Styrofoam pleasure

Instead of arriving in Reykjavík, I find myself somewhat marooned in a cargo hanger of Hammerfest regional airport, Norway. Since my arrival about two hours ago, I’ve been nibbling on little Styrofoam pellets for sustenance, and I’ve written a letter to Svenbärd, informing him of my precipitous departure and current whereabouts. Perhaps he shall find occasion to come and visit. Birds, after all, can flap their wings every which way they please, defying gravity and customs procedure alike. To arrive at an airport unimpeded by thronging photographers and prying reporters was startling in the way that a cold shower is; a shock at first but fresh and invigorating in retrospect. One has to look beyond the inconvenience of not having a stretch limo waiting and revving impatiently to ferry you to the nearest Hilton. And it’s not like the Styrofoam is measurably better at the big name hotel chains anyway. It’s all about branding. I sip at the water dripping off a Cesna’s diminutive landing gear and salute myself and this new life on the go; existence “unplugged” to use a fashionable term. Meanwhile I try to keep a low profile. Airport mechanics are not to be trusted. It is said among lagamorphs that Wilbur Wright was an avid fan of “Lapin à la Moutarde.” And besides; in these strange and new lands, who knows what foe lurks, what bitter fiend skulks in prey of a dapper traveler? Perhaps I have left behind an unpleasant dog, only to find it replaced by true hounds of hell. I will say only this; Come ye forth, for peril daunts me not. Come morn I will travel southbound. Even inside this large cardboard box filled with fake porcelain Buddha statues and copious amounts of Styrofoam, I find it’s rather nippy.