The next morning we left our room to brace the chill air again, heading for the appropriately named Blue CafĂŠ, The Brit lugging her laptop along and grumbling at me for not doing the same. . . until I informed her Iâd already done my internet check for the morning.
âOh do shut up,â she muttered, making me wonder if she had a hangover, though I would have imagined her workout would have taken care of that, or rather she wouldnât have been able to accomplish much exercise with one.
The Blue CafĂŠ claimed to be the centre of the action–the British spelling, I noticed with amusement–though at this time in the morning there wasnât much of that yet. Once inside we found it brighter than it really needed to be, with floor-to-ceiling windows making it look even more spacious, the direct opposite of the romantic ambiance of both the restaurant and the bar last night. Since this place was open to anyone and everyone, it had to be that big, and even had an outside porch, for those really that crazy, but again we were too early to have to deal with much of a crowd.
With a grin as I looked over the menu, I told her, âDo everyone a favor and stick with tea this morning. The last thing you need is more wine. . . or beer, you typical Brit.â
She introduced me to her favorite finger, then got that mischievous smile of her own as she intoned, âIâve never had sushi for breakfast. . .â
I didnât care; I wasnât planning on kissing her, though the smell might make me sick. It was no surprise to me when she added a salad to her order, but then neither was she taken aback when, taking a page from her dinner wine order, I ordered both a bacon and egg sandwich as well as a ham and cheese sandwich when I couldnât decide between them. I was assured the bread was made from scratch just a few minutes ago–as was the sushi, which I didnât need to know–but that hardly mattered to me as for a moment I wondered if the milk, as well as last nightâs steak, was imported. . . and if the cows knew each other. Luckily I let it pass quickly and easily, being hungry enough to dig in right away.
And of course I had ice cream after, topping it off with nuts to make a drumstick without the stick, enjoying it for itself as well as the annoyance factor it gave her. Slurping on an orange/vanilla smoothie as we walked out, with her snarking about someone other than her needing a trip to the gym, we headed back to the hotel room, though only to change into swim attire for another round of burning stinky water.
A few minutes later she led the way back to the Blue Lagoon, as usual making a face at having to shower first, once she stored her overclothes in a locker. Donât they realize how much colder it feels with your hair wet?
âEver listen to Raining Jane?â she tossed off on the way to the water.
Snort. âAre you serious? Iâm the one who told you about them!â
âNot true!â
âYou wouldnât know anything about music if it wasnât for me.â
âWhat a slanderous lie!â
âThatâs a slanderous lie!â
Snort. âYouâre suffering from narcissistic affectation.â
Using what I remembered from her snootiest accent, I Oxbridgeâd, âIâm sure I have not the slightest idea what that means.â
Sighing, she swam–or paddled–away, not about to admit she had no idea how to counter that, especially when I did the accent almost better than her. In the distance she saw what looked to be a cube floating in the water, and as she floated closer–pushing off with her feet, basically walking with her torso bent forward, as the water was shallow–she quickly found it to be the Lagoon Bar, which most likely had exactly what she needed right now.
For a moment she remembered she had no pockets in her swimsuit, but just as quickly she recalled the bracelets weâd been given were pretty much credit cards. So with a grin she got in line, quickly realizing this really had all the makings of a bar as she was quickly hit on, rejecting all offers that would let her cut ahead because she said she was having fun flirting with all her boys. . .
And even more fun watching all the boys puff up like peacocks. . .
Luckily she soon became hungry for lunch, though she did promise to see them again in the afternoon. Finding me quickly–alone–we headed back to the showers, once again grousing at the amazingly strict code of hygiene that required guests to shower before and after bathing. It didnât help that the shower water flowing through the plumbing was just as stinky as the lagoon, though I felt better when I noticed all the beautiful women around me smelled just as bad-eggy as me.
Once past that, I remembered something about the lunch buffet having what they called âsteak of the day,â which I figured I could live with as long as they didnât put anything disgusting on it, and the thought of some different kind of fish brightened her as well.
