Fifth Journey Day 20: Untranslated Margins

Date: May 28, 2025
Location: Reykjavík, Iceland

This afternoon, I walked slowly through the old harbor district. I had my sketchbook with me, and I had my coat zipped all the way up. It was raining lightly the whole time, but it wasn't heavy. It was more like a constant mist that seemed to be part of the city. It made things less intense. Boats sat still in the water. Some were tied tightly, while others rocked a little in the gray-green water. The rust on the metal bollards glowed faintly in the cloudy sky. The deep oranges and purples were smudged by years of weather.

I stood next to a pile of nets for a while, watching the lines coil and fray. Two gulls circled overhead, uninterested. I noticed how the buildings — which were warehouses, but now cafes and studios — kept their original shapes under layers of paint and signs. One wall had a mural of a fish painted in faded blue. Its eye was gone.

It felt good to move without a plan. I made quick, relaxed sketches. It wasn't for memory or reference — it was more like making marks to say I was here. Drawing helped me relax. I noticed my breathing getting slower.

Later, I found a small bookstore with a café inside. The warm light, the quiet hum of conversation in Icelandic, and the sharp scent of wet wool. I ordered a coffee and sat near the window to dry off. A young man was sitting next to me. He was reading a book with notes written in the margins. I didn't try to read them, but I couldn't stop thinking about the image.

The city doesn't present itself all at once. Reykjavík feels like it's been folded up, like there are small secrets under each layer. I think I'm beginning to understand that pace — slow, weathered, and genuine.

I felt more calm by the end of the day.