The first thing I noticed when I arrived at Gate 32 of the airport was an overabundance of a weirdly-accented English. The 'r's were more pronounced and no other sounds were clipped off. Some sounded American, but not quite as with as much of a twang. I knew I'd entered Canadian English territory. And it sounded awful. I wanted to go back, back to the world of French-German-British-Icelandic accented English. But it was too late.
The plane was landing and for the longest time we were descending into gray clouds. It was rainy here, and it will be for many more days to come. I flew from a beautiful sunny day into rain.
The miracle, though, is my luggage. Both suitcases weighed almost 23 kg and I had a backpacking bag that was way over the hand luggage weight limit. I also had hiking shoes tied onto the back of it. I was also carrying one winter coat and one spring coat, one laptop, and one other small backpack that was heavier than the laptop (full of chocolates and a book and my purse). It was a miracle that all these things, probably weighing 60 kg in total, I was allowed to bring with me without any extra luggage fees.
And now that I'm here, that I'm back in home territory, nothing much has changed. Or maybe I've just skipped everything. My dog has become older and more ill. The thing is, I keep on hearing Icelandic everywhere. My niece in her 3-year-old English says, "Come sit here," and I mistake it for Hvað segir þu? I say "Takk" automatically, even when I'm supposed to say Thanks or Merci or Dou She or Ng Goi. I go into the grocery store, look down the huge dairy aisle and I see a row of Skyr, but when I look closer it turns out to be plain yogurt. I'm listening to Icelandic music over and over again.