The Iceland Diaries, Part Four
And so in the morning, another cold and rainy day, I hefted my backpack into the back of his Land Rover, said goodbye to all, including my friend Jane, and left for Frodastadir (Froe-tha-stah-theer), a farm a couple of miles down the rough, rutted road. They were there waiting for me, it seemed, with anticipation. Unnur was a slight but beautiful older woman, her straight gray hair caught girlishly back in barrettes. She welcomed me as warmly as she could as did Daniel, who was rugged with bushy grey eyebrows overhanging his penetrating blue eyes. He reached out his big rough, working hands and clasped mine in welcome. Ingibjorg (Imba, pronounced Impa) lingered behind them. She was fifteen, strong, blonde, and with a happy smile. She was the only child left on the farm. Hence their need for my help. There was one thing Gudlaugur had failed to tell me: no one on this farm spoke a word of English. My Icelandic was limited to a few necessary words that I had picked up since my arrival, words mostly from reading public signs: snyrtting (toilet), simi (telephone), brod (bread), and, of course, godin dag (good day)and goda not (good night). As I stood there in the hallway of their little house, the reality of this hard-to-fathom fact sank to the pit of my stomach.
To be continued….