Enchantment on a (Mostly) Barren Island: Part One

I awoke from my restless airplane slumber to the surprisingly soft lilt of the local Nordic tongue wafting through the airwaves, announcing our arrival. "Welcome to Reykjavik, Iceland. The local time is six o'clock in the morning." Blinking, I opened the window shade to reveal my very first glimpse of Europe. Hmmm, I thought to myself, Flat.

My blessedly adventurous husband, John, and I were just setting out on our honeymoon, intent on exchanging sunny beaches, palm trees, and poolside relaxation for an ambitious excursion across a different type of island. Over the next eight days, we would cross fault lines, lava fields, fjords, and glaciers, wander into caves and across black sand beaches, swim beneath white mountains and towering volcanoes, discover lonely towns and weathered ruins, cruise icy lakes, sail the open ocean, and soak up the midnight sun.

But first, we would have to dump our bags and find some caffeine.

Outside the airport, we boarded a local bus bound for a station on the outskirts of downtown Reykjavik. As we headed northeast toward the city, I gazed out the window at the surrounding landscape. Miles and miles of drab, volcanic soil gazed back. Every so often, the monotony would be interrupted by knotty patches of lava rocks - miniature quarries that, to my growling stomach, looked suspiciously like crumbled Oreo cookies. Shaking my head, I reminded myself of Iceland's most famed delicacy: ammonia-soaked shark. My hunger, like so many sharp-toothed fish, was cured.

After some time, desolate vistas gave way to petrol stations and roadside shopping plazas. The suburbs of Iceland's capital city whizzed by, and before we knew it, we had arrived at the station. John and I unloaded our suitcases and set off on our kilometer-long stroll toward the heart of the city.

The early morning air felt brisk and refreshing as we meandered down narrow streets, through empty intersections, and past sleepy, closely-nestled homes, our bags softly disturbing the peace as they rumbled over the cobblestones behind us. We matched passing road signs with the strips of unfamiliar letters that dotted our map. Lækjargata, Ingólfsstræti, Lindargata. Finally, a modest wooden sign affixed to a tall fence post told us we had reached our destination. We climbed a steep set of stairs to a tiny guest room on the top floor. Opening the narrow corner door, we found ourselves on a small balcony, overlooking an array of gardens and colorful, slanted roofs. Just opposite was a view of Reykjavik's northern waters, the very "Smoky Bay" that the city was named for. John and I looked at each other and spoke the words that were on each of our hearts: Let's explore! But first... coffee.

***

Every foreign traveler hopes to round out his or her adventure by meeting a couple of interesting locals. Enter Russ*.  We met Russ at a coffee shop downtown, just after lifting the first decadent sips of holy java to our jet-lagged lips. In fact, Russ was not a local. He was an Australian native who had moved to Iceland to complain about politics, have casual sex, father a child, and avoid working a steady job. Russ explained with some frustration that, while he moonlighted at almost every pizza place in town, his true genius as a restauranteur had repeatedly gone unnoticed by their owners. He could fix the way these establishments were run, you see. But The Man always got in his way.

This was too bad, Russ went on, because one restaurant in particular had fantastic potential: a local pizza place that had no name. Just a random set of stairs leading to an unmarked doorway. I was skeptical. "So, how might one find this pizza place with no name?," I asked. "Just cross the street, round the next corner, cross into the back alley, head up the wooden stairs behind the building, and open the door." John and I exchanged glances. For the next ten minutes, we savored the dregs of our lattes while Russ prattled on about his escape from the working world, the many shortcomings of the local government, and the people he has met during his time in Iceland.

"I met Björk once," he said, "She was very nice, intelligent. Farmer's kid. That's right, daughter of the hand of God."

Imagine our surprise when, later that evening (after a generous helping of samples at the local brewery), we stumbled up an unmarked staircase and found ourselves in an upscale pub, devouring some of the most delicious pizza we had ever tasted.

Perhaps Björk is quite nice, after all.


*Name has been changed.

On finding a way through the woods.

I don't know where I got the idea that there was A Path. Or at least, A Destination. That your ultimate success in life relied on making exactly the right choices so that you would end up there. And if you happened to make a "mistake" and wander into the wilderness, you would forfeit your chance for success unless you tore out a battle axe and started hacking your way back toward The Path, harshly scolding yourself with every trudge. All I know is that it's a persistent illusion, and somehow seductive, and also very, very difficult to shake. Especially after all that scolding.

