seem to be ubiquitous on the road here.  Another thing that makes the island uncannily welcoming and perfect.  The seating area was first through the door, then another threshold followed by a cavernous, high-ceilinged room full of sentimental, wood and metal objects for the home, and a residence-like bathroom, and a crock pot with soup and a pear-shaped woman with slightly buck teeth and the seductively slanting eyes of Bjork standing behind the counter glad to talk to us and prepare us a coffee and tell us humbly about how many years she’d been in the town, and how she’d lived behind the gas station six doors down for a time, but how she now had this place, and how small the town was.  The room had the clean, gray, relieving freshness of everything in Iceland.  The home decor was full of overused sentiment that, at this juncture of my life, I take to heart very deeply.  The light was soft and somehow persistent.  Hope and I left bolstered again into the car and the road and further adventure and the perpetual fresh air and crystalline horizons and hills, but only after we’d stopped in a hand-knit textile gift shop next door and purchased a few Christmas gifts for family.

The huge moment of this adventure is only made up of so many small moments, all remarkable, such as this.

Thank you.

Tim