I have just made my triumphant return from the vama once again, after picking up a box sent to me from my aunt and uncle in Grindavík. A box stuffed to bursting with all manners of yummy Icelandic treats. Most of my lesser-perishable favourites are included here, including harðfisk, flatkökur, Mjölkur Kex, Appolo lakkrís, Þristur, and some Nói Síríus chocolate. I'm torn between wanting to feast on it, in all its wonderful deliciousness, RIGHT NOW, and holding back in the interests of making it last as long as possible.

My plan has always been to do as much travelling as possible after service, return to the States for a time, and then go to Iceland for an extended period. I'm still a bit hesitant to commit to the phrase "move to Iceland", though there's little outside of convenience that would make me want to stay in the States. When I thought I needed to live there for two years to establish citizenship, this was the tentative timeframe I was looking at; however, thanks to a quirk that both my mother and I had been unaware of, apparently the fact that she remained a citizen of Iceland until I was over 18 years of age (remaining in the States as a resident alien for 30 years, and only acquiring dual citizenship a few years ago when it became available) meant that I was automatically considered a citizen myself. All I had to do was fill out a few forms, send them off, and I was issued a Social Security number. Woohoo!! Now I just have to anxiously await the day when Iceland decides to join the EU ...

As I come up on the one year mark of my Peace Corps service here in Romania, I've been thinking more about life post-service, which of course leads to thoughts about Iceland. I'm terribly enthusiastic about the idea of living there, despite not having been back for at least ten years and having forgotten almost all of the language I knew (which wasn't much to begin with). Perhaps it's my dissatisfaction with a lot of aspects of American culture, perhaps it's my awakening desire to connect a bit more with cultural and family roots, maybe it's just my wanderlust that's been whetted by living where I am, but there are times when it's almost painful to think that it'll probably be at least another two years before I can embark on this next stage of my life.

So having the food is both a comfort and a reminder of the distance. It makes me feel incredibly grateful to my relatives there, who went to the trouble of travelling to Reykjavík (or, in the case of the lakkrís, straight to the factory) to purchase all these things, box them up, and ship them to a family member they haven't seen in a decade. Seeing it, smelling it, eating it, brings back such intense memories of being there that it's almost overwhelming ... opening up a packet of harðfisk and feeling as though I'm back in my aunt and uncle's kitchen, remembering my late grandmother and how I used to nibble through countless packets of Mjölkur Kex in her apartment when we stayed with her. Gnawing on lakkrís rúllur and Þristur as I wandered the streets of downtown Reykjavík in the summer. The incomparable taste of Smjör (Icelandic butter) spread across a half-round of flatkökur. All these things make me terribly conscious of how much I miss it, and how I look forward to being able to stroll around the corner into Hagabuðin and pick all these things up for myself.