end.
“It’s over.”
I say the words out loud and give myself a moment to digest and accept them. My chest is still tight and my heart feels as if it’s been stabbed with a hundred tiny blades, but I also experience a sense of relief that things have finally come to a head. I think again about packing my suitcase and leaving. Richard’s accusation of scrounging cut deeper than I care to admit, and I relish the idea of tossing his gift of this room and the Cash Passport back at him, letting him know I neither want nor need his money.
But then I reconsider.
It’s Christmas, I’m in Reykjavik, and tomorrow’s my birthday. Why shouldn’t I make the most of it? Without Richard’s funding, I doubt I’ll have this opportunity again in a long time, if ever. And everything’s already paid for anyway; it would be a shame to waste it in a fit of petulance.
I’ll stay, I decide in that moment. I’ll do my best to enjoy my time here, and when I go back, I’ll clear out of the apartment while Richard is at work one day and never take another penny from him.
Despite my newfound calm and the acknowledgment that what has happened is for the best in the long term, I can’t bring myself to follow our original plans for the day. My birthday was supposed to start with a tour around the city, followed by some museums, a lavish dinner, and then an evening trip out to see the lights. If I’m going to do this, I need to make sure everything is completely different to eliminate any lingering thoughts that Richard should be at my side. I still have a full week ahead of me; the Northern Lights can wait a few days.
I scan my memory for some of the other sights I’d read about in the guidebook, and the day trip to the famous geysers pops into my mind. The idea seems a promising one: a full day out of the city, where I won’t be reminded of Richard’s absence, where everything will be planned out for me so I won’t have to find ways to occupy myself. Yes, it’s perfect.
I reach over and fiddle with the buttons on the clock, setting the alarm for six thirty. That should give me plenty of time to get up, have breakfast, and then make my way to the information center to see if I can book a last-minute place on the tour.
W HEN I reach the tourist office the next day, I’m in luck: there are still spaces on the trip, and the coach will depart in ten minutes’ time. I buy my ticket, order a coffee, and gulp it down in five swallows, burning my tongue in the process, when I see the coach approaching ahead of schedule. The door opens, the driver inspects my ticket, and I’m waved aboard.
The vehicle is about two-thirds full, mostly couples and family groups, and the only remaining seats are either right at the front or at the back. Unable to overcome my schoolboy fear of the front row, I head to the back and settle in an aisle seat, dropping my bag onto the empty seat beside me. An elderly couple boards a minute or two later, taking seats at the front, and then we’re off.
I concentrate on the scenery as we leave the city, snapping a few shots through the slightly smeary window with my DSLR. The images aren’t going to win me any prizes, but I hope to get some better pictures when we make our stops.
Our first port of call is the Strokkur geyser, and it’s certainly an impressive sight. For a few short minutes, I almost feel happy as I snap away, trying to capture the motion of the water as it shoots skyward. However, that feeling doesn’t last.
I suppose it was inevitable since I’m the only single person on the tour, aside from the driver and tour guide, both of whom are busy smoking foul-smelling cigarettes over by the coach, but I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to find myself faced with a young couple sporting shy, hopeful smiles.
“Would you take a photo of us? With the geyser?”
The girl’s accent sounds German, and she’s already holding out the camera, all but pressing it into my hands, so I have
“It’s over.”
I say the words out loud and give myself a moment to digest and accept them. My chest is still tight and my heart feels as if it’s been stabbed with a hundred tiny blades, but I also experience a sense of relief that things have finally come to a head. I think again about packing my suitcase and leaving. Richard’s accusation of scrounging cut deeper than I care to admit, and I relish the idea of tossing his gift of this room and the Cash Passport back at him, letting him know I neither want nor need his money.
But then I reconsider.
It’s Christmas, I’m in Reykjavik, and tomorrow’s my birthday. Why shouldn’t I make the most of it? Without Richard’s funding, I doubt I’ll have this opportunity again in a long time, if ever. And everything’s already paid for anyway; it would be a shame to waste it in a fit of petulance.
I’ll stay, I decide in that moment. I’ll do my best to enjoy my time here, and when I go back, I’ll clear out of the apartment while Richard is at work one day and never take another penny from him.
Despite my newfound calm and the acknowledgment that what has happened is for the best in the long term, I can’t bring myself to follow our original plans for the day. My birthday was supposed to start with a tour around the city, followed by some museums, a lavish dinner, and then an evening trip out to see the lights. If I’m going to do this, I need to make sure everything is completely different to eliminate any lingering thoughts that Richard should be at my side. I still have a full week ahead of me; the Northern Lights can wait a few days.
I scan my memory for some of the other sights I’d read about in the guidebook, and the day trip to the famous geysers pops into my mind. The idea seems a promising one: a full day out of the city, where I won’t be reminded of Richard’s absence, where everything will be planned out for me so I won’t have to find ways to occupy myself. Yes, it’s perfect.
I reach over and fiddle with the buttons on the clock, setting the alarm for six thirty. That should give me plenty of time to get up, have breakfast, and then make my way to the information center to see if I can book a last-minute place on the tour.
W HEN I reach the tourist office the next day, I’m in luck: there are still spaces on the trip, and the coach will depart in ten minutes’ time. I buy my ticket, order a coffee, and gulp it down in five swallows, burning my tongue in the process, when I see the coach approaching ahead of schedule. The door opens, the driver inspects my ticket, and I’m waved aboard.
The vehicle is about two-thirds full, mostly couples and family groups, and the only remaining seats are either right at the front or at the back. Unable to overcome my schoolboy fear of the front row, I head to the back and settle in an aisle seat, dropping my bag onto the empty seat beside me. An elderly couple boards a minute or two later, taking seats at the front, and then we’re off.
I concentrate on the scenery as we leave the city, snapping a few shots through the slightly smeary window with my DSLR. The images aren’t going to win me any prizes, but I hope to get some better pictures when we make our stops.
Our first port of call is the Strokkur geyser, and it’s certainly an impressive sight. For a few short minutes, I almost feel happy as I snap away, trying to capture the motion of the water as it shoots skyward. However, that feeling doesn’t last.
I suppose it was inevitable since I’m the only single person on the tour, aside from the driver and tour guide, both of whom are busy smoking foul-smelling cigarettes over by the coach, but I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to find myself faced with a young couple sporting shy, hopeful smiles.
“Would you take a photo of us? With the geyser?”
The girl’s accent sounds German, and she’s already holding out the camera, all but pressing it into my hands, so I have
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