Safe Arrival

My flight was entirely uneventful. I slept for most of the trip, which calls for a hearty thank you to Mom and Dad for multiple eight hour car trips to Chattanooga. I learned at a very young age that if I could fall asleep in the car then I would get there faster. So, thanks Mom and Dad, for teaching me to sleep sitting up.

When I got to baggage claim Magnús was there as well as Kay, one of Nick Jr. producers (I’m not sure about her real title). This is the second time I’ve been to Iceland and Magnús has been on both flights. Wierd. What’s even stranger is that I didn’t see either of them while I was waiting for the flight. Notice the absence of other travellers…

Granted, I was facing away from the gate so most people were behind me, and I was reading or writing the whole time. Okay, and a little surfing on the internet too.

You might be wondering about the photo. I was not the sort of flake I thought I was. I was a different sort of flake; the cable was in an inside pocket of my computer case where I normally only keep discs. Whew.

So, safe travel. Nice hotel. All my things arrived. But we all know about the disastrous travel karma I had last year. Is this year simply different, or is there a price?

There’s a price.

While unpacking my bag, I was reaching into the front of my suitcase–you know those flat narrow pockets–sliding my hand around looking for my eye cozy, because I planned to take a nap. I felt a sting, but didn’t think much of it, it felt like I’d bumped a sharp corner on something. Until I pulled my hand out of the bag.

Am I building the suspense?

I’ve been told that this can be an effective dramatic technique. Notice, how, even now, I’m delaying telling you that my safety razor had shaved the corner of my finger off. The part right next to the finger nail on the ring finger of my left hand was sliced away. It was surprising, all the more so because it didn’t hurt.

The nice man at the concierge desk gave me a bandaid and I delayed my nap to sit with my hand over my head applying direct pressure. It stung. A lot. I had a sudden understanding of why grown men in movies who have been shot, stabbed and beaten by bad guys then wince when the love interest cleans the wound.

Anyway. It’s fine. It won’t interfere with my job at all, although I’ll probably wear a fingercondom over it just in case the scab comes loose under the bandaid.

Whew. That was a long entry, and it’s only lunch time.

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