You can fly Icelandair from Boston to Oslo. You save an hour compared to going via Copenhagen, but I’m not convinced it’s worth it: the forty minutes at Keplavik, the Rekjavik airport, are at the worst possible time of the flight. You’ve had four hours, you’ve just fallen into that aeroplane approximation of sleep I’ve learnt to accept as far better than staying awake, your body thinks it’s about 1.30 am, when BAM! You’re thrown out on the tarmac. Well, actually Keplavik’s a decent little airport, in the style of Oslo’s only smaller, so you’re protected from the tarmac by minimalistic glass and steel, but it’s nighttime and they’re telling you good morning it’s 7 am on Iceland and the signs and voices are like dreamwarped versions of the old Norse we were supposed to learn fragments of in high school.
Boarding the first leg of my flight a little after 8 pm Boston time, I eagerly noted that Icelandic for “exit” is very close to the Norwegian utgang. By two am, sleepwalking around Keplavik, the language had become a lot more complicated.
By now it must be tomorrow night, I think. Enough blogging: I’m heading for bed. Just as soon as I’ve finished preparing for tomorrow’s student evaluations: the very last class of the semester.