hypersensitive

My iPod was stolen a few weeks ago, so on my walks to rehearsal I've had to rely on what I can extract from the scene around me for entertainment for the 20 minutes. On my way past the hospital, I noted that the resounding *ping* from the left railing was not the same as the right one on a staircase. I played remember-the-lightpost-tone game that my brother used to do in college, and listened to the geese that lay like decoys on the lawns, gossiping there on the far side of Tjörnin.

There are also so many nestled secrets of crocus and snowdrop now to see- Iceland's own Easter Egg hunt. The light at seven in the evening was just right to spot them- blue sprinkled delicately across black lava sand, the palest of purple nestled on the sheltered side of some tree roots, the mist of green on the soggy lawns. There's still snow lacing Esja opposite but there will be for months still.

The smell of spring is there too- rich, sea-filled, and unexpectedly wild in the middle of town. Last night though, there was another odor- charred wet wood, a lot of it. I thought I must be confusing the scent, that it was some as-yet unknown seaborne flavor, but it persisted the whole stretch of the southern side of Tjörnin until the buildings started up near the university.

Turns out it was a fire, a large one, that destroyed a section of the most downtown part of Reykjavík. The club Pravda is totally gone, and there was severe damage to several adjacent buildings. The fire was probably just barely out when I walked by, although a later inspection still revealed a haze of smoke and char. I don't know what will happen to the section of town, but I'm sure it will not be the same at all.