I have been in Iceland. I didn’t want to tell you I was in Reykjavik ’cause I didn’t want you to steal my stuff while I was gone. Now I realize I don’t really have much cool stuff and also I have an alarm system. Her name is Vicky, and she lives across the street.
We landed in Iceland on the eighteenth. We were standing on the street, trying to unlock the apartment we had rented when I saw a critter swing quickly through a tree.
“Oh my God,” I screamed. “Is that a monkey?”
The taxi driver, hoping for a large tip, said slowly and completely without judgement, “No, Ma’am. That is a C-A-T.”
In my defense, it was the middle of the night. It was dark. I was cold, hungry, and had been on an airplane for a full day with a three-year-old. Plus, the cat had simultaneously swung and leapt; a very primate-like motion.
The next morning, we were heading out for breakfast, which was really lunch ’cause we had slept until noon.
My three-year-old started crying. “I don’t want to go,” she said.
“Don’t you want to get something to eat?”
“Yes,” she sniffled. “But, I’m afraid of the arctic monkeys.”