to Reykjavik

Early morning ferry from Tallinn to Helsinki is quiet and half-empty. Sun shines through the gently shivering café. The Finnish bay is frozen.

I swallow the Estonian language National Geographic. This needs to be mailed from Ísafjörður. Then I start with Valdur Mikita. He writes about Estonians and according to him I'm normal. According to mass media I'm not.
He says: 'Estonia is like a child with special needs among European countries, a national Asperger syndrome.' 'Modern world makes life hard for the poor, not for the stupid.'
Icelandair rises in the air, wings fluttering.
Next comes Bradbury. Fahrenheit 451.
A glimpse out of the window. Good news. Sun shines, below are Icelandic topless mountains, Snæfell hovers among the clouds on the horizon. Suddenly I realize that something is wrong. Moss is green around Reykjavík. Where the hell is snow?
A giant puffin has put its head through the airport ceiling.
I resist all attempts to speak to me in English. Local Polish workers don't speak Icelandic.
Tomorrow I exit network area and will be back on the evening of 10th March.

In Ísafjörður

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