I’m a nervous traveler, to say the least. Terry isn’t. When
we go to the movies, he gets upset if I dawdle too long at home. I think, “Big
deal. So we’ll miss the ads and the previews.” But he wants to be in his seat
well before the lights go down.
 | |||
| My devil-may-care husband. |
About getting to the plane, he’s much more
relaxed than I am. I want to be parked in front of the gate forty-five
minutes before departure. That way, I won’t get left behind. He wants to take his
time checking his bags, sitting somewhere comfortable and far away from the
hubbub where he can read a book, and being the very last passenger to board. He
figures they won’t leave without him.
These opposing philosophies sometimes make for tension while
we’re getting ready, as well. I like to have everything packed twenty-four
hours ahead. I feed my electronics liberally in the hours before I leave home
so that they’ll have enough food to last until I arrive at the next outlet.
Terry throws stuff together at the last minute and takes
everything but the kitchen sink. I cull and narrow things down to my one small
suitcase.
So you can just imagine what getting ready was like when a
huge storm hit the night before we left. I looked out our bedroom window at the
swirling wind. Then I heard the loud groan of a transformer blowing. Uh oh.
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| I didn't kill him, but I wanted to. |
At three o’clock the next afternoon, sweaty and
sleep-deprived, we pulled away from a hot dark house, cats pacing forlornly,
food slowly rotting in the refrigerator. Not exactly an auspicious beginning to
our great Icelandic adventure.
We flew to JFK and waited for hours for our connection. It
was an overnight flight, and the plane was packed. Terry and I didn’t get to
sit together. I was in a window seat, agony for a charter member of the weak
bladder club like myself.
But we survived and landed in Keflavik, the airport much
improved over the last forty years.
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