A few months ago, I left my job. Partially by choice, and partially not at all by choice. It was a complicated situation. But that job was supposed to be the start of the career of my dreams, and that's where it gets sticky.

Maybe it would have been different if it hadn't been a combined unit, if it had just been labor & delivery, if it had just been postpartum or a neonatal ICU. Maybe it would have been different if I had a little more experience as an RN under my belt. Or if I wasn't planning a wedding and trying to learn 50 new skill sets at the same time. Or perhaps if I was already a mother, if my boundaries could have been a little cleaner, a little more rigid, when terrible things happened to healthy young women or seemingly healthy newborns. Or perhaps if I didn't leave work every day feeling like I had blood on my hands because of all the interventions I was responsible for that I just simply didn't believe in but wasn't yet skilled enough to fight.

Regardless of the what-ifs, it was an enormous disappointment. And despite the ways I knew it wasn't working, part of me was still holding out hope that it would change. That I would change, perhaps into someone stronger who could just muscle her way through it. But it wouldn't, and I didn't; and despite my great performance, voicing my concerns got me a swift kick in the butt out of the organization faster than you can say "oxytocin."

I was hired by a wonderful pediatrician within 48 hours, and I have been happily working in his primary care office ever since. But I still have regrets all these months later, and part of me is still afraid of whatever fate I sealed when I turned my back on That Old Path. After all, I still feel incredibly passionate about pregnancy and birth - I just don't feel that there is a place for me in the system as it stands. And while I do enjoy my current job, I know that it won't last forever.

So here I am in the woods, wandering, mostly contentedly, just waiting for the hint of another break in the trees. I'm trying my hardest to enjoy the process - being here now, and all that - but some days I still find myself spellbound by the fear of getting lost.

Ode to the Apostrophe

DiaMEEKo. DeeAMico. DmAHKio. dA'mico. DiAmico. D&#39Amico. Never being able to find my name in any database ever. Being assigned email addresses and usernames that simply don't work, or are unnaturally case sensitive. Never knowing which version of my name is on IDs, credit cards, bank statements, employment documents, medical records. Almost not being able to take the nursing boards because the name on my driver's license didn't "match" my legal name.

It's nothing more than a cough, really. A small jerk of the pen, almost accidental in its appearance. But I give the apostrophe a lot of flack. Sometimes I deliberately leave it out when signing my name - that's right, little mark, you go in the corner and think about all the trouble you've caused. And now, the ultimate revenge: in less than a month, my name will change and all the confusion will vanish. Take that!

(also, this.)

I thought that was all there was to it. But then I had to write my post-wedding name on one of the vendors' contracts, and I felt a small pang for my soon-to-be-lost apostrophe. There's actually something very subtle and strange about changing one's maiden name. Because I have never been anyone else. When I learned to write, I learned to write that name. When one of my teachers in elementary school had to ask the class five times whether I was present that day because I wasn't paying attention, her voice would incrementally rise as she called out that name. In high school, that was the name I frantically searched for when the cast list for an upcoming play finally went up. Acceptance and rejection letters to college, all of the important exams I ever took, my degrees, my resume, all of the places I have lived and all of the people I met and then lost touch with - twenty-seven years' worth of experiences belong to a girl who identified herself by that name. And of course all of those things are still part of my story - it's just the end of one chapter and the beginning of another. The way all of that would feel is just not something I ever considered before.

We tie our identities to many things. Our names, our jobs, our roles and relationships with other people, our interests and hobbies, our chosen spirituality. And really, when I look at that list, I would argue that a name falls pretty close to the bottom. As a late twenty-something navigating my impressions of what it means to be a wife, embarking upon a brand new career, working to create a home out of a relatively new apartment, learning to cultivate interests and hobbies in a new community, and trying hard to discover what the heck this life is all about, I think I have my hands full. But, dear apostrophe, when I do sign those papers in just a few weeks, I want you to know that despite my complaints and grumbles, and despite how thrilled I am to be marrying into such a wonderful family, I've been proud to be a D'Amico.

And don't worry - I fully expect that after the wedding, when it's time to begin the endless line of red tape that comes along with legal name change, you will relish the opportunity have your own revenge.