After blogging to my heart’s content in this cozy Icelandic café, where I watched the streets come to life as the sun came up, I finally braced myself for a return to the frigidity. After no less than two minutes of walking outside in Iceland, if you are me, you suddenly find yourself muttering incoherencies punctuated by the occasional squeal when your skirt blows up, after which you cocoon yourself in an alleyway, muttering some more, while fumbling in your nether regions to make sure your leggings have not slipped so far as to expose said regions. When all of that is taken care of, you set off with renewed vigor, making it about a block before succumbing to the whole routine again.
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