Pablo Picasso Was Never Called An Asshole*

Jen and I landed at Keflavík International Airport -- 30 miles outside of Reykjavik, this past Saturday, at 6:30 AM. This, after a full and exhausting work week in the Pixel Mines of Brighton, Massachusetts.

The airport bus dropped us off right in front of our hotel Room With A View, at 7:30. (wonderfully and relievedly since we had all the energy of, and could easily have been mistaken for, extras from Dawn of the Dead) Check in, unfortunately, wasn’t until early afternoon. We figured, 'hey, we’re right here, maybe, just maybe, we’ll luck out.' Dreams of shower and nap were going all Sugar Plum Fairy in our weary brain pans.

Nope, no such luck. The VERY nice, wonderful even, woman at the front desk (with excellent taste in footwear, by the by) let us stow our, by now, half ton rucksacks behind her desk. She offered to text us the minute the apartment was available. Tragically, our cell phones were non-functioning so the texting option was a nonstarter

We figured we’d just hit the nearest attractive coffee shop, get breakfast and then walk around -- see what there was to see in the, still sleeping, Saturday morning city. We'd drop back in to see if our nest was ready.

Just a block down from Room With A View is a Kaffitár, a chain coffee house but a comfy, chilled out, green one. 75% of the coffee at Kaffitár is Direct Trade — bought directly from the farmer. So then, good, fair trade coffee and a fabola veggie quiche too.

Post-caffienation, we wandered the area, Reykjavík 101 -- downtown. We found flocks, scads and mega-score of truly amazing, stunning street art -- murals, graffiti, installations and other random acts of art. Seriously, there was incredibleness on every block, around every corner or so it seemed.
Some had a political bend, many were just outrageously fun, most were brain activating. This was completely unexpected. Of course it was, given that I'd read nothing about the city or the country before arrival.

After a few hours of walking around, being both amazed at the beauty and charm of the town as well as weighed down by my magic courier bag which had gained a pound with every single  step (sweartogod!), we stopped back into the hotel.

Not only was the room ready hours earlier than standard check in, they’d upgraded us. We now had a jacuzzi -- too cool!

*Pablo Picasso -- Jonathan Richman at The Grog in Cleveland.