debo says, go to reykjavik.
debo has been saying we could go to reykjavik for years. ever since the one night, in buying airline tickets, she got curious as to whether it would be cheaper for us to meet in iceland than for her to fly here. (it was not.)
this morning, upon awaking early to work (awaking from a dream wherein i awoke early to work, going on to live a day wherein i lived in paris and discovered a bookshop with a secret back room devoted entirely to volumes of nancy drew and sweet valley high), i was greeted by an email about a panel on life-writing and the internet at a conference next summer. a conference which, in contrast to a dream-life in paris and a bookshop with a secret back room of late 20th century YA, struck me as meh.
but then, there it was.
a magical word that kept clanging about my head in the disorder of an early morning wherein i accidentally spent hours working in the wrong file and, at one point, was reduced to googling my PhD title because i can no longer recall it.
i could wear a bathing suit there. or so debo says.
and so i broke down and googled this conference. and there, under the keynotes, at the very bottom, just beneath karl ove knausgård: lo!
my literary spirit animal.
reykjavik: it sounds evermore magical now.