âSo,â she fake-perked after grabbing our goods from the long buffet table and sitting, âhave you wondered what makes people want to vacation here?â
I swigged from my ever-present 7-up. âLook at that girl over there–why do you think sheâs here?â
Dreading that it might be the redhead, relieved when it wasnât, The Brit did her best to stare without being noticed. âWhy does any single girl show up here? To party!â
âWouldnât she be in the bar? Or in the bar out in the water?â Like you, I didnât need to add, since she blushed anyway. âBesides, sheâs reading.â
âSo sheâs on a relaxing vacation.â
âFar cheaper places for that. Keep going.â
âMaybe sheâs hoping to Mr. Right! Fall in love, live happily ever after.â
âDid you get that from the book sheâs reading?â
âHadnât noticed,â she admitted, though now looking closer. Not knowing it, she gauged from the title that it was some kind of cross between fantasy and romance. Just your type, she grinned, but knew I wouldnât let her off that easily. âSo she believes in fairytales. Maybe sheâs hoping for fate to sweep her away, a kiss of kismet. . .â I made a face at that last one, but she seemed to be on a roll. âHoping for love at first sight, she imagines her knight in shining armor: abs of steel, hair longer and thicker than hers, emerging from the stinky water to pick her up and carry her away.â
âBetcha she orders ice cream for dessert.â
âYouâd like that, wouldnât you? I canât see how you eat so much, as well as drink that drink you have in front of–â
âWatch me chug this 7-up like itâs tequila!â
She winced involuntarily, then gave me her patented glare, which Iâd seen enough times to be vaccinated against. Knowing she was doomed to failure there, she sighed, âFine, letâs go to the bar again.â
âReally? Do they have AA in England?â
âThat attempt at alliteration did not work,â she informed me, as always missing the point on purpose. âYou can take photos from the viewing platform.â
âDonât teach your grandpa to suck eggs,â I returned easily, âeven if he smells like them today.â
âDonât we all. . .â
This time I didnât bother to pretend to get a drink, letting her cover for me by flirting with the bartender–a different one from last night, I noticed. Making sure to use the wide-angle lens, in case someone accused me of bathing beauties being my sole interest, I let my mind wander a bit more over the subject sheâd brought up earlier. Despite how well Iâd eaten here, people didnât travel to Iceland for the food; there was Italy and France and so on for that. No, tourists flocked here for the glorious nature, the unique and stunning views. So with that thought I changed lenses and shot like I was being paid to do so.
Concentrating on the photographic always made me feel better. From up here it was easy to observe why Icelandâs terrain was often compared to the surface of the moon: landscapes cut by giant glaciers, charred by molten lava. . . it wasnât at all hard to get why NASA brought astronauts here to prepare them for missions on that other rock. Again I wondered just how those famous horses could ride through such rough and downright treacherous terrain, but then I figured a thousand years of genetics would make even the wildest animal surefooted. Couldnât be as hard as those goats who liked to cling to fjords all over Norway and Alaska and probably New Zealand too, for all I knew.
And then I had to keep from giggling as I remembered those silly tree-climbing goats in Morocco. . .
But finally I was done, and the bartender must have said the wrong thing, for she flounced away from him and back toward the exit at the same moment I arrived there. For once I didnât bother to ask, or even make a snark, even though I had one prepared, something about a girl being really repulsive if she couldnât score with a bartender. . .
Instead we walked back out into the cold in silence, then stopped to look around. Finally she sighed, âLetâs go back to our room and. . . rest. And I really mean that. Itâll get me in the mood for another long soak in the afternoon.â
âYouâre not bored of it?â
âNot at all!â She looked positively shocked by the very idea. âAre you?â
âImmensely. Letâs go look at the activities board in the lobby first.â
But as we made our way there we were passed by a long train of tourists, doing what tourists did best: taking tours. To me it seemed rather silly–if you were already here, you might as well take a dunk in the water–but obviously not everyone agreed with the sentiment, or the price. Instead we had to flash bored looks at photographers and voyeurs wearing parkas before heading back to shelter to continue their âWorldwide tour of Iceland,â as I termed it and she giggled.
;o)