Page 23 of Secret Nights and Northern Lights
“Is your room, um,beeping?”
His blank face stares back at me. “What?”
“Is your room beeping?” I curtly repeat. It’s a simple yes-or-no question.
“What?Beeping?Why would my room be beeping?”
There must not be an evacuation, so I guess this is a me problem. “Never mind,” I mutter, and turn back toward my room, prepared to suck it up and call the front desk for assistance. If I can figure out how to work the goddamn phone.
“Mona,” Ben’s tired voice calls from behind me. “You put your key in the key slot by the door, right?”
I squeeze my key card in my palm and glance back over my shoulder. “Key slot?”
Ben’s eyes narrow, arms crossing over his chest as he stands watching me from his doorway. “Yeah, you know how some hotels have the key slot that controls the appliances in your room? Nothing works if the key isn’t inserted? That might be the source of your beeps. There’s probably a limited amount of time you have to insert your key once you enter the room.”
I blink at him a few times. Never in my life have I stayed at a hotel that had this feature. Then again, this hotel is far nicer than the ones Calvin approves for us Locals. I force a self-deprecating grin, a nonchalant shrug of my shoulders. “You know, now that you mention it, I knowexactlywhat you’re talking about.”Lies!“Imust be really jet-lagged.” I scan my key card and push my door open when it flashes green. “Thanks for the reminder, though. Sorry I woke you.”
He nods and says, “No problem,” then disappears back into his room.
Back inside my own room, I locate the key slot that I hadn’t noticed before on the wall next to the door, slip my key card into place, and watch the circular red light switch over to green. Then I crawl back in bed and pull the covers up to my chin, wondering how I’m going to keep up my world-traveler facade throughout this entire trip, until I eventually fall asleep in a blessed, beep-less silence.
* * *
The streets of Reykjavík echo the soundtrack of a vibrant city. Chatty pedestrians. The bustle of outdoor cafés. Tinny bicycle chimes whizzing past us on the sidewalk. I love it all so much it’s a physical transformation that takes over my body. An expanding of my heart as my blood pumps faster, a change in my gait as I quicken my pace and practically skip down the sidewalk, a wide grin pulling at my cheeks as I commit to memory every detail of this incredible city.
Pulling my teal pea coat tight around myself to fight the winds, I round a corner and am met with the sight of Hallgrímskirkja—Iceland’s largest and arguably most recognizable church. The architecture is equally stunning and unique, designed with concrete, hexagonal columns increasing in height as they near the center of the structure. In the middle, a clock tower rises toward the grayclouds above, forming a steepled apex topped with a cross. I recall in Suki’s notes that the specific design pays tribute to Iceland’s basalt columns, one of the country’s trademark elements found at numerous popular locations, many of which are on our itinerary.
“Ahh-maaa-zing.” The word stretches past my lips in reverent praise to the travel gods.
“Did you expect anything less?” Ben reaches for the camera strapped across his shoulder.
Frankly, it makes me anxious that his very expensive camera just bounces at his hip like it’s no big deal, but whatever. Not my business. Having worked with photographers frequently—although I imagine snapping pictures at a competitive disc golf tournament is not quite the same as photographing the breathtaking sites of Iceland—I’ve become accustomed to assisting when needed, offering an extra hand while they switch lenses and so forth. So while Ben holds his camera in one hand and reaches back to unzip his backpack with the other, I generously offer, “I can hold that if you need me to.”
“No, thanks. I got it.”
Well then.
The response was casual enough, but I feel the sting of dismissal anyway. Photographer Ben who wears his camera so carelessly doesn’t even trust me to hold it for him. Fine. That’s fine. I have my own work to do anyway. Leaving him to his own stubbornness, I find a nearby bench and plop down, pull my notebook and trusty Pilot G2 from my tote bag, and begin to jot down notes on the architectural masterpiece in front of me.
When it comes to the articles forAround the Globe, Calvinprefers we writers stick to informational facts only. But I prefer to tread a carefully curated line that’s more informative substance with an added personal touch, because I firmly believe no one wants to read a slew of stated facts like a research article with no heart. I am, however, unwilling to state my outright opinion on whether a reader should spend their time and hard-earned money to visit a specific location or skip it, since it’s all incredibly subjective. So instead, I include a mix of what the reader can expect (facts) and how the site made me feel (personal touch). Then the reader can do with that information as they please. (Maybe decide to skip the Tri-City Hot Sauce Festival.)
Sitting on a wooden bench in the heart of Reykjavík, staring up at the stunning church before me, the immediate feeling that sweeps through me isinsignificance.
Not in the negative connotation of the word, though. Not in the way I sometimes feel insignificant within my own family, or the way it took seven years of chasing fluff pieces to get a glimmer of opportunity within my company, or in the way my life can feel small and quiet compared to others’.
Here in Iceland, I feel insignificant in thebestway. There’s an entire world before me that functions every single day, cities—some of which I’ll see, some of which I’ll never even know exist—filled with people all doing their best to survive, languages spoken around me I’ll never understand, yet the commonality of the human experience is immensely beautiful and comforting on a level I don’t have words for.
This is it, I think, watching two college-age youths holding hands pass me by, one throwing their head back and laughing at something the other said as they head into a restaurant.Thisiswhy I want to see the world, why Ineedto see the world. Because maybe if I search hard enough, I’ll find the little piece of this world that’s just for me, where my puzzle edges don’t need to be forced into place anymore.
The cool wind blows through the ends of my hair, and I close my eyes and breathe in the scents of the city. The smell of bread wafting from a nearby restaurant on the corner. A whiff of cigarette smoke carried on the breeze. Someone’s floral perfume as they pass by on the sidewalk. It’s the last one that sends my mind running back to the past instead of staying rooted in the present, and I’m hit with a specific childhood memory that I haven’t thought about in ages.
It was summertime, still several weeks before my fifth birthday, and I lay in bed one night flipping through a picture book I’d checked out of our local library earlier that day. I still recall the photos of elephants and giraffes and lions from safari in South Africa, and how even that young I felt the need to goeverywhere,to seeeverything.
My mom knelt beside my bed—I hadn’t noticed her come into my room until her floral perfume drifted over me as she pulled the book from my hands and placed it to the side. She needed to talk to me, she said, about an idea she wanted me to consider. She was thinking about starting me in kindergarten that fall along with my brothers, despite my fifth birthday falling weeks after the deadline.
That hadn’t been the plan. The plan was that I wasfinallygetting a whole year of my mom’s undivided attention while my brothers were off at school all day, something I’d looked forwardto for months. We’d take trips to the library, and the mall, even just running errands…it was going to be just the two of us.
I talked to the principal,she told me that night, changing everything in an instant.We both think you’re ready. You’re so mature for your age. And you’re so smart.What do you think?
