Somewhere between the main art museum and the half dozen galleries yesterday, between the video installations and the portraits of hundreds of Icelandic kids, an artist at an opening, talking about none of it specifically, said, ''It really is about time and space.''
This morning, it was idle streets and open air on a gray spring day, temperature about 50. It is my 40th birthday. I will be home tonight in time for cake with Julie, Luca and Colette.
So this morning was time between. I followed a makeshift route toward one of Reykjavik´s seven thermal swimming pools.
I passed the pond with the half-submerged house. Near the top of a street that leads from city center to the soft sprawl of a residential neighborhood, I came to a cemetery.
Stone and marble and wooden crosses. Green tufts of grass. The twisted trunks of trees.
One headstone, white, was surrounded by plump yellow daffodils. The engraving noted the life of M. Siggeir Bjarnason. Born June 25, 1893. Died May 30, 1974.