Last Saturday, I brought my camera with me on my way to rehearsal in my old neighborhood. There had been snow the night before, and at 10 a.m., Reykjavík was almost completely silent as I stepped through my front gate. I took the long way, passing Hallgrímskirkja just as the sun was cracking through the clouds behind me. From there I turned down the southwestern side of the hill, an area where the tiny houses are crowded together and it's easy to forget what era you're in.
The streets were almost completely empty of others as I descended down the opposite side of the hill and out across Tjörnin. They were finally taking down the spectacularly tacky candle-shaped covers from the streetlights, a sure sign that somewhere, somehow, summer is coming.
Since that morning, the days have hit that time when it's impossible to keep up with the rate of light gain. I'm arriving home in pink sunset dusk, and Snæfellsjökull has been crisply visible at work several times this week. I know I write about weather all the time here but it is truly jaw-droppingly spectacular to see such huge skies radiating pink and purple for hours at a time, while the mountains trimming the edge of the view shimmer cleanly white. It's norðurljós weather too, and last night as it swirled overhead (once again on my way to rehearsal), I thought of how accustomed I've grown to their presence. It's as magical as it was the first time but now it's part of the expected landscape and routine. It's become as common as the freshness of the air, the undernote of sulphur, the topnotes of moss and lava.