After hiking up what felt like miles of stairs, we bent over, hands on our knees, and struggled to catch our breath. We had decided to check out the neighborhood park, and I was now hoping it was worth the climb. (Living off of wine and cheese doesn’t do much for endurance.) After watching a few runners whiz by us, we pulled ourselves together and began to make our way through the park.
By now, most friends and family know there are few things I enjoy less than flying. Yet, here I am in France, and I didn’t take a weeks-long cruise to get here. As of a week ago, I still would have preferred a root canal to flying, but a new program and a supportive partner have me feeling more confident than I have in years.
It’s 12:33 p.m. and I’m starving. Last night, my uncle warned us that my aunt had a meeting in the morning so she would be up earlier than normal – meaning we might hear her earlier than normal. The meeting, it appears, is being held here, in her studio, which is just off the kitchen of the house. After peeking down over the edge of our lofted bedroom, it also appears that the meeting involves a film shoot. Now, I’m afraid to go downstairs.
So, while we’re stuck up here, I’ll take a little time to fill you in on exactly where we’re living.
After a six-hour flight, 20 minutes of sleep, and a lot of free Icelandic TV and movies — because I sat in the one seat without American content — we arrived in Reykjavik for our 20-hour layover.
Today, Andy and I leave for a year in Paris. Although we had our last day of work on Tuesday and have since managed to pack a good chunk of our lives into only four suitcases, it still doesn’t feel quite